Resisting What Makes for War

Sermon by Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist


Luke 4:1-13


“You are God’s beloved child.

“God is very pleased with you.

“As a creature of the earth . . . you will return to the earth:

“ashes to ashes,

“dust to dust,

“but always in the light of God’s everlasting love . . .”


With these words we began our Lenten journey toward Jerusalem with Jesus last Wednesday in our service of ashes and oil.

We gathered around this table in a vigil of prayer, naming those places and people and powers that rage within us and among us. That need the peace of Christ to dwell richly in our hearts. Singing for that peace to begin on earth and to begin with us. Right here. Right now, as we begin our discernment of Christ’s peace together.

We were and we are, in a very real sense in this Season of Lent, doing what Jesus himself does when he goes to the desert to face his own demons in the lection from Luke that is our lesson for today.

“You are my beloved child,” he has heard God say in his baptism in the Jordan. “I am very pleased with you.” But you are not human forever, he must also hear. You will die. As every one of us does. And, in our own culture of avoidance of death, as every one of us too often forgets.

These bodies of ours are mortal. Of the earth, even though they breathe the spirit of God. And it is the way of the earth that our bodies will die, as does the body of Jesus. Even though he, and we, are always God’s beloved and pleasing children. The question of our baptism, then, is how we should live in the light of the full knowledge that we will also die. And how we should die in a way that will contribute to the ongoing flourishing of the life that lives on in our wake.

There is no better place to ponder these questions than the desert. Where the fragility of life and the reality of death are ever-present in body, mind, and spirit. Which is why we find Jesus there in his post-baptism self-examination and preparation for ministry on this first Sunday in our Lenten discernment of peace.

Christians often read this story of Jesus in the desert as an individual series of temptations for an individual man and his ministry and then apply the reactions of Jesus to our individual dealings with temptation. But for Jesus—and for all first century Jews who live in the land of the Roman Empire—the questions that come in the desert are far beyond one individual’s cycle of life and death as a creature of the earth. The questions that come in the desert are about living and dying as a people in the peace that passes understanding. A peace that is emphatically unlike the Pax Romana—or ‘Roman Peace’—that governs every part of their lives.

For Jesus—and for all first century Jews who live in the land of the Roman Empire—the Pax Romana that is supposed to enrich human flourishing is really about suppressing the resistance of a conquered people by military might. And co-opting their means of subsistence living for economic exploitation by a far-away king.

For Jesus—and for all first century Jews who live in the land of the Roman Empire—the question of baptism is about how to resist this crushing of life all around them through a Pax Romana that is the emphatic opposite of the peaceable kingdom of God. In Galilee, where Jesus grew up, ritual purification of water and desert self-examination were about recruiting resistance movements and fostering the simmering ferment of nationalism, much more than they were about personal piety.

And so for Jesus the desert becomes a testing ground for sorting out the best and most faithful way to resist what makes for the war of the Roman Peace. Now the Romans ironically describe their ‘peace’ as feeding the hungry, ruling the world with justice, and protecting the people from themselves. But the people know the Romans do this by commercializing the local economy for their own advantage and cultivating a dependence on Rome as the occupying power. For those resisting the Roman Peace that really makes for war, a post-baptism desert self-examination and preparation would normally go one of two ways: the way of the warrior preparing for armed revolt. Or the way of the purist creating a separatist community in the wilderness far from collusion with the empire.

But in the face of temptation to simply replace the violent peace of the Roman Empire with a power-hungry ‘violent peace’ of his own, Jesus finds a third way: engaging the powers of greed and power and idolatry through the nonviolent radical love of God for the enemy. Yes, I will feed the hungry, he says, but I will do it by blessing the gifts of God and inviting the community to share what they have and not by pretending to be a miracle worker. Yes, I will proclaim the regime change of violent Roman rule, but I will do it by living God’s kingdom of justice and peace and not by returning evil for evil. Yes, I will test God’s power to protect the righteous, he says, but I will do it by trusting this protection throughout all of eternity and not merely through this mortal body.

Yes, I will resist what makes for war, Jesus says. But not the way the Romans do. The way God does. Through steadfast, enduring, never-failing, forgiving LOVE. For enemies as well as friends. For self as well as God.

And so he does.


But by and large his disciples cannot figure out how to follow in his footsteps.

Even in his own time, Peter rushes for the sword in defense of his master when the nonviolent way gets really, really hard. Even in our own Scriptures the final book of Revelation envisions a cosmic battle between good and evil with the warrior Jesus. Even within the first few centuries of the emerging religion that rose from the resurrection, the Roman Empire claims the power of the cross of Christ to lead victory into war, rather than reshape their swords into plowshares.

And the truth is the peaceable kingdom of God still has not yet come, as much as Jesus proclaimed that it would. At least not in its final and forever form. And we who follow him two thousand years later face questions of our own in resisting what makes for war as we enter the desert of Lent. Fully claimed as the beloved and pleasing children of God. Fully conscious of the reality of our mortality. Fully convicted of the violent ‘anti-peace’ that pervades our every step. And fully convinced that the individual and the international struggle for peace are connected.

So what do we do?

The Presbyterian Church as a national denomination has made clear our conviction that the vocation of peacemaking calls to everyone who follows Christ. On the one hand, we should not retreat into our desert enclave. But on the other, we should not return evil for evil.

In the Confession of 1967 we say that “God’s reconciliation in Jesus Christ is the ground of the peace, justice, and freedom among nations which all powers of government are called to serve and defend.” That “the church, in its own life, is called to practice the forgiveness of enemies and to commend to the nations as practical politics the search for cooperation and peace” and that “this search requires that nations pursue fresh and responsible relations across every line of conflict, even at risk to national security, to reduce areas of strife and to broaden international understanding.”

We say that “reconciliation among nations becomes particularly urgent as countries develop nuclear, chemical, and biological weapons, diverting their [hu]manpower and resources from constructive uses and risking the annihilation of [hu]mankind.” And we say that, while “nations may serve God’s purposes in history, the church which identifies the sovereignty of any one nation or any one way of life with the cause of God denies the Lordship of Christ and betrays its calling.”

At the same time as we say all of this, we do not say that pacifism is our universal and unequivocal response to violence. The Presbyterian Church affirms the classic teaching of the Reformed tradition that “God alone is the Lord of the conscience” and supports individual Christian conviction across the spectrum. From conscientious objectors to four-star generals and everyone in between. We may stand as a denomination in opposition to particular wars we believe are not “just,” but we will also as a general rule support humanitarian intervention and the military defense of a cause we believe to be “just.”

And that may be what we continue to do in the years to come. But the question that is before us now in this Season of Lent is whether or not we might rediscover the “third way” between pacifism and “just war” Jesus discovered for himself in the desert: the way of nonviolent active resistance to the things that make for war.

Can we, as the living Body of Christ today, hasten the day when war and violence are no longer inevitable means for resolving conflicts? Internally, interpersonally, or internationally? Are there other ways to heal ourselves and our communities? Or to provide protection and security? If so, what are those ways? For ourselves, and for the world?

These are the questions we take with us into the desert of our Lenten discernment. Without pre-meditated answers. But open to the outcome that the Spirit has to offer.

Trusting that in every step along the way of the desert discernment

We are still God’s beloved children

And God is still very pleased with us

As children of the earth we will return to the earth

Ashes to ashes

Dust to dust

But always in the light of God’s never-ending love.

Amen.