The Problem with Power

After hearing about the deeds of power done by Jesus, people speculated about his identity: perhaps he was John, raised from the dead; perhaps he was Elijah; perhaps he was a prophet. But Herod began to think that it was John, raised from the dead. In a flash, it all came back to him: the night of the party, the drinking, the dancing, the severed head of John the Baptist delivered to the young girl on a platter. Caught between his regard for John, whom he had protected up to this point, and the expectations of the dignitaries and guests who were celebrating his birthday that he would fulfill the extravagant vow made to his daughter, Herod was a man who was haunted by his own power.

            Sandwiched between Jesus giving the disciples authority over the unclean spirits and their return, Herod’s power stands in stark contrast to that which Jesus offers. While Herod remains in his palace, with plenty of food and plenty of drink, and authority to kill, the disciples travel, with no food, no drink, no money, and authority to heal. We know which side we are supposed to stand on. We’re supposed to stand on the side of power made perfect in weakness, of the power that heals rather than kills, of the power that challenges the assumptions of worldly power and how it works. But if we’re really honest, Herod’s power is much more familiar to us.

            We see this power in action every day: it is at work in our society, in the ways in which the strong are chosen and the weak left with our mutterings of “survival of the fittest.” It is at work when we see injustice and remain silent, saying nothing in response to the violence that threatens to undo even the righteous. It is at work when we deny our own power, waiting for someone else to speak up or act, when we deny who God has called us to be because we are too afraid, too insecure, too poor, too busy… whatever our excuse is in response the power of vulnerability into which Jesus invites us. Because if we learn anything from the powerful, from Herod, it is what power does to the vulnerable among us: it is that which causes us to act as though our hands are tied when, in fact, we have the power to do otherwise; it is that which causes us to look the other way, acting as though our unwillingness to see the world in front of us keeps our hands clean. We understand power all too well, but we spend most of our time focusing on the power we don’t have, on what we cannot do, than on the power we do have: what Christ beckons us to do.

            So instead of being sent out, instead of the path of vulnerability, we point to the people in power as those who should do something. Instead of being on the side of the power of Jesus or the power of Herod, we carefully situate ourselves on the fence in an attempt to watch to see which one ends up on the “winning side.” Faith becomes a hedging of bets between two mutually exclusive forms of power: the power that forgives and heals and the power that demands justice and an eye for an eye. This story about Herod isn’t just a story about Herod; it also exposes us as those that stand by as the righteous, the poor, the humiliated, the lonely, the single parent, the mentally unstable and handicapped, and those who don’t fit into our view of the winning side suffer. Karoline Lewis puts it this way: “The contrast of the gospel shines light on the deepest, darkest realities of who we are.” This reality is the one that we want to deny. From our position on the fence, we claim neutrality, but with the Gospel, there is no neutral place. There is no fence upon which to sit to watch to see which “side” will win because the game is rigged: in this world, the powerful win and the vulnerable lose, but in the light of the Gospel, the lowly are lifted up and the powerful cast from their thrones.

            It sounds so far away from our reality that we forget that this is the reality into which we have been called. Jesus does not invite us into preservation of the status quo, or into a world in which we live as if the jury is still out on whether the power to kill will win over the power to heal. We are also not invited to stand by as the vulnerable suffer; we are invited to suffer with them. Jesus never said it was a glamorous invitation. Jesus never said it was an easy invitation to accept. And Jesus never said that there was no risk.

God’s vulnerability and use of power flies in the face of the power that is easily recognizable. God operates in creation under the sign of the opposite: power under the guise of vulnerability; life under the guise of death. The question the crowds asked: Who is this? Remains on our lips, because it is really difficult to figure out who this Jesus guy is and what sort of power he wields in a world that so readily fails to recognize power in weakness and vulnerability. The power to give life seems so ineffectual against the power to claim life. And yet, the life-giving power keeps coming, keeps confronting the world that claims the power to take life. No, Herod, this man is not John. This man is not Elijah. This man is not a prophet, per se. This man is the expression of God’s steadfast love, righteousness, and peace that comes to confront the world that would deny God in order to make itself god. As we clench our fists on that which we think gives us security, that which prevents us from being vulnerable, the invitation comes: you can let go… of everything that you think makes you secure, of your grasping at straws hoping that one will provide the magic answer, of your striving after power. Because, though it is easier to see the power you don’t have, the power you do have is enough.

The power you do have is the power of Christ: it is the power that heals the sick, forgives sin, and raises the dead. It is the power of a God who became human, to show us the way of love, of righteousness, and of peace. It recognizes human power as fleeting and undependable; it exposes the power to take life for what it is: the power to take away. But the power to take away life cannot supersede the power to give life, because the gift of life comes, in the face of death, in the face of hopelessness, in the face of despair. This is the power of hope. This is the power of the Gospel, the good news that turns the world on its head. Though we may not read of John’s resurrection, we do read of Christ’s, in whose resurrection we find the hope of our own resurrection. As Herod sits, shackled to his own power gone awry, the power of pride precipitating the death of the righteous, Jesus’ disciples wield an entirely different kind of power: the power to set free. Death cannot conquer this power. Sin cannot conquer this power. This is the power made perfect in weakness, in the cross, which proclaims that death and evil will never have the final word, no matter how loudly they clamor for human allegiance.