“Love your enemies.”
Michael Horton recently tweeted this quote from Martin Luther: Melancthon and I drank beer while the Word did its work spreading through Germany.
Luther knew that people would lose their shit when he publicly regarded himself as an aloof drunkard. There is something fascinating about men who are willing to shroud themselves in the insults of their enemies.
Do I really have to explain to you how Luther was clearly not an aloof drunkard? This is true, despite the fact that he sincerely regarded himself as one. Do I have to explain that — even if he was an aloof drunkard — he nonetheless had a greater, more righteous impact on the institutional church than did every member of the Pope’s cabinet, or bishop in the catholic church, or anyone, of his era?
“Love your enemies.”
I smoked a lot of weed this past year while I watched people get bowled over by the gospel.
My best friend was kicked out of his church, and had his gospel-proclaiming organization wiped off the internet in a single weekend.
The weed helps me deal with the scheming jackasses who wear suits and have meetings and call themselves elders and then imbibe in a lamer, chintzier version of a game called “corporate boardroom.” It is these men, and their intimidating air of sophistication, and their dumbass tucked-in shirts, that are the problem with the church.
“Love your enemies.”
I hate their dumbass tucked-in shirts, but that is not why I hate them. I hate the reason that they tuck their shirts in. The reason is that they love to appear like they have it all together. I know generally the pressures faced by men in their position — and I know that the guys who are most concerned about how they look are the first ones to betray their friends. Obsession with having it all together, once it claws deep into one part of a person’s life, spreads like a virus.
I hate all of this so much because I know how much I love to appear like I have it all together.
In a weird way, I am forced to love them because without people in the world who — out of insecurity — tuck their shirts in and seek desperately the approval of their peers and elders, I wouldn’t have any clue what it meant to intentionally untuck my shirt and laugh at my childish dishevelment. I am them, and they are me — it’s just that they happened to tuck their shirts in — get it?
“Love your enemies.”
I was indirectly taught that it’s good to love your enemies so that — one day — they might see my good deeds, realize their bad deeds, break down from the flood of guilt, pray the sinner’s prayer, and then I would get points for recruiting.
In reality, I think it might be more helpful to love our enemies as our enemies. Think about being in Jesus’ position, living in a world of completely self-consumed humans — God became man, remember. When he said “Love your enemies” he knew that everyone under the sun was everyone else’s enemy. If we are all sinners, it just stands to reason — we are gridlocked in competition with every other human under the sun. We are scared, impatient, and desperate to hear the sound of our own voices — of course we are all enemies.
“Love your enemies.”
If we really get what Jesus is saying, we are forced to laugh at ourselves. We are forced to see ourselves in the evil deeds of our enemies.
This seems to suspend everything that we know about ourselves, but indeed it is the only method by which forgiveness is more than religious-sounding abracadabra.
“Love your enemies.”
People really did get bowled over by the gospel this past year. This part, I can’t understand. God has a way of using back-breaking moments — not moments, months — to do his work. This part is hard to explain, and I think it’s impossible to prove at this moment, but I know it to be true. I know it even though I am completely exhausted and off-and-on filled with existential dread. In our weakness, he is extra-strong. This I know deep in my bones. This he taught me in 2015.
“Love your enemies.”
Go away now. Let me spark this joint and we’ll see what God has in mind for next year.
