This Hallelujah Banquet

by Eugene H. Peterson

  When I left the West and came to the East, one of the things that surprised me was the names of towns: names that I had read about, names like Bethlehem, Nazareth, Salem, Bethel, Joppa, Hebron, Emmaus, Ephrata, Bethany, Bethesda. All up and down this coast, there are towns that were named from another map: the map of faith. The people who traveled along these plains and valleys were not Indians or trappers or loggers. These people were pilgrims. They were disciples following their Lord, and there was something about their journey that was more like that of the people of faith two and three thousand years ago. And it was different from the geography that was thousands of miles away. I loved it when I drove into Bethlehem or into Philadelphia or Bethesda or Goshen or Joppa. We were a long way from the biblical geography, but we were still inside the biblical experience.

  But Smyrna. What is Smyrna doing in Delaware, interrupting my escape to the beach? Smyrna is where Christians suffered and went to their death rather than deny Christ. Their pastor, John, put steel in their wills with his great vision: “Do not fear what you are about to suffer….Be faithful unto death, and I will give you the crown of life” (Revelation 2:10). They didn’t fear. They did die. And they received the crown of life.

  One of those martyrs was Polycarp. Why did this American congregation name its church Polycarp? Polycarp is not mentioned in the biblical text. He was about thirty years old when John wrote his message. More than fifty years later, he was the pastor in the same church, when another wave of persecution rolled in. Just as John had been arrested earlier, Polycarp was also arrested. (Remember, Polycarp had been among those whom John had addressed in this message to their church! These words from his pastor, John, had encouraged him.)

  Polycarp was taken to an arena where great crowds gathered to see Christians burned. It was like the NFL; it drew the same sort of crowds (and probably for some of the same reasons) that football teams draw today.

  The proconsul set Polycarp in the middle of the field, confronted him, and said, “Curse Christ.”

  He replied, “Eighty-six years I have served him, and he never did me any wrong. How can I blaspheme my King who saved me?”

  The proconsul persisted. “Swear by the fortune of Caesar.”

  Polycarp answered, “You do not know who I am…: I am a Christian.”

  The proconsul roared, “I have wild beasts. I shall throw you to them, if you do not change your mind.”

  Polycarp said, “Call them. For repentance from the better to the worse is not permitted to us; but it is noble to change from what is evil to what is righteous.”

  The proconsul said, “I shall have you consumed with fire, if you despise the wild beasts.”

  Polycarp replied, “The fire you threaten burns but an hour and is quenched after a little….Why do you delay? Come, do what you will.”*2

  Polycarp stood serenely defiant. The killing flames were lit. And Polycarp burned while the world watched.

  I soon find myself miles down the road, my imagination spinning with Smyrna and Polycarp. The stories administer the martyr test to me: Who are my heroes? The self-indulgent or the self-sacrificing? Am I willing to embrace suffering? Am I faithful to Christ, dying the little deaths of ego, or am I holding on for dear life to myself?

  Am I faithful to Christ, dying the little deaths of ego, or am I holding on for dear life to myself?

  Suddenly we are at Rehoboth Beach. Another gospel name! Abraham and Sarah’s son, Isaac, met suffering after suffering, loss after loss in the valley of Gerar. He dug a well and it was taken from him. Then another and he lost that. He persisted faithfully. He dug a third well and, unexpectedly, found himself on the other side of the trouble. He named it Rehoboth (“roomy place,” is how I’d translate it), a deep well in a wide place. But it was only through giving up what he thought was his life that he got there. We don’t get the Christ-life without the self-death. There is no road to Easter except through Lent. The only way to Rehoboth is through Smyrna.

  * * *

  There were seven churches in all to whom John was their pastor, and the scroll vision was passed to all of them. This was done to encourage them and convince them that their confession and loyalty to Jesus Christ were in fact a revolutionary act that was part of the transformation of all reality from violent, bestial destruction to powerful life-loving creation. Inserted into the vision were seven individualized messages to the seven church congregations. Ephesus got a warning: “You have abandoned your first love.” Smyrna got a promise (I paraphrase, of course): “Things are going to get worse. You are going to suffer even more than you are right now. Don’t give in. Be faithful unto death, and I will give you the crown of life.”

  Why did a group of people in Delaware three hundred years or so ago name their village Smyrna? I wonder. Was it a dangerous time? Were they tempted to unfaithfulness? Possibly under pressure to abandon their Christian way of life for something less demanding? Did they name their town Smyrna as a way of identifying with people who were willing to go to their death rather than retract one bit from their Lord, who had gone to his death for them?

  You can be sure that the words of his old pastor, John, were still audible to Polycarp as he died—the words of the first and the last, who died and came to life: “I know your tribulation….Do not fear what you are about to suffer….Be faithful unto death, and I will give you the crown of life” (Revelation 2:9–10). And a group of early American Christians named their church for Polycarp. But why? Perhaps to keep before them the example of the person who was faithful to death and fearless in the face of opposition. To remind them that the sequence is not life to death but death to life.

  Every time that I have driven Route 13 and slowed down to go through the town of Smyrna and seen the sign of the church of St. Polycarp, I have been on my way to the beach—to enjoy myself, to have a few hours without any pressure from anybody, to luxuriate in the sun. I am aware of the contrast with those who are stuck in poverty, who are plunged into immense suffering, who are faced with hard questions such as, Will I forsake my faith in order to live on the terms that the world gives, or will I forsake life on the world’s terms in order to die for Christ? I live in a culture and a society where hardly anyone knows the meaning of the word sacrifice, where suffering is something to be avoided at all costs and complained of when it can’t be avoided, and where it is unthinkable that there is anything more important than preserving and extending my life.

  For three hundred years of the church’s life, the single most important model of the Christian life was that of a martyr—the person whose witness was authentic to the point of death. In a society where there were rather frequent instances when faith involved conflict to the point of death, martyrdom became the model. By contrast, the distance between that time and ours can be measured by the difference in our models: the athlete, the millionaire, the entertainer—all persons who are displaying various approaches by their performance and way of life to convince us that death is remote. The athlete in her use of her body, the millionaire in his power to command ease and pleasure, the entertainer by banishing gloomy thoughts and pessimistic attitudes.

  For three hundred years of the church’s life, the single most important model of the Christian life was that of a martyr—the person whose witness was authentic to the point of death.

  But for a long time, the model was a martyr. And for some Christians it still is. Are you willing to die for your faith? And are you willing to give up anything along the way in order to pursue it—those little deaths that sometimes seem as difficult as the final one, dying to impulses of ambition, of lust, of pride, of security, of comfort?

  If we spend all our energies trying to protect our interests, to preserve our safety, and to negotiate and compromise with the opposition in order to keep what we have at all costs, we will live meagerly. But if we live at risk, giving up all in witness and commitment and love, we are released from death to live i
n the power of the Resurrection.

  Here we have one of those paradoxes that are strewn all through the Christian’s life of faith. Until we pass the martyr test, we live neither deeply nor widely. Until we are ready to die for Christ, we can’t live for him freely, openly, and exuberantly. If we spend all our energies trying to protect our interests, to preserve our safety, and to negotiate and compromise with the opposition in order to keep what we have at all costs, we will live meagerly. But if we live at risk, giving up all in witness and commitment and love, we are released from death to live in the power of the Resurrection.

  * * *

  I’ve asked myself these questions many times: What is the best thing to say to a person who is suffering? What is the true thing to say? What can one say to the person in pain? There is always some embarrassment in saying anything. After all, I am not suffering. I am not having to undergo the trial of faith, of sense, of meaning. Isn’t there something presumptuous, an element of arrogance, in saying anything at all? For the person can always respond, “It is well enough for you to talk like that, but it is not you who is suffering.” Plus, there is equal danger in saying the wrong thing. What if what you say gives false hope and its consequences are a deeper disillusionment? What if what you say misses the point so completely that you do not help but hinder?

  The second church given a personal word of counsel in Saint John’s revelation of Jesus Christ was a church that was suffering. And as a pastor with the deepest of concerns for their pain, John spoke a true word of God to them. He began by saying that Christ had a personal word to speak to them and then described this Christ as “the first and the last, who died and came to life” (Revelation 2:8). To describe Christ as “the first and the last” is to say that he includes everything within himself. He is at the beginning and at the end; all that occurs between occurs in the context of his presence. He doesn’t appear on the scene when the play is half over, nor does he leave before the final curtain. He is the first and the last. That is a pretty important word to say to a church that is suffering. Christ is at the beginning. We did not get started in life without his presence. Whatever our state now, we didn’t get here by ourselves or without God. And Christ is here until the finish. However bereft we seem to be of his presence in our pain, he has not gone off and left us. Existence does not occur outside the confines of Christ’s first and last. We are hemmed in by his grace.

  The phrase Saint John used parallel to “the first and the last” is startling: “who died and came to life.” That is just the reverse of what we use to describe people we know. We say “who was born and died.” We think of life as the beginning and death as the end. And the terror of suffering is that it threatens to bring the end closer. But Christ was described in opposite terms: “who died and came to life.” Death is for him the beginning. Instead of disaster, it became resurrection. And it is this person—this person who suffered as we suffer, who felt pain as deeply as we will ever feel pain, who endured anguish, doubt, and fear, and who finally felt even death—who takes death as the beginning point and speaks living words of life.

  With such a Christ speaking to us, we cannot resent his words as if they were words spoken safely and remotely—words of some healthy, cheerful person to a suffering, depressed person. Christ has felt all that we will feel. And we cannot dismiss his words as being mistaken simply because they do not fully encompass either all that came before or all that might come in the future. No, Christ is the first and the last. He knows the preceding days, and he will be present in the impending ones. It is such a person who speaks to the suffering person. Christ has authority to speak because he has been through it all himself, one with something true to say because there is no aspect of suffering, even death itself, that he has not examined in his own life. It is this Christ who examined his Christians in the city of Smyrna. He said, “I know your tribulation and your poverty (but you are rich) and the slander of those who say that they are Jews and are not, but are a synagogue of Satan” (verse 9).

  We can partially reconstruct from these words the nature of the suffering of the Smyrnaean Christians. They had tribulation. The word means, literally, “pressure.”*3 The term came from the society in which they lived. Society was pagan in spirit and Roman in government. The pressure came from a law that combined the two elements—that insisted all members of society prove their allegiance by worshipping the emperor. It was not a bad law from the point of view of those who made it. Rome had to unify a vast empire of diverse peoples, who had their own languages, customs, religions, and habits of life. The government sought a point of unity in the emperor. He was proclaimed as God, and everyone’s allegiance was tested by their willingness to worship him as such. It was a liberal policy, as everyone could do as they pleased in every area of life if they would come to the government shrine, offer a simple sacrifice, and proclaim in public, “Caesar is Lord.” After that they could worship whatever other gods they wished, engage in whatever trade they wanted, speak whatever language they had been taught.

  But the Christians would not do it. They said, “Christ is Lord,” and would not compromise their witness to give Caesar even half a place. The pressures mounted. Suspicion increased. Persecutions were instigated. The Christians lived under constant intense harassment. Anxiety became pervasive.

  And the economic results for Christians was poverty. Because they would not play by the rules, they were excluded from the game. The Christians found it difficult to sell as merchants, to buy as consumers, and to get employed as workers. They were suspect because they would not do what the rest were doing. They were separated from the business and working community because everyone believed they were not quite trustworthy. And so they were poor.

  Added to that was the “slander of those who say that they are Jews.” The Christians might have thought they would have allies in the Jews, who had suffered so much for their faith through the centuries. But they did not get allies. They got the opposite. They were cursed instead. Much of the slander came from a theological interpretation of their plight.

  There was an old strain of thinking among the Jews—we see traces of it in the Old Testament—that equated prosperity with righteousness. If you were good, you were rich. If you did the right thing, you got the rewards of long life and health and luxury. On the other hand, if you were bad, you were punished with poverty and sickness. The Jews looked at the Christians—poor, persecuted, suffering—and came to their heretical conclusion: “You Christians are in the bad shape you are because God is punishing you.” That would have been the hardest blow of all. You can take a lot of suffering if you are doing it for the right reason. But if others should say that it is all in vain, that you have put up with all this out of a mistaken notion, that would take the heart out of you.

  Jesus, in effect, says to the suffering, “I know. I know everything that is taking place. I know from my own experience, and I know because I am with you in your experience.”

  To all this, Christ said (I paraphrase, of course), “I know. I know your tribulation, your poverty, the slander of the Jews.” Christ was aware of all that they were going through. One of the worst effects of suffering is the sense of isolation that it brings. We feel that in our pain we are cut off from God and from all friends. A friend recently described to me his feelings when he was returning from a bombing mission in Austria in World War II to his base in North Africa. He developed engine trouble and started to go into the Mediterranean. He was sure he was going to die. He didn’t have any of the classic reactions or see his life flash before him. He had only one thought: I’m dying and nobody knows it. Nobody knows I’m going in. Nobody will ever know what happened. Nobody knows.

  Jesus, in effect, says to the suffering, “I know. I know everything that is taking place. I know from my own experience, and I know because I am with you in your experience. I suffered. I died. I know your suffering and your death.” When someone is sick or suffering a
nd we say to her that we are thinking of her and praying for her, we are reflecting and sharing in this “I know” of our Lord. When we send flowers, cards, and letters and make visits to her, we are the people in whom Christ lives and who are evidences of his presence, signs of our Lord’s knowing. Ours is partial and fragmentary, of course. But it is a reminder of that complete knowledge that our Lord has of our pain and our impending death. We are not isolated. We are not separated either from God or from his people. He knows, and he is with us.

  * * *

  The examination remedied the deepest kind of suffering in the Christians in Smyrna. Next, Christ spoke his word of correction and prescribed help: “Do not fear what you are about to suffer. Behold, the devil is about to throw some of you into prison, that you may be tested, and for ten days you will have tribulation. Be faithful unto death, and I will give you the crown of life” (Revelation 2:10).

  “Do not fear.” Isn’t fear a major part of suffering? Fear of the unknown, fear of isolation, fear of death? But Christ is with us. Do not fear.