A Divided House
Do you suppose that I came to grant peace on earth? I tell you, no, but rather division; for from now on five members in one household will be divided, three against two and two against three. They will be divided, father against son and son against father, mother against daughter and daughter against mother, mother-in-law against daughter-in-law and daughter-in-law against mother-in-law. Luke 12:51-53 NASB
Division – “A house divided against itself, cannot stand,” said Abraham Lincoln in a speech on June 16, 1858. We all know the consequences. Do you suppose that Yeshua anticipated Lincoln’s remark by about 1800 years? Did Yeshua mean that his presence, his teaching, would cause such painful division that it would separate son from father, daughter from mother? Is that why he came, as he said, not to bring peace but to bring diamerismos (division)? Does this statement, found in Luke and Matthew, really mean that we who follow him should expect trauma in our family, separation from those who are close to us? What good does that do?
Today, especially for those who are finding the traditional Christian answers wanting, division seems more the “natural” order than harmony. The very fact that there are more than 50,000 Protestant denominations suggests that something has gone astray. The religious world on both sides of the Jewish-Christian fence seems a long way away from the prayer of John 17: “. . . that they may all be one; even as You, Father, are in Me and I in You, . . .”
Hak Joon Lee has written about the trauma of disruption:
“Disruption is profound: the traditional ways of theological education, and of thinking about and practicing the Christian faith, are not working for young generations.”
“Disruption takes away our sense of control and agency.”
“By nature, revelation is a disruptive event.”[1]
Is he right? Is revelation itself a traumatic occurrence?
“It is this primary theological conviction—that God is always initiating—that needs to be at the center of our reflections about disruptions. This is not a simplistic belief that God causes everything, but rather that our agency is to be shaped by an awareness of and an allegiance to God, who is the primary agent. Whatever the nature or cause, it is an act of a disruption. God is always on the ground, among us, among our neighbors, initiating with love, hope, and (sometimes) judgment.”[2]
Let’s examine a parallel in the disruptive circumstances of a major illness:
“The primary reason illness is so disruptive is because among the many losses that occur with it, the most significant is the loss of control—control of our health, control of how we engage in relationships, control of our ability to be productive in our work, control of our capacity to care for those who need us, and control of being able to determine our future. In most Western cultures, where priority is placed on self-efficacy and self-determinism, the unpredictable nature of illness and loss of control that ensues can result in fear, anxiety, and hopelessness about restoring a sense of normalcy and purpose. Furthermore, a person’s ability to find meaning in all that is happening becomes challenged, and it is often seems that the only way for a sense of normalcy to be restored is by eliminating the cause of disruption: that the illness be eradicated and all my symptoms cease. In fact, this search for disease eradication and cure is at the heart of most clinical and research efforts within science and medicine. But what happens when the option for disease eradication does not exist? Can there still be healing?[3]
I empathize with Hammer’s statement. No, I haven’t had any major medical disruption, but I have experienced that unpredictable discovery of crisis of meaning. I thought my job was to awaken possibility in other people, to push them to reconsider beliefs and practices held dear because of drift. Perhaps that was so, but now I see that all of this was really about me. I am the one who must awaken, who must confront those deeply held, non-rational emotions about who I am and how I relate to God. It’s not about the logical arguments, the rational doctrines or the historical investigations. It’s not about word studies, linguistic oddities, or grammatical constructions. All of these things are the cognitive part of faith, but they aren’t sufficient. What I discovered is that mind does not take priority over heart. Faith is non-rational, not because there isn’t evidence but because it flows with emotion. I don’t love God because I can do the linguistic and theological analysis of John 1. I love God because I need to love Him. Without that, I am lost—to myself and to others. And when I discover that my love for God is tossed to the wind of emotional upheaval, I also discover that I lose myself, my purpose for being, my joy of living. Healing this isn’t a matter of religious “science,” as if there were some spiritual medication or surgery to perform. If there is any healing at all, it will have to include the disruption. The trauma of broken relationship, no matter how it happens, is now a permanent part of the continuing relationship. There is no going back to the Garden. There never was.
We are exiled from Paradise, perhaps of our own volition, but certainly under God’s edict. What remains is to find meaning and communion in exile. But that task is not ours alone. God is also in exile. We have constructed a world of emotional protection by pretending that our world outside the Garden is a world where God has marginal influence so we look to everything else to maintain stability in our diseased condition. It doesn’t work, but it takes a very long time for us to admit it.
Topical Index: disruption, trauma, emotion, division, Luke 12:51-53
[1] Hak Joon Lee, “After 70 Years – Exile or Exodus” Fuller Magazine Issue 12 (2018), p. 39.
[2] Mark Lau Branson, “Disruptions Meet Practical Theology,” Fuller Magazine Issue 12 (2018), p. 43.
[3] Miyoung Yoon Hammer, “Healing Where There Is No Cure: The Disruption of Illness,” Fuller Magazine Issue 12 (2018), p. 50.
