Читать книгу Breaking and Entering - Liz R. Goodman - Страница 7

The Lord God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to till it and keep it. And the Lord God commanded the man, “You may freely eat of every tree of the garden; but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall die.” . . .

Now the serpent was more crafty than any other wild animal that the Lord God had made. He said to the woman, “Did God say, ‘You shall not eat from any tree in the garden’?” The woman said to the serpent, “We may eat of the fruit of the trees in the garden”; but God said, ‘You shall not eat of the fruit of the tree that is in the middle of the garden, nor shall you touch it, or you shall die. ’” But the serpent said to the woman, “You will not die; for God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate; and she also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate. Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together and made loincloths for themselves. (Genesis 2:15–17, 3:1–7)

Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. He fasted for forty days and forty nights, and afterwards he was famished. The tempter came and said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.” But he answered, “It is written, ‘One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.’”

Then the devil took him to the holy city and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down; for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you,’ and ‘On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’” Jesus said to him, “Again it is written, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’”

Again, the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their splendor; and he said to him, “All these I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me.” Jesus said to him, “Away with you, Satan! for it is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.’”

Then the devil left him, and suddenly angels came and waited on him. (Matthew 4:1–11)

Scripture’s earliest preacher is the serpent. If preaching is interpreting the word of God, then the first one to do this according to the Bible is the serpent.

Just saying.

But that actually gets me thinking. The serpent in the garden and the devil in the wilderness don’t share a name, and they don’t share a form; many a scholar would caution us against making too direct an equivalence here. But, look, they do share a same technique—suggestion—and that counts for something.

The serpent asks the woman, “Did God say, ‘You shall not eat of any tree in the garden’?” It’s an ambiguous question; I imagine it’s so by design. Consider, does the serpent mean to ask, “Did God say that, of all the trees here in this garden, there are any from which you may not eat?” If so, then this would allow for God to be felt as gracious, having offered the man and woman a great abundance—everything here but one. Or does the serpent mean to ask, “Did God say don’t eat from any tree in this garden?” in which case God would be felt as withholding, even cruel, a tempter himself—laying out an abundance before the man and the woman, and then saying, “Don’t touch.”

We should recognize, of course, that what God actually says according to the story is neither of these. We should recognize that the serpent frames in negative terms what God just prior framed positively: “You may eat freely of every tree of the garden; but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall die.” Really, we should recognize that the question as asked cannot be answered. But I imagine that’s also by design. As any student of politics knows, the one who frames the debate wins the debate—and the serpent means to win this debate, so indeed to frame the woman and the man.

These two naïfs are no match for the serpent, but their innocence serves them well for a moment. The woman doesn’t answer the question as asked; instead, she repeats what God did say. “We may eat of the fruit of the trees in the garden, but not of the fruit of the tree that is in the middle of the garden.” And in so saying, she seems to hold on to the hope that God is not withholding, that God is gracious.

But the suggestion otherwise is a potent one, isn’t it?

Here’s another potent suggestion: “If you are the Son of God . . .” The devil is said to have said it to Jesus twice in the wilderness, the whole temptation essentially energized by this word: if. It’s a brilliant approach because, though Jesus never claimed such status for himself, it’s a pretty powerful one to be pinned with, one that he might want now to prove true.

Ironically, he would prove it by steadfastly resisting the proving of it.

If you feel you’ve heard this story before, then rest assured you have. This scene appears in all three synoptic Gospels, and so we hear it every year and always on the first Sunday of Lent. It sets up so well the forty days of Lent that are before us, forty days until Easter not counting Sundays. These are to echo the forty days that Jesus is remembered to have spent in the wilderness, away from all the comforts of his culture, away even from the law and ritual that safeguard living and give shape to time. To be in the wilderness is to be on your own, really on your own.

Mark, the earliest written gospel, doesn’t recount any details of Jesus’ time on his own, really on his own. According to that rendering, Jesus’ experience in the wilderness really was empty—a formless void, even, as before when God began to create. Pre-created: we might call it postapocalyptic these days—this entering into chaos, this giving over to nihilism. It all makes Mark’s version, to my mind, the most terrifying version, a temptation not about anything but about nothing, about annihilation, about non-being. The driving question to this understanding of the temptation, then, was whether Jesus could withstand self-giving, self-emptying. Could Jesus withstand kenosis, which as the Christ he would have to suffer on the cross?

But none of this is to make light of Matthew’s understanding of what Jesus withstood, which was also Luke’s understanding—for here, though Jesus didn’t face the threat of annihilation, he did face the threat of conscription to serving some master other than God. That he doesn’t succumb is perhaps the obvious point.

“[T]he essence of Jesus’ sinlessness,” writer Gil Bailie claims, “was his immunity to the contagion of desire.”3 This is typical of Mr. Bailie, he for whom a central question in the life of faith is this: Whom are you going to imitate? Who is your model for living? And so, to his mind, and to mine, Jesus’ success in the wilderness is about desiring the right thing, desiring to be like the right one. “His triumph over the demonic snares in the wilderness was a triumph over the glamour of mimetic suggestion; but it was an achievement made possible, not by Jesus’ strength of will, but by the superior strength of another mimetic desire: Jesus’ desire ‘to do the Father’s will,’”4 that is, Jesus’ desire instead to imitate the Father.

So, to sum up, Jesus’ triumph in the wilderness was in resisting the suggestions of the devil, which would have made him like the devil; and in continuing to model himself after the One in whose image and likeness he knew himself to have been made. Jesus might have become like the devil, following the devil; but instead he became evermore like the Father, following the Father.

Got it.

But wait. Wasn’t it this that God didn’t want in the beginning? Wasn’t it this that God meant to avoid—that any should be like God? Didn’t God mean to be inimitable? Or was that just in reference to regular old people?

“You will not die,” the serpent assured the woman and, by mimetic extension, the man. “You will not die; for God knows that when you eat of it [the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil] your eyes will be opened and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” But we’re not supposed to seem to be like God, are we?

Certainly, this is what most preaching about Adam and Eve has focused on, at least as far as I know. Certainly, this has made for many a fine preaching point. We should be content in our humanity. We should rejoice in our humanity. We’re not in control; God is. None of us is sovereign (not Pharaoh, not Caesar, not the king or the president, certainly not the dictator); God is. When this message is rubbed up against Jesus in the wilderness, the harmony is striking. As Jesus is pushed to act out his divinity but chooses instead to inhabit his humanity, the irony resounds.

Barbara Brown Taylor, writing in The Christian Century, claimed (and is often quoted for having done so), “[W]hereas Adam stepped over the line and found humanity a curse, Jesus stayed behind the line and made humanity a blessing. One man trespassed; one man stayed put. One tried to be God; one was content to remain a human being. And the irony is that the one who tried to be God did not do too well as a human being, while the one who was content to be human became known as the Son of God.”5

And this is lovely, right? The symmetry, the irony—it’s lovely. As a preacher, I’d be so tempted to preach it! The problem is that it’s based on a lie, or on the suggestion of a liar—the serpent suggesting that God doesn’t want us to be like God, that God would have a real problem if we were to become too much like God.

But if God doesn’t want us to be like God, then why would God have sent us Jesus? If God doesn’t want us to live fully into our resemblance to God, then why would God have sent us God’s Son who so perfectly imitated God and said also to us, “Follow me,” who so completely embodied God’s self-giving love and also invited us, “Come and see,” assuring us, “I am the Way”? If God doesn’t want us to be like God, then why would God have sent us God’s Holy Spirit by which we might come together as the church to be formed, informed, reformed, transformed into the mystical body of Christ? If God doesn’t want us to have our eyes opened that we might see, then what was with all those encounters between Jesus and blind people that left those once-blind-people now to see? Truly, if God didn’t want us to be like God, and yet sent God’s Son to stimulate in us such a desire and also sent God’s Spirit that this desire might be fulfilled, then God is more tempter than the serpent, more tempter than the devil.

Come to think of it, God would only have a problem with our becoming like God if God were certain things that we know, through Christ, God not to be. (Jesus is said to be Godlike, so it also must be that God is Jesus-like.) So, consider: God wouldn’t want to us to be like God if God were all about control—for there can be only one force in control. But God isn’t about control. God is about freedom and responsibility, call and response. God wouldn’t want us to be like God if God were powerful as the world understands power—for such power secures itself against all who want in on that action. But God isn’t about the power that seeks domination. God is about power as expressed in service and self-giving. God, this God who is love, who sent his Son to be our shepherd and his Holy Spirit to empower the church: of course God wants us to be like God!

And yet.

There is this prohibition: “[Of the fruit] of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat . . .” What of that, you might rightly ask? Well, perhaps what God didn’t want was for us to suffer—to know not only good but evil as well. Or perhaps what God didn’t want was for us to attempt to distinguish between these two, good and evil, a process of judgment we so often get woefully wrong. Or perhaps God didn’t want us to dwell in the world as if duality were a given condition rather than but one way to conceive of and relate to reality. Or perhaps, according to the storyteller’s understanding, this fruit really did introduce death into the dynamic of life, really did mean to explain the mystery of mortality; and God didn’t, doesn’t, want us to die. Really, this prohibition could be about any number of things. I just don’t think it’s about what the serpent suggested it was about. After all, though a preacher, he’s not necessarily right—crafty, yes, but not always correct.

You might think that what I’m suggesting is that there’s something essentially corrupt, crooked about the rhetorical device of suggestion. But that’s not what I’m suggesting because, the truth is, this device is one of my favorites. As a way to insight, a way to surprise, a way to sudden laughter, a means for art, suggestion is a powerful mode. What’s more, as it happens, I am a member of a most earnest group of people: the clergy. This group, especially Protestant clergy, can be chokingly earnest—and there’s seldom much fun in that, much delight or surprise. Most crucially of all, though, is that I most often encounter God’s living truth when I find it suggested to me in the many layers of Scripture, tradition, translation, and experience. My faith practice is preparing worship for you, writing sermons for you; and for me the writing of a sermon is a process of unearthing some suggestion and following up on it. For this reason, the question that nearly always spurs a sermon’s conclusion is this, a question that I quite literally and often out loud ask myself, an indicting question as it were: Just what am I suggesting? Just what am I suggesting to you about this passage from Scripture, which means to suggest something to us of God?

When suggestion didn’t work for the devil, he had to make it plain. “Fall down and worship me,” he said, thus stripping away any pretense—at friendliness, at alliance, at well-meaning advice-giver—and making his agenda now known. The previous two statements of temptation were indeed suggestions: “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread. . . . If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from this high place . . . ” But at last it’s as if someone even asked him, “Just what are you suggesting?”

It’s the same voice that asks me every week, as I stand before you yet again: “Just what am I suggesting?” As I speak of things that I couldn’t possibly know, testifying to things too grand for any words actually to contain, just what am I suggesting?

Today this is what I’m suggesting: Christ has come to show us what God who is life is like. He has done this that we ourselves might come to be like God, for by this the world will be saved—from its own violence, its own lust for vengeance, its own ravenous short-sightedness. He has done this though the world will do its worst to him, and he has done this for us though we ourselves will participate in this world’s worst-doing. But all that will come to nothing, for he yet comes to us with these words even while his wounds are still open: “Peace be with you.”

I am suggesting that by this we are all saved and reconciled to God as if we’d never been so cut off as we might have suspected.

That’s what I’m suggesting. It’s good to say it clear and plain. But it’s delightful also to approach slow and slant, a flirtation with the truth that will at last come in consummation.

I pray for a long courtship. I’m enjoying myself quite a lot and would love to work for a world in which all might say so, too.

Thanks be to God.

3. Bailie, Violence Unveiled, 209.

4. Ibid., 209.

5. Taylor, “Remaining Human.”.