(R) Adam Davidson

The Difference Between Proximity and Identity

This being Holy Week, I find myself thinking quite a bit about the experience of the first disciples as they witnessed the most important event(s) in human history. We were created, we fell away, we are being redeemed through Christ. For this all to happen, we 1) had to be created and 2) had to encounter God while in our broken state. Had Christ not come and endured the cross, which includes the horrendous path of obedience and suffering seen in the moments between His arrest and the crucifixion, we would still be in a big and ugly mess.

Before His arrest, Jesus told the disciples that they’d bail. Peter, the Will Riker to J. Picard, the Goose to Maverick, made it crystal clear to his Rabbi that he was going to be reliable, no matter what comes… even death. Jesus knew better (as He always does) and told Peter specifically that he would do a hat-trick and deny Christ three times. Once is enough, but three times is like “yeah, there’s no question here… we’re all clear on where Peter stands.”

Peter, by the way, didn’t stand. When things got ugly, Peter folded and ran, just as Jesus said. So much for trusting in human ethic and willpower, I suppose.

But here’s what gets me (and thanks for walking with me this far, because here’s the crux): Peter was nearby Jesus the whole time. We read in Mark’s gospel account that Peter was warming himself by a fire, keeping a distance that likely allowed him to monitor the situation from afar. I wonder if Peter saw himself as a wingman with the wisdom to stay safe and available, not unlike when Batman leaves Alfred in the car until just the right moment. Peter was close — proximal is the word I like to use here — and therefore still “with” Jesus. Hold on to that thought: Peter was proximal (close by) and may have, by his own standards, been in the clear in terms of full commitment to his promise to remain. Let’s give Pete that credit.

However… and here’s what fascinates me and molds me, too… proximity wasn’t enough. A girl asked Peter if he was with Jesus. Peter says “nope!” Again, she asks in front of a crowd, and Peter, still proximal, says “Nope!” Strike two is followed by the out, when Peter calls down curses after another guy calls out his affinity with Jesus, giving a firm and undeniably clear “NOPE!”

Cue the rooster.

There’s a difference between proximity to Jesus and identity with Jesus. Proximal activity includes doing churchy things: reading the bible, singing this and that, knowing what we believe, giving money to the passing plate, etc. Big deal. How does that really change us? Not much more than putting on a different outfit or swapping our pickup truck for a Mustang.

Identity with Jesus is about who we are, not what we do or how close we might be to Jesus-y things. Peter has failed. Big time. Oh, and, by the way, praise God that the scripture tells stories of typical blockheads doing ridiculous things, because I can relate. Why? Because he wasn’t nearby? No. His failure was in denying his identity as one who belongs to the One.

I like proximal discipleship because I can measure it, rely on it, and feel safe in my performance. This is the quick path to soul death, and it’s easy to swallow because our self-reliance is like an anesthetic that keeps us blissfully ignorant of what’s truly happening to us. I don’t need proximity. I need identity. I am in Christ: a new creation, a son of God, a broken vessel claimed and restored, yet being restored continually. I am loved. I am free.

Spiritual disciplines are proximal. They get us close but they themselves don’t transform us. Going to church (even on Easter!) is proximal: it is a vehicle that gives us reason and structure, but it’s the Holy Spirit who brings us to life from the inside out. That kind of formation is nothing less than a total transformation of who we are and how we identify.

This affects my lenten journey, which is good, because I want to know better this God who loves us, even though He knows our thoughts, intentions, dysfunctions, and propensity to count on ourselves. What does it even mean that Jesus can look into the eyes of His closest friends and say “you will all fall away,” only to invite them along for the next step in His journey to the cross? What is this mysterious and generous grace? And why do I get what I do not deserve?

Here’s the pinnacle question: are you close to, or are you in Christ?

His death means our death — death to self — which is a daily thing for a follower who identifies. Jesus isn’t looking for fans on twitter. This is to be an inside job that will require everything of us. If the world notices we are near Him, they have every right to question our identity in Him.

“Wait! Aren’t you one of His disciples?”
“Yes. And I know what that means, both now and in the life to come.”

Amen.

Grandma Lois

Lois died this morning following a severe stroke from which it was unlikely she would ever recover.

Over the years, she and I discussed many things, but Bean Soup was our discussion du jour, a topic which came up at almost every visit. She had wisdom that ran deeper than her persona initially revealed. Living through major challenges and pains shaped her into a faithful presence, generous saint, and a feisty old lady. No wonder she made it to almost 90.

She fought the good fight, she finished the race, she kept the faith. On Friday morning I stumbled across a thought from St. Augustine in his work “City of God”. For some reason a passage about — of all things, death — caught my attention. He wrote: “Of this at least I am certain, that no one has ever died who was not destined to die some time.” He goes on: “…death is not to be judged an evil which is the end of a good life; for death becomes evil only by the retribution which follows it. They, then, who are destined to die, need not be careful to inquire what death they are to die, but into what place death will usher them.”

It made me think about life, and how it’s not about the limited view of an evil end to a good life, but rather about continuing on in an even better eternity. That’s my paraphrase, though Augustine says it with much greater accuracy and punch. It was only a few hours later that we got the call, and days later that she died. Sad? Extremely. Evil? Yes, in that our world is broken by sin. But it’s going to be ok, because in our sadness we have the buried but kicking joy that Lois is with Jesus. And that’s good. That’s grace. That’s the hope of Christ, and in that hope we rest, mourn, wait. Jesus came to suffer with us, to die for us, and through that, to heal us. And now, Lois is healed. Praise God.

I just hope He hasn’t brought up Bean Soup yet, because that’s our thing, and I plan on having that conversation again with her someday.