No weapon formed against you.

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“No weapon formed against you shall prosper.”

I keep seeing this Bible verse in response to the violent attempt against Donald Trump’s life.

I am glad he survived – and violence has no place in our politics – but this usage of Scripture is nonsense at best and idolatrous with ease.

This verse is from Isaiah 54, where the writer is speaking to Jerusalem, the city, the center of the Jewish faith. It is not about a person, then or now.

Neither Trump nor Biden are Jerusalem. They are not the center of faith – at least not any faith that isn’t blasphemous.

We cannot grab any ole verse out of context and apply it to our current situation.

Anyone quoting Isaiah 54 would likely be upset by someone else quoting Revelation 13, “One of the beast’s heads looked like it had sustained a mortal wound, but its fatal wound was healed. Rapt with amazement, the whole world followed the beast.”

Gross, right?

The Bible is not about Trump or Biden. Or the USA. Or any election.

God is not promising no harm will be done to your preferred political candidate (or pastor or modern nation state or pro athlete or you).

Even Jerusalem has suffered harm and violence after these words were originally spoken.

And what of Corey Comperatore, who lost his life to a bullet intended for the former president? Why do weapons formed against a politician not prosper, but weapons against fire fighters in the audience do? Or kids in classrooms?

For Christians, this is particularly perplexing because the guy we follow was crucified, died, and buried. Escaping death and harm is no where promised to us. We are people who believe in laying down our lives, not sanctified bubble wrap.

Ascribing God-ordained protections or callings to a modern political candidate is a dangerous game. These readings elevate people to a status that does not belong to them. They become deified, infallible, untouchable in ways that lead us astray. It keeps us from asking the questions we should be asking, pushing back where we should be pushing back, and marries our good God to these less than perfect people and platforms.

So, if you’d made it this far, reject violence and reject shallow readings of Scripture. Reject reading the Bible as an out of context magic 8 ball. Reject the idea that God can only use one person or that some people are above accountability or correction or even death because they are “anointed.”

We can do better than this.

Not quite Christmas.

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It is not quite Christmas,

and her work is not quite done

(a mother’s never is),

but Mary has been preparing for months.

She has prayed and sung and fed

and her skin has been stretched

and blood pressure been raised

and her feet and ankles have swollen.

The work of Christmas doesn’t begin (or end) with labor, but with nourishment and making space. It doesn’t begin with heavenly choirs but in silent and tender moments of stomach caresses and gurgling, discomforting moments of morning sickness.

The work of God in the world is at times big and grand and accompanied by angelic armies and sometimes it is found in the quiet, faithful endurance of a young girl swallowing back heartburn and dreaming of the future for a child she has yet to meet.

We need both. We need Christmas and celebration. And we need the unnoticed, daily preparation that happens in small, and at times, uncomfortable ways.

The world we want doesn’t just appear. It takes work and waiting and stretching and sacrifice – just like the work of an expecting parent. It starts small, in the dark, and often goes unappreciated. But the work here is vital and formational.

How we carry ourselves in the time leading up to the big and grand matters. We cannot fast forward to the good part. There are no shortcuts to Christmas.

But we can be faithful along the way. We can walk, or waddle, like Mary – trusting, enduring, paying attention, making space for God to be present. Even when it’s painful or seems like the waiting may never end. Even when it leaves us wondering what in the world we have gotten ourselves into.

The work has already begun. God is on the move. And we can be part of it.

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On Pentecost.

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Mosaic in the Cathedral Basilica of Saint Louis

On Pentecost the Spirit of God shows up in a big way: wind and fire and foreign languages. The Spirit is moving and is for everybody. St. Peter says, “This promise is for you, your children, and all who are far away.”

Women. Men. Young. Old. Rich. Poor. Foreign. Native. And everyone in between.

Some included were wrong. Some were messy. Some scoundrels. Some had terrible theology.

They had differing politics. Annoying habits. Bad habits. Baggage.

And yet the Spirit of God moves and makes room anyway.

It seems to me God is less worried about clean lines and uniformity than much of the modern church is. It seems the church is meant to be united by something more than political views or rigid compliance or even right belief.

What if we had the same approach as God on Pentecost? What if what we offered was truly inclusive of everyone, regardless of where they have come from, done, or believed? What if we truly believed the Spirit of God was at work in the middle of our differences and disagreements? What if we trusted God and let go of our anxious need to control everyone and conform them into our image?

Sure, wielding authority and drawing lines and gate keeping is an easier approach. Uniting around politics or nations or status is a far quicker way to draw a crowd. But there are no short cuts to a better world.

The way of Pentecost is slow and labor intensive. In fact, the rest of the Christian Scriptures are letters to local churches and their leaders trying to figure out how to do this well. It takes intentionality and patience and time and dying to ourselves and grace and peace making. It is work.

But this work, more than the high control and exclusionary approach, makes us holy. Here we learn to really love our neighbor when, despite all the ways they (or we) are wrong, they sit across the table from us. In community united by a hunger for the things of God we learn empathy for our (real or perceived) enemies and drop our weapons. In this work we learn humility and to be slow to speak. In this effort we find pictures of faithfulness and opportunities for growth and the strength we need to keep going. Here we find the God that dwells amongst us.

It may be hard and slow and even scary, but it looks like Jesus.

So may we trust the Spirit of God unleashed into the world. May we let go of our need for control and conformity. May we be moved out into the world. And may the Spirit of God keep showing up in ways that surprise us and make us new.