DOUG EICHER
NOTEBOOK
Resurgam2/20/2021 I grew up on just shy of 40 acres nestled in the country, about a mile or so outside the middle of nowhere. It was northern Indiana’s version of paradise: acres and acres of fields edged neatly by lines of thick forest; a patchwork pattern of green and brown set against a backdrop of open sky. I used to take almost daily walks out there, wandering my way slowly through the reverent hush of the wildflowers and oak trees, serenaded by the gentle cadence of the wind as she found her way through the leaves. It was my retreat; a cathedral nestled beneath a canopy of emerald stained glass. I would spend hours out there, sometimes reading or just simply sitting, caressed gently by the presence of the One I was coming to love. The slow, steady change of the scents and colors was almost a comfort to me; a reminder that nothing is truly static and that even the longest of seasons will eventually be the oldest of tales. I was always struck with a feeling of sadness, however, as the deep reds and umbers of autumn slipped into the whites and greys of winter. There was something about it that was so inevitable; so predictable, and yet, still carried so much grief. It was almost as if the emerald dreams of summer were only that: dreams that could only hold out for a few months before finally succumbing to winter’s slow march of death. And yet, even in the silence of the barren branches, there was an almost palpable sense of anticipation; a thin strand of hope threaded through the bleak fabric of midwinter. It was the memory of those brighter days, buried deep in the hearts of the trees as they slept; a quiet resolution that the cold winds and barren white fields of winter would not have the final word. The undoing of this deathly spell that now held the world captive would come, slipping quietly into the slumbering forest as the first hint of green pushed its way through the melting snow.
I think sometimes we, as followers of Jesus, are guilty of completely missing the point. We spend so much time in our books, prayers, and worship songs praising Jesus for setting us free, as we should. However, I think we often forget that to be set free is only a means to an end; not the end itself. Even as we celebrate our redemption in Jesus, we should be asking ourselves the question: why have we been set free? What is the whole point of freedom in Jesus? Well, if we take our lives as the answer, it might often look like it’s simply to get married, have a good job and a nice house, and go to church on Sundays. It seems like we often incorporate the Gospel into our lives in the same way that we might our cultural heritage. We have nice traditions, some family recipes, and maybe a few words we picked up from the language, but it really doesn’t affect our lives beyond that. We love to be associated with that culture, but it really doesn’t change what we wear, the things we buy, or how we work. It makes us feel warm and fuzzy to own it, but we never really stop to think what it might mean if it were to own us. In Paul’s letter to the Jesus-followers of Colossae, he sketches out this beautiful portrait of who Jesus really is and how what he has done has completely changed reality. He reminds them that Jesus defeated the dark, mysterious beings that have held us captive ever since we took morality into our own hands and that he is the progenitor, sustainer, and rightful ruler of all things. He uses what his readers would have considered to be nearly blasphemous language, mirroring that which was reserved only for the emperor. He shifts between the heaviness of rich theology and the supple beauty of poetic metaphor in a way we songwriters can only envy. And yet, Paul wasn’t simply trying to see how many bumper stickers or refrigerator magnets he could pack into one letter. No, his concerns were much more deeply practical. In the third chapter, he suddenly seems to shift and begins to address what seems to be the heart of this letter. If Jesus really has defeated the darkness and is now the true ruler of the world, what does that mean for me? “Since, then, you have been raised with Christ, set your hearts on things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things. For you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God. When Christ, who is your life, appears, then you also will appear with him in glory.” Paul begins by raising a challenge. If we truly have been raised with Christ, and if death has really been undone, our entire focus needs to change. Our old life, and all of the things we couldn’t live without, were buried with Christ. When someone truly meets Jesus, it’s not meant to be a heartwarming experience; it’s a fatal one. Paul knows that the proof is in the pudding, and he challenges his readers: if you truly have been raised with Jesus, your heart will make its living arrangements accordingly. “Put to death, therefore, whatever belongs to your earthly nature: sexual immorality, impurity, lust, evil desires and greed, which is idolatry. Because of these, the wrath of God is coming. You used to walk in these ways, in the life you once lived. But now you must also rid yourselves of all such things as these: anger, rage, malice, slander, and filthy language from your lips. Do not lie to each other, since you have taken off your old self with its practices and have put on the new self, which is being renewed in knowledge in the image of its Creator. Here there is no Gentile or Jew, circumcised or uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave or free, but Christ is all, and is in all.” Paul goes on to list out, in vivid detail, just what it looks like for our hearts to bear the scars of this death and resurrection. He sketches out a distinctly Christian ethic that looks radically different from the culture around it. Paul recognizes that nonconformity is not an end in itself; it is simply a natural consequence of our death and reanimation. That which is dead and that which is alive are separated only by the fundamental nature of what it means to be one or the other. To be one is, by necessity, to be not the other. “Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity. Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful. Let the message of Christ dwell among you richly as you teach and admonish one another with all wisdom through psalms, hymns, and songs from the Spirit, singing to God with gratitude in your hearts. And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.” Paul now shifts from that which defines death to that which defines life. He seems to be echoing back his original challenge: if you really are what you say you are, then what you do and what you value will line up accordingly. He recognizes that love is the distinctive hallmark of this resurrected human. It is the first hint of green that separates life from death; the “genetic code” of this new humanity that God has authored in Christ. He challenges us to remember that, if death really is in reverse, then the ways we’ve learned to live as humans are of no use to us anymore. He reminds us that the message of Christ is a living, active force that should be allowed to live and move within us. Paul recognizes that, if Jesus is really enthroned as the ruler of all, then everything we say and do should be done with gratitude in his name. Every part of our lives must now be viewed in light of death’s demise. As believers, we are not called to live as if the story were true; we are called to live in light of precisely the fact that it is true. To be a follower of Jesus is to be a living question: what does it look like when God takes up residence in a resurrected human? How does that new life, by shear necessity of its nature, need to be different from what it was before? This must be the question that drives everything we do, every word we say, and every decision we make. It is the question that defines who we are and separates us from the person we used to be. It is the question that must be always held in tension until the day we see what has happened in our hearts be done to all of creation.
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