On his web site (brianmclaren.net), Brian calls himself “a pastor, author, speaker, and networker among innovative Christian leaders, thinkers, and activists.” His books, talks and work with the Emergent movement have led others to call him a reformer or a heretic.
When asked how his theological approach differs from those of other Christian thinkers, Brian points to three key issues: a Kingdom-centered Gospel; an eschatology that stresses engagement with the world rather than abandonment; and an integrationist approach that combines key Christian concepts found in different traditions and historical eras.
This article focuses on the first of these three issues and places that Gospel message in the context of the “deep and grand story” of creation, crisis, calling and conflict into which Jesus was incarnated. That ancient story features God the Creator, the Fall of Adam and Eve, the “crisis response team” of Abraham and Sarah and the contributions of Moses, King David, and others. But by the time of Jesus’ birth, “The hopes of the people lie in ruins and the nation is divided into factions.”
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Imagine Jesus growing up in this story. From his childhood, Jesus has had a sense of special spiritual calling and empowerment — a sense of calling no doubt intensified by his parents, who had reasons of their own for believing Jesus had a historic role to play. How would he understand his world, his times, his life, and his mission? Where would he fit in the story of creation, crisis, calling, and conflict?
From Jesus’ first public speech — and speech may be too weak a word; prophetic demonstration might be more fitting — it is clear that he sees each theme or thread or episode in the story coming together in his time, and he sees his own calling in terms of the heroes we have seen. Luke describes Jesus coming to his hometown, entering the
synagogue on the Sabbath, and coming forward to read. He is given the scroll of the prophet Isaiah, and he unrolls the scroll to find a certain passage: “The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor” (Luke 4:18–19).
Then Jesus dramatically rolls up the scroll, returns it to the attendant, and sits down — sitting being the posture of a teacher in those days. Everyone’s eyes are on Jesus, as they wonder what comment he will make on the passage he has chosen. His comment anticipated what he would say about the kingdom being at hand now: “Today this scripture is fulfilled in your hearing” (v. 21).
Jesus seems to see the whole story of his people coming to fulfillment in his time and in his own person. For example, in speaking of the kingdom, he is evoking the memory of David, the great king under whose reign the Jewish people enjoyed unprecedented peace, prosperity, and spiritual vitality. He is claiming to be a new David.
In talking of liberation, he goes back further, evoking the memory of Moses. More, in speaking of a “new commandment” (John 13:34 ESV) or in repeating, “You have heard that it was said. But I say to you” (Matthew 5:21–48 NRSV), he is identifying himself as a new Moses, a new lawgiver who gives the people a new law.
In calling people to faith, in choosing twelve disciples, in challenging them to be the light of the world, in sending out his disciples to multiply new disciples of “all nations” (Matthew 28:19), Jesus returns back further still to Abraham, the man of faith, the origin of the twelve tribes of Israel, the original recipient of the call to be blessed in order to bless “all nations” (Genesis 26:4).
In refusing to draw or respect racial, religious, moral, ethnic, economic, or class barriers, in welcoming non-Jews and treating them with kindness and respect, in eating with both Pharisees and the prostitutes hated by the Pharisees, Jesus shows his primal kinship with all people — a kind of second Adam who seeks to bring people together after so many centuries of distrust and division.
In healing the sick and raising the dead, in performing exorcisms and confronting injustice, in interacting miraculously with the forces of nature, Jesus even identifies himself with the story’s original and ultimate hero — God — stating that those who had seen him had in some real way seen God, declaring that he and God were one, and suggesting that through him, God was launching a new world order, a new world, a new creation.
These are not the words and ways of a polite teacher, no matter how brilliant. They go far beyond the claims of a typical priest, poet, or philosopher — and even beyond the bold words of a normal prophet or reformer. These are the primal, disruptive, inspiring, terrifying, shocking, hopeful words and ways of a revolutionary who seeks to overthrow the status quo in nearly every conceivable way. Jesus’ words indicate that what has been known as impossible is now becoming not only possible but actual.
So, with this background, perhaps we can now picture the Mediterranean world in the time of Jesus. It has been conquered by the most powerful rulers to that point in history: the Caesars. This political, military, cultural, and economic empire constitutes a status quo that would have reason to think itself “the end of history” — the summit to which all history has been progressing.
Against that backdrop, perhaps we can now imagine an obscure Jewish carpenter without credentials or status, without army or militia or even a weapon, without nobility or wealth, without even land or a home. With a handful of unimpressive and diverse male followers and a substantial entourage of supportive women as well, he travels from village to village, speaking to rustic peasants and the urban poor, having a special attraction to the unemployed and the homeless, the disabled and the disadvantaged, the social outcasts and the marginalized children and women.
Why the poor? Why children? Why the outcasts? These — the ones he repeatedly calls “the poor” and “the little ones” rather than the greatest — are the ones, he says, who will receive the kingdom of God first.
Why no weapons? Why no well-oiled political machine? Why live in constant vulnerability? Because, Jesus says again and again, this kingdom advances with neither violence nor blood-shed, with neither hatred nor revenge. It is not just another one of the kingdoms of this world. No, this kingdom advances slowly, quietly, under the surface — like yeast in dough, like a seed in soil. It advances with faith: when people believe it is true, it becomes true. And it advances with reconciling, forgiving love: when people love strangers and enemies, the kingdom gains ground.
This kind of revolution, on the one hand, seems laughable. It’s hard to imagine anything more unrealistic — perhaps pathetic is the most fitting word for it.
On the other hand, what other kind of revolution could possibly change the world? Perhaps what’s crazy is what we’re doing and pursuing instead — thinking, after all these millennia, that hate can conquer hate, war cure war, pride overcome pride, violence end violence, revenge stop revenge, and exclusion create cohesion. Perhaps we’re the crazy ones!
This revolutionary image of Jesus didn’t come to me in Sunday school as a boy. There, Jesus was a nice, quiet, gentle, perhaps somewhat fragile guy on whose lap children liked to sit. Or he was a fellow in strange robes who held a small sheep in one arm and always seemed to have the other raised as if he were hailing a taxi. The revolutionary image of Jesus didn’t come to me in adult church, either. There, Jesus was someone whose main job was to die so my sins could be forgiven and I could go to heaven (no small thing, of course!). Or else he was a teacher whose words would be quoted to condemn people our church or denomination didn’t approve of. (I’m sad to have to say this; I wish it weren’t true.) But Jesus wasn’t presented as someone whose message would overturn our thinking as well.
I certainly didn’t come across this alternative understanding of Jesus through religious broadcasting. There Jesus seemed to be more of a super-Pharisee, super-Herodian, super-Zealot, or super-Essene rather than a radical alternative to all four. In fact, I had to come to a place of cynically doubting much of what I had been told about Jesus through all these sources so that when I began to read the Bible again, I could see a little more of what I now believe was really there all along. As I did, this revolutionary Jesus began to take shape, and I feel I am still coming to grips with what it means.
Why did it take so long? Why has it been such a struggle? Why didn’t anyone tell me all this? Were others trying to hide the truth, or was the truth intentionally hidden by Jesus himself?
Is it possible that Jesus was intentionally keeping his message of the kingdom a secret so that it wasn’t obvious, wasn’t easy to grasp, wasn’t like a simple mathematical formula that can quickly be learned and repeated? Is it possible that the message of Jesus was less like an advertising slogan — obvious and loud — and more like a poem whose meaning only comes subtly and quietly to those who read slowly, think long and deeply, and refuse to give up?
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Adapted with permission from Brian D. McLaren’s The Secret Message of Jesus (W Publishing Group, 2006).
