WORLDLY SUFFERING

AND THE POLITICS OF FEAR

 

By Stephen Palmquist (stevepq@hkbu.edu.hk)

 

Worldly Politics vs. Natural Politics

 

      Theocracy, as we have seen, does not require the total abandonment of all worldly political systems. On the contrary, the suffering which, as we shall see below, is an inevitable part of theocratic politics, aims at the redemption of the world [cf. Lev. 25:24]. In order to see clearly how this is to come about, we must become aware of just what a "world" is, and especially, how it differs from the created order, which I shall call "nature". Once this is understood, we will be in a position to appreciate how we in our suffering can serve as loving midwives for "the whole creation" as it "suffers the pains of childbirth" [Rom. 8:22].

 

      Nature is the good and perfect creation of God. Unfortunately, accord­ing to Genesis 3, not just human beings, but every aspect of nature is cursed as a result of the Fall: animals [3:14], animal-human relations [3:15], woman and her relation to her children and husband [3:16], the ground [3:17], plants [3:18], and man and his relation to the ground [3:17-19] are all included in the curse God puts on the earth. But God not only curses the earth; he also gives Adam a task: "the Lord God sent him out from the garden of Eden, to cultivate the ground from which he was taken" [3:23]. So the curse has a purpose. As Paul puts it, "the creation was subjected to futility, not of its own will, but because of him who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself also [with the children of God] will be set free from its slavery to corruption" [Rom. 8:20-21].

 

      The problem is that in cultivating the earth, we tend to build for ourselves a culture: we shape out of the ground of nature a world of our own making. Once we have constructed such a world, our natural desire is to protect it, since it offers us comfort and safety. Yet doing this ultimately alienates us from nature (and so also, from ourselves), making us "strangers" to God's creation. Hence, we have a choice: to be at home in our world and strangers to nature, or to be strangers to our world and at home with nature.[1] The word "culture", which comes from the Latin "cultus" ("care" or "adoration"), refers to care for nature (thus Adam is told to cultivate the ground); yet "cultured" human beings nearly always pervert true culture by turning it into care for their world, cut off from its grounding in the created order of nature.

 

      This should make it clear why in the foregoing chapters I have referred to non-theocratic political systems as worldly politics and to theocracy as natural politics. The politics of God is the politics of nature, of the created order over against which we build the human world. The task of the theocrat is to submit to this God-given natural order in such a way as to become a channel through which God's creative power can set it free from the bondage which resulted from the curse. This cannot be accomplished merely by "going native", so to speak. On the contrary, we must not forego the task of building a world; for each human person, by the grace of God, is given the privilege to participate in the creative process, and we do this by building a world. However, we must continually be willing to give up that world so that our care can remain focused on God's creation, rather than on our own. For when we stop cultivating nature and begin cul­tivating our world, we are severing the root of our own creativity.[2]

 

      Why is it necessary to go through the process of building a world if we are not supposed to care about that world, in the sense of making it our ultimate concern? A full answer to such a question would require a separate theological treatise. At this point, we can only make a start by offering one way of answering this difficult question. We experience the creation as immediate and boundless (e.g., as a vast ocean, or a moment of silence), and our care for it aims at actualizing the holy (i.e., love and spontaneity). To make a world, by contrast, is to set up boundaries (e.g., in the form of cities, or philosophical theories); hence a world is experienced as mediate, and our care for it aims at actualizing what is right (i.e., duty and rational­ity).[3]Now caring for the holy does not require us to reject the right, but rather to put it in its proper perspective, as subordinate to the holy (as Abraham did in Genesis 22:1-19). In­deed, just as the holy sometimes requires the right as an occasion for self-denial, so also, the transformation of the old, cursed creation into a "new creation" [cf. 2 Cor. 5:17] requires a world as an occasion through which people can learn to remain unattached.

 

      The theocratic vision is a picture of human individuals cultivating God's creation in themselves, and freely giving of the fruits of their labor to those who are unable to cultivate for themselves. As we shall see, suffering is involved in the openness required to enable such giving and receiving to succeed; but it is worthwhile, because it is the key to the realization of theocratic love. The problem is that we are often so afraid of the aspects of the world which have been constructed by others that we build protective walls around our own little world and identify it with God's creation! Yet this all-too-common tendency fosters the very opposite of genuine love.

 

Fear of God vs. Fear of the World

 

      In A1:1308a(163) Aristotle offers some prudent advice to politicians who would like to use worldly methods to retain their power: "when [people] are afraid, they get a better grip on the political system. Thus those who take thought for the political system should promote fears", whether or not the threat is likely to materialize. There is no shortage of examples demonstrating the pragmatic value of such advice: for instance, the nuclear deterrent, like most military strategy, depends almost entirely for its success on instilling fear in the opponents; political propaganda nearly always plays on the fears of the people in one way or another; and even within any given political system, specific policies are typically defended or refuted by referring to the fearful implications of the opponent's alternative. In fact, fear of what is not familiar to us, of what is not inside the part of the world we have constructed as our own, threatens to permeate every aspect of our political lives, for it is this fear that keeps politics alive.[4]

 

      Theocracy does not deny the shrewd wisdom of Aristotle's advice. Instead, it bids us recognize that God alone is the only proper object of hu­man fear. Theocracy, like worldly political systems, can thrive only when human beings live in fear. The crucial difference, however, is that worldly political systems promote an enslaving fear of the outsider (i.e., of any alternative policy or political system) and/or of the law and those who enforce it, whereas theocracy promotes a liberating fear of the One who dwells inside us, the reality transcending all worldly systems and laws. In so doing, theocracy ends up freeing us from the very sort of fear upon which worldly political systems depend. That this liberation is not just spiritual but profoundly political is evident from the fact that, as Eller observes in E1:20, those who hold political power "don't really care whether you love them or fear them; what they can't stand is being ignored."

 

      The Bible's treatment of fear goes hand in hand with its treatment of politics. The first instance of fear occurs in the creation story. After breaking their agreement with God, Adam and Eve attempt to avoid the consequences by "hid[ing] from the Lord God among the trees of the garden" [Gen. 3:8]. If we recall that God had given them the right to enjoy the fruit of these same trees [2:16; 3:2], then we can interpret their retreat as a symbol of the human tendency to protect ourselves by grasping natural gifts and converting them into worldly possessions. When God calls out asking where they have gone, Adam answers "I heard you in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked; so I hid" [3:10]. It is important to note here that Adam's fear is not directed towards God, but towards himself. That is, he was afraid of losing his worldly possessions (e.g., his life in the garden), because he had failed to fear God.

 

      "The fear of the Lord", we read in Proverbs 9:10, "is the beginning of wisdom" [see also Job 28:28; Ps. 111:10; Prov. 1:7; 15:33; Ec. 12:13], and the numerous implications of this basic insight are developed throughout the Bible. The main implication relevant to the implementation of theoc­racy is that to obey this maxim enables us to combat our fears of all worldly dangers and enemies. Thus in Numbers 14 we read one of the many examples of the people of Israel being driven by fear to grumble against Moses, threatening to "appoint a leader and return to Egypt" [14:4]. Moses responds not by asserting his own authority as the divinely appointed leader (as in ecclesiocracy), but rather by encouraging the people to trust in their God: "do not rebel against the Lord; and do not fear the people of the [promised] land ... [T]he Lord is with us; do not fear them" [14:9]. Moses was able to see that the people's fear of the nations inhabiting the land across the Jordan was a direct result of their lack of fear of God.[5]

 

      The theocratic response to the politics of fear is that those who "delight in the fear of the Lord" [Is. 11:3] never need to be afraid of any worldly political system (though we may of course oppose it for other reasons, such as its support of injustice). The political implications of this principle are beautifully expressed in Psalm 33:8-18:

 

 

Let all the earth fear the Lord ...

For he spoke, and it was done ...

The Lord nullifies the counsel of the nations;

He frustrates the plans of the peoples....

The king is not saved by a mighty army;

A warrior is not delivered by great strength.

A horse is a false hope for victory;

Nor does it deliver anyone by its great strength.

Behold, the eye of the Lord is on those who fear him,

On those who wait for his lovingkindness ...

 

 

Indeed, the Psalms and Proverbs repeatedly stress the importance of properly placed fear, often, though not always, explicitly in connection with political power struggles.[6]

 

      Political authorities such as kings are no exception to the principle of theocratic fear. After God chooses Saul as the first king of Israel, Samuel tells the people that kingship will work well for them if they "fear the Lord and serve him, and listen to his voice" [1 Sam. 12:14]. But they do not; and the result is that the people are afraid of the Philistines [13:7] and the king is afraid of the people [15:24]. Saul's failure results in his loosing the status of God's chosen one [15:26]. Later, when Goliath asks the soldiers in Saul's army to "choose a man for yourselves and let him come down to me" [17:8], they all run away in fear [17:24]. But when David, "a man after [God's] own heart" [13:14], comes on the scene, he demonstrates the theocratic alternative to worldly fear: the victory of the good through coura­geously facing the enemy in faith, believing against all odds that "the battle is the Lord's" [17:47].

 

      The New Testament, notwithstanding its emphasis on God's love, makes no fundamental alterations to this picture of the politics of fear, but carries it to its ultimate conclusion. This conclusion is that, as we shall see in the following section, those who let go of their fear of the world in ex­change for fear of God will inevitably undergo worldly suffering [see e.g., Jn. 15:18-20], just as David spent the next few years of his life being persecuted by Saul [1 Sam. 18-28]. Along these lines, when Paul dis­cusses the suffering of God's children in Romans 8:12-23, he encourages us to remember that we "have not received a spirit of slavery [to the world and its fleshly desires] leading to fear again, but ... a spirit of adoption as sons" [8:15].

 

      Unfortunately, the tendency to focus exclusively on God's love leads many to ignore the many passages in the New Testament which affirm the Old Testament's emphasis on fearing God. Jesus repeatedly tells his followers to fear God but not men [e.g., Mat. 10:26,28,31; cf. Ps. 118:6 and Heb. 13:6], because "your Father has chosen gladly to give you the kingdom" [Lk. 12:32]. Those who see Jesus' deeds sometimes respond to their fear by "glorifying God" [see e.g., Lk. 5:26; 7:16; cf. Rev. 14:7]. Paul tells us to "work out your salvation with fear and trembling" because "God ... is at work in you" [Php. 2:12-13]. In other words, "fear of God" is a necessary prerequisite for "perfecting holiness" [2 Cor. 7:1]. The kingdom within us is therefore not to be taken lightly, "for our God is a consuming fire" [Heb. 12:28-29].

 

      Moreover, the New Testament presents the one perfect example of the alternative to the politics of fear. For the child whose birth was announced with the words "Do not be afraid" [Lk. 2:10] lived out a life of such profound fear of God that he alone became worthy to be called "perfect".[7]Throughout the Gospels Jesus' courage in facing evils of every kind, including political, shines forth as a beacon of hope to those of us who are plagued by fears of worldly powers. From the beginning of his ministry, in his temptation in the wilderness, to the end, in his refusal to react out of fear to the unjust threats of the religious and political authorities, Jesus consistently exemplified what it means to live in fear of one's heavenly Father.

 

      Jesus is sometimes portrayed as revealing a tinge of worldly fear during his struggle in Gethsemane. Yet if we closely examine the texts of this story, we find his grief and distress [Mat. 26:37] results not from fear at the thought that he might soon have to suffer unjustly and lose his life; this was a destination towards which he had already consciously set his face [Mat. 16:21; 17:22-23; 20:17-19; 26:2]. Rather, his sweat "like drops of blood" [Lk. 22:44] expresses the depth of his fear of God in his own struggle with temptation.[8]For the "cup" to which Jesus refers in his prayers symbolizes not just his impending suffering and death, but also (and perhaps primarily) the political temptation plaguing him at that very moment-namely, as Yoder puts it, the temptation to use "messianic violence" in a "holy war" [Y1:55]. Thus, in his second prayer he cries "My Father, if this [temptation] cannot pass away unless I drink it [i.e., face the temptation and endure the present spiritual struggle], Thy will be done" [Mat. 26:42]. Jesus' response to his struggle in Gethsemane therefore testifies to his unshakable fear of God.

 

      Jesus' struggle with temptation in Gethsemane ought to serve as a model of the type of struggle to be endured by anyone who seeks to obey God's call. Like Jesus, we must adopt a healthy fear of God, leading us to die to our worldly selves, recognize our own human weakness, and acknowledge that if the task ahead is to be performed, it can be done only through God-given strength.[9] The safer option, of course, will always be to avoid the struggle by claiming a small section of the world as our own possession, because this will inevitably dull our sensitivity to temptation and replace spiritual struggle with the safety and comfort of home. The problem is that such an alternative replaces our fear of God with a false complacency and arouses fear of those parts of the world which compete with our own. The question facing us, then, is: Why should we choose to fear God in view of the fact that this will inevitably lead us into suffering?

 

Evil and the Threat of Worldly Suffering

 

      "Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully", Pascal rightly observes, "as when they do it from religious conviction."[10] Understanding why this is true, and how a proper view of suffering can help us to avoid such a fate, is perhaps the most important reason for studying the politics of fear. Pascal's observation is so often and so tragically true because religious people are very often subject to a naive view of what evil actually is. Religious people typically view evil as disobedience to some particular code of moral conduct and/or disbelief in a certain set of rational beliefs: in either case such people normally assume they possess something absolutely good. This gives them, they surmise, not only the right, but the duty to exercise power and authority to combat anyone who acts or thinks outside the boundaries of the system they possess.[11]Yet the oft-repeated result is that their well-intentioned attempt to exterminate "evil" becomes itself the occasion for the darkest forces of evil to hold sway.

 

      If this common view of evil is itself a mask which covers an even darker evil, then what alternative view of evil is to be preferred? The Bible presents evil most consistently not in terms of disobeying moral absolutes or disbelieving creedal absolutes, but rather, somewhat paradoxically, as a direct result of a person's failure to face the threat of evil. In other words, sin (evil human action) is most destructive when it arises, not as a result of our feeble attempts to deal with those areas in which we know we are tempted, but as a result of running away from the Tempter.[12]Our typical reaction to temptation is to avoid it altogether by retreating into the comfort of our own little world of possessions (just as Adam and Eve ran to the fruit trees and the disciples allowed themselves to fall asleep). Sometimes we do this because we tend to confuse being tempted with actually sinning. But most often we do it because we are simply too afraid to undergo the suffering involved in confronting any temptation face to face. In either case, when Satan sees our back, he smiles, knowing he now has the upper hand. For the worst sort of suffering occurs as a direct result of our attempt to escape the threat of worldly suffering.

 

      A good illustration of the theocratic response to suffering and temptation comes in Matthew 16:21-28. Soon after confessing Jesus to be the Christ [16:16] and being promised "the keys of the kingdom of heaven" [16:19], Peter rebukes Jesus for saying he will have to suffer and die. "God forbid it, Lord! This shall never happen to you." Jesus, who had already faced the Tempter in the desert and would face him again in Gethsemane, immediately recognizes Peter's well-intentioned remark as a temptation to adopt an improper attitude towards the world. Peter was revealing not only his own fear of suffering, but also his fear of losing his newfound possession of "the Christ" as an item in his world. Yet such a loss must take place in order for our world to be transformed into "a new creation" in Christ [2 Cor. 5:16-17]. So Jesus responds first with a direct attack not on Peter, but on the Tempter, who was threatening once again to use apparent good (i.e., the avoidance of suffering) as a masquerade for evil: "Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to me; for you are not setting your mind on God's interests, but man's." Jesus in this way demonstrates that the proper response to temptation is to face it, bringing it to the light,[13] even though this will involve suffering; for in so doing "the devil ...will flee from you" [Jas. 4:7]. The passage ends with Jesus recommending the self-denial of the cross to all disciples, and explaining that those who do this will "see the Son of Man coming in his kingdom."[14]

 

     Jesus' command that each follower must "take up his cross, and follow me" [Mat. 16:24] has definite political overtones, since Roman authority in those days "was acknowledged by requiring one sentenced to carry his own cross" [B1:64; see also Y1:46-47n]. Moreover, Yoder amasses a wealth of textual evidence to demonstrate that the Bible's call to imitate Christ relates exclusively to his political ethic of servanthood [see Y1:118-130]. Thus, he concludes that in the New Testament "there is no general concept of living like Jesus" [134]. Rather, "only on one subject ...is Jesus our example: in his cross.... The believer's cross must be, like his Lord's, the price of his social nonconformity. It is not like sickness or catastrophe ...; it is the end of a path freely chosen after counting the cost" [97].

 

      Aside from Jesus himself, Job provides the most extended biblical ex­ample of how worldly suffering relates necessarily to satanic temptations and the politics of fear. At the outset we learn that Satan's main purpose in causing Job to suffer is to tempt him to curse God.[15] But Job responds by facing his suffering (and in this sense, facing Satan) directly and fearlessly. The advice of his friends is based on the mistaken assumption that suffering is always the result of sin, when in fact the deepest suffering comes in the form of the purifying fire of temptation.

 

      The story of Job suggests two basic types of suffering, which should be kept clearly distinct [cf. p.95n above]. God's heart goes out to those who suffer unjustly, especially if they respond by facing the worldly threat in God's name, as Job did. However, God's heart breaks over those who suffer because they alienate themselves from nature by running from the world (and, they may believe, from Satan) into the falsely circumscribed world of their own rights and possessions. Whereas the latter response is sin and results in a curse (as in Genesis 3:14-19), the former is the very opposite; it is "turning away from evil". Job's comforters make the mistake of neglecting this distinction, assuming all suffering, not just the latter type, is divine punishment for sin. So to accept the "comfort" of their advice would have been for Job to turn around and run from the battle God had sanctioned.

 

      Job's only mistake, as we saw in Chapter Three, was to base his case on his own righteousness rather than on his fear of God. And that is why God responds to Job in what seems at first to be such a strange way, overwhelming him with his power and majesty [Job 38-41]. The lesson Job learns is that good deeds, non-attachment to the world, and even courage to face suffering are insufficient virtues unless they are grounded in the fear of God.

 

      Christianity, lived in light of this theocratic approach to suffering and fear, is therefore no easy answer to life's problems. Jesus does indeed promise to take the burdens of one type of suffering from us (the type caused by our sin) and replace them with his easy yoke [Mat. 11:30]. This easy yoke, however, must not be equated with pleasure or prosperity, but with a deeper level of suffering, a suffering that is not burdensome because it produces in us the joy of true poverty, and in so doing it works towards completing on earth "that which is lacking in Christ's afflictions.^" The gift of a deeper level of suffering paves the way for joy precisely because it enables us to combat our fear of the world. And so, just as the Beatitudes begin with Jesus giving the kingdom of heaven to the poor, they end with Jesus giving his kingdom to those who are "persecuted for the sake of righteousness", and encouraging them to "rejoice and be glad" [Mat. 5:10-12].

 

      Paul knew first hand about the joy of suffering [see e.g., 2 Cor. 7:4]. He tells the Thessalonians he has been "destined" to suffer: "we kept telling you in advance that we were going to suffer affliction; and so it came to pass" [1 Thes. 3:3-4]. But he rejoices in their faith because it shows they can "stand firm in the Lord" without giving in to "the tempter" [3:5-9], who tries to use suffering as a tool to convince people to lose faith. Paul leaves no doubt as to the necessity of such suffering, not just for specially anointed Christians, but for all who seek to promote the coming of God's kingdom: "everyone who wants to live a godly life in Christ Jesus will be persecuted" [2 Tim. 3:12]; and those who "endure ... will also reign with him" [2:12]. Following Jesus' example [see Heb. 12:1-3], the Christian life should therefore be a process of patiently learning how to be open to God's gracious gift of joyous suffering [see e.g., 2 Cor. 4:7-11; Php. 1:29; Jas. 5:8-11], a process of facing our temptations and then obeying the call of God to bear the cross he has put before us.[16]

 

      One of the chief lessons in all of this is that the theocrat is to view worldly politics neither as something to run away from in fear,[17] nor as something to reflect by setting up an opposing political system (or church structure) based on the same methods and principles. Instead, theocracy bids us to absorb through our suffering the powers of worldly politics which become instruments for evil, so that when we die to ourselves, those powers can be transformed into instruments of God's grace [see F2:34n]. As Jesus puts it in John 16:33: "In the world you have tribulation, but take courage; I have overcome the world." Jesus overcame the world by facing the evil in­herent in the world and absorbing it into himself [2 Cor. 5:21]. And the followers of Jesus are to do the same, because "he who has suffered in the flesh has ceased from sin".[18]

 

     Unfortunately, the stark reality of modern Christendom is that most Christians do not really fear God; instead, if anything, they are afraid of experiencing his presence. This is not without reason. For to experience the presence of God is to risk death [see Ex. 33:12-23]! Yet once we recognize that theocracy requires us to view our own death-before-God as the sine qua non of the political realization of God's kingdom, and that the willingness to do so frees us from bondage to worldly fear, the suffering seems worth the risk.

 

      How then can we break down the walls we build (e.g., by protecting our possessions), which make us afraid of the outside world and thereby threaten to render us powerless instruments of evil? I will offer three brief suggestions here, before describing in the next section what I take to be the most effective, and yet most neglected, answer to this question. One way of breaking down such walls is through shared worship: by mutually submitting to the divine Authority, the Author of nature, all worldly differences are put in their proper perspective. Unfortunately, most Christians find they can only worship with those who are already "inside" the worldly walls of their own religious inclinations.

 

      A second method is mourning: by allowing ourselves to weep, both for ourselves in repentance and for others in empathy, we open a space in our heart which allows us to receive God's comfort [Mat. 5:4]. The presence of God's kingdom is at hand when we experience such an outward expression of inward suffering, because by weeping we die to our emotions. True weeping, then, must not be confused with moodiness or emotionalism; in dying to our old emotions a new, more stable sense of feeling rises up in our heart. And this new sense of being alive to our feelings enables us to overcome all manner of worldly fears, by feeling them fully, rather than running from them and having them take us by surprise.

 

      A third method is silence: all things are made equal, so that the walls of division crumble, when the creative emptiness of nature is allowed to in­form our being.[19] Unfortunately, our fear of being open to this unpredictable gift from God leads us to fill our ears with constant noise and our minds with meaningless words, sounds that block out the presence of God's Word in our hearts. God's Word speaks to us only when there is sufficient emptiness in our heart's ear to make us willing to suffer the consequences of hearing something that might shatter the protective boundaries of our own world in order to put us more closely in touch with God's creative power.

 

Freedom to Receive

 

      Understanding the politics of fear is particularly important, because as long as we continue to be gripped by fear of the world and to view our relationship with God merely as a friendship which allows us to escape from the world's dangers, we will inevitably be blocked from receiving the full measure of grace offered to us by God. This chapter will therefore conclude with a discussion of what I believe is the most significant, though rarely recognized, way in which our fear of the world blocks us from receiving God's gifts.

 

      We often hear it said that it is "better to give than to receive"; yet this maxim, if taken too strictly, can easily lead to an unreceptive attitude which neglects the fact that we can give only after we have first received from someone else. The theocratic vision, like all good vision, must be a two-eyed vision if it is to have any depth. And this depth can be clearly seen only when we utilize the eye of receiving God's gifts in conjunction with the eye of giving to the poor.

 

      That grace comes to others not only by our willingness to give to them, but also by our willingness to receive from them, is one of the main points of the stories in which a woman anoints Jesus with perfume. Matthew 26:6-13 tells of the disciples' surprise when Jesus allows such expensive perfume to be wasted, instead of selling it and giving to the poor. Jesus ex­cuses her, on the grounds that she has prepared him for burial. Luke 7:36-50 tells a similar story, but with a somewhat different point. Here the Pharisees are worried not about the wastefulness of the woman's deed, but about the fact that she is known to be a sinner. Yet Jesus wisely allows her to continue anointing him, weeping and kissing his feet. This potentially embarrassing experience, which most of us would shun, lest our peers get the "wrong impression" about our involvement with such a person, turns out to be the instrument through which this woman receives forgiveness. Especially in Luke's version, this story reveals Jesus' willingness to minister both to those who need to receive and to those who need to give. In order to minister to the latter, he had to die to the world's idea (assumed by the Pharisees in Luke 7:39) that the minister's task is to give rather than receive. Jesus knew this woman could not be healed by giving her anything, but only by allowing her to give freely in a way which (for whatever reason -we are not told) released her from her oppression.

 

      We in the modern world often have difficulty seeing clearly the theocratic vision of giving and receiving. Some of the reasons for this will be discussed in Chapter Seven. But here we should mention that one of our most significant problems arises from the mistaken belief that in order to give or receive something we must possess it. Such a fallacious justifica­tion for having possessions leads to a false notion of stewardship. Whereas giving what we have freely received encourages freedom and growth in the recipient,[20] giving what we possess will inevitably give rise to a feeling of indebtedness, if not covetousness, in the recipient.[21] This is because possessing something implies we have certain ownership rights, so giving it to someone else gives us the right to claim something in return. Thus, believing we must possess before we give is like trying to build a house on a foundation of sand [Mat. 7:26-27], in which case the worldly goods we seek to possess will inevitably slip through our fingers the tighter we grasp them. As we saw in Chapter Two, a proper view of Christian politics requires us to let go of our political possessions (i.e., to give up our rights) and view them instead as gifts; for we will learn how to receive without possessing only when we learn to come to God empty-handed. This is why the rich man goes away grieved when Jesus tells him he must "sell [his] possessions and give to the poor" before he follows Jesus [19:21-22]: the disciple whose hands are full of anything worldly will be unable to receive the riches of God's grace.[22]

 

      How to receive freely [see Mat. 10:8]-both grace from God, setting us free to suffer fearlessly in the world [see T4:112], and gifts from our neigh­bors, setting us free to love-is, I believe, one of the most sorely needed lessons we in the modern world have to learn from biblical theocracy. For the tragic examples of situations in which people are typically reluctant or unwilling to receive from others (often due to conflicting religious beliefs), thereby blocking the grace of God and promoting evil, are so numerous nowadays as to be nothing short of epidemic. And in each case the root cause of the tragedy is a misplaced fear which results in a per­son running from temptation rather than facing it, on the grounds that the familiar aspect of my "world" (which is regarded, often rightly, as good) must be protected at all cost from any alternative "world". In the concluding chapter we shall consider numerous examples of how this occurs, and of how it can be prevented through a proper implementation of the politics of love.