May 8, 2011 | 4:00 p.m.

Reflecting on the Death of the Wicked

John W. Vest
Associate Pastor, Fourth Presbyterian Church

Exodus 21:12–27
Ezekiel 18:1–12
Mathew 5:21–26, 38–48
Matthew 26:47–56
Luke 19:41–44

Last Sunday, as we gathered here for worship, none of us could have imagined what was about to transpire half a world away in Pakistan. For many of us, the manhunt for Osama bin Laden had fallen off the radar. It was no longer something that we actively thought about. From time to time it would come up in political debates, but with each passing year it seemed less and less likely that he would be found. After almost a decade, it seemed like he would forever be the elusive face of evil in our popular imaginations. Indeed, bin Laden had become something more than a man—he was a mythic villain. He was the boogeyman lurking in the shadows. He was the embodiment of all that we fear and all that we hate.

But suddenly, late last Sunday night, he was no longer a myth. He had been found and killed. The boogeyman was dead.

For those of us watching television or the Internet as this news unfolded, there was certainly an odd mix of emotions as we experienced relief, joy, anger, fear, and sadness. The unexpected news that our perennial foe had been conquered reopened the wounds that still remain from the event that put him in our consciousness. Many of us felt once again the traumatic losses of 9/11—family, friends, and colleagues who died as victims and heroes. Many of us felt the pain of a decade of war and the many lives lost in these conflicts.

It occurs to me that my entire adult life and my pastoral ministry have been profoundly shaped by 9/11. It happened a week before my twenty-fourth birthday. I was in my third year of seminary, and I was beginning my second year of pastoral work, adding youth ministry to my portfolio. Having grown up in a Cold War world that was nonetheless relatively safe and secure, I suddenly found myself processing this major attack against us with members of the congregation I was serving. In prayer vigils, adult Bible studies, and youth gatherings, we were all trying to make sense of what was happening to the world we thought we knew. For me, the question is always “Where is God in the midst of this?” Was God, as some suggested, involved in the attacks? Was God punishing us? Or was God on our side? Was God suffering with us in the devastation of Ground Zero? Was our retaliatory offensive in Afghanistan a righteous response? What about the war in Iraq? What about our so-called “enhanced interrogation techniques”—a euphemism for torture? What about the dehumanizing horrors of war, brought to light in places like Abu Ghraib? What about all of the soldiers, insurgents, and civilians who have been killed in the last decade? Where is God in the midst of all this?

In the hindsight of a week, I think that all of this uncertainty and ambiguity was resurfacing in me—and in many others—as the new reality of bin Laden’s killing washed over us. Even before we could articulate the “Where is God?” question, we struggled to discern an appropriate Christian response. As Americans, how do we respond to the elimination of public enemy number one? As victims, how do we respond to the execution of justice? As people of faith, how do we respond to the violent death of a child of God?

The most controversial response has been the jubilant celebrations that erupted on the streets in front of the White House and at Ground Zero in New York City. On the one hand, it is perfectly understandable how a decade of pathos can easily erupt into cathartic revelry. But at the same time, many found those images of nationalistic fervor unsettling. Are we celebrating the killing of an idealized villain or the death of a human being? Are we confident that we know the difference between justice and revenge?

One week later, though our initial impulses have subsided, the public processing of bin Laden’s death—which we must constantly remind ourselves was a killing—continues, as does our struggle to discern a faithful response. Where is God in the midst of this?

One place God is not is on our side—at least not in a nationalistic sense that somehow replaces ancient Israel with contemporary America. Though it has become obligatory for presidents to end addresses by invoking the blessing of God on our nation, it is a gross and idolatrous theological error to ever portray the United States as God’s chosen people. For this reason, it is often difficult to find biblical resources to help us make sense of world events, because the theologies of the Bible are deeply rooted in the context of an ancient nation that did in fact understand itself as the chosen people of God.

Moreover, whenever we bring the Bible to bear on a major issue like this, we discover that there is no single biblical answer to be found. Rather, we are reminded that the Bible is not a single book but a collection of many books, written by many different people across a vast span of time. While it is true that we believe God is involved in the inspiration of these books, we also recognize that the human element of these writings is significant and must be appreciated. The Bible is less of a mouthpiece for God and more of a witness to people of faith—people like us—asking the “Where is God?” question and discerning for themselves how to faithfully respond to their sense of God’s presence in the world. It should be expected, then, that we will find a variety of responses in the Bible, just as we experience a variety of responses in our own lives.

So let’s spend some time this afternoon thinking about how the Bible might help us respond to the killing of Osama bin Laden.

Exodus 21:12–27 is part of what we call the Book of the Covenant, probably the oldest collection of ancient Israelite laws found in the Bible. This section deals with how the covenant community should deal with acts of violence. Underlying this entire legal code is an understanding that the community is sacred, bound together and with God by covenant promises. When these covenant relationship are violated, the entire system is threatened, and that cannot be tolerated. In general, biblical law recommends punishment commensurate with the crime. But for violations that challenge the integrity of the community, the punishment is almost always death. Violence against others clearly challenges the sanctity of the community. Intentional homicide, violence or even cursing against a parent, and kidnapping are all listed as capital offenses. The operative theology here is not ancient bloodlust. Rather, it is an intense respect for the sanctity of life and the sacred nature of community. When either of these is violated, the most severe punishment is demanded.

In this respect, we have a solid biblical justification for the killing of Osama bin Laden. As someone directly responsible for the death of thousands, he has clearly violated any and every sense of community we might share with our nation and the entire world. By the moral, ethical, and theological standards of ancient Israelite law, a terrorist like bin Laden has transgressed the sacred trusts that bind us together.

But alongside this black-and-white perspective, there is an ongoing biblical conversation about the possibility of redemption. Writing during the time of the Babylonian exile, the prophet Ezekiel openly questioned some of the commonly held beliefs of his people regarding matters such as this. For example, the ancient Israelites had long believed that the sins of a parent can and will be punished in the lives of their children. This belief, among other things, lies behind the theological understanding that God used the Babylonians as instruments of divine wrath to punish the people of Judah.

In this midst of this, Ezekiel—and his contemporary, Jeremiah—shifted the theological discourse away from this focus on communal and generational punishment to a consideration that God holds each of us accountable for our own actions. Rather than suffer punishment because of others, each individual faces the consequences of his or her own deeds. Indeed, each individual receives blessings or curses—life or death—based on his or her own righteousness or iniquity.

In chapter 18 of the book that bears his name, Ezekiel discusses these theologies and also raises the possibility of repentance and restoration. Not only will each individual be judged based on his or her own actions, it is also possible to change one’s way. The wicked can repent and be forgiven. The operative theology here is that God cares for all of God’s children and leaves open the possibility of redemption. In the course of this discussion, Ezekiel states flatly that God takes no pleasure in the death of the wicked. God would rather they change their ways and live.

As our televisions broadcast images of Americans joyfully celebrating the death of Osama bin Laden, many Christians turned to this passage of scripture as a sober reminder that God does not rejoice in the death of any person, good or bad. Of course, what was being celebrated on Sunday night, and what continues to be celebrated in other ways, is not always easy to articulate. When justice is finally executed after a ten years of pain, it seems like we ought to celebrate something. But where is the line between justice and revenge?

Six centuries after Ezekiel—during which time the Jewish people were pulled back and forth between various imperial powers—Jesus followed in the prophetic tradition of challenging conventional wisdom. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus takes the basic elements of biblical law and makes things even more difficult by shifting the focus to our internal motivations. Whereas the law says do not murder, Jesus says do not even be angry with others. This makes that gray space between justice and revenge even grayer. What do our emotions tell us about the deep meaning of recent events and our responses to them?

Jesus goes on to outline a radical vision of nonviolent resistance to those that harm us. Instead of retaliation—an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth—Jesus entreats us to turn the other cheek. In fact, Jesus teaches that instead of hating our enemy, we should love them. We should pray for them. How many of us loved Osama bin Laden? How many of us are prepared to love al Qaeda and those who hate us still? Are we capable of the radical love Jesus modeled for us and asks us to emulate? Are we truly capable of the perfection he calls us to?

If Jesus’ vision of nonviolence seems like impractical idealism, let me remind you that Jesus and his people lived under the thumb of one of the world’s most dominant empires, so he was very aware of the implications of his teaching. He knew how the powers of the world use violence and terror to enforce their will. He knew how rebellious zealots can also use violence and terror to fight against power. In Matthew 26, as Jesus is being arrested, one of his closest disciples draws a sword and cuts off a man’s ear. Jesus immediately rebuked his friend, healed the man’s ear, and insisted that those who live by violence will die by violence. Jesus seemed to be saying that there is another way to oppose violence than with more violence. He understood that God’s children have forever been trapped in a vicious cycle of violence. For Jesus, the way to break the cycle was to choose a different response altogether.

Earlier, before the story of Jesus’ arrest in the garden, the Gospel of Luke preserves a unique and remarkable scene from his life. As he entered the city of Jerusalem in triumph—the event we celebrate as Palm Sunday—Jesus takes in the view of the holy city and is reduced to tears. Listen now, to the story that comes closest to how I image Jesus responding to the events of this past week—indeed, the events of the past decade and more.

As he came near and saw the city, he wept over it, saying, “If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes. Indeed, the days will come upon you, when your enemies will set up ramparts around you and surround you, and hem you in on every side. They will crush you to the ground, you and your children within you, and they will not leave within you one stone upon another; because you did not recognize the time of your visitation from God.”

Jesus was painfully aware that Jerusalem was heading for destruction, a frightful reality that came to pass just a generation after his own violent death. If we bracket for now Luke’s insinuation that Jesus connected Jerusalem’s destruction to her people’s rejection of him, I think Jesus is troubled most by the culture of violence in which everyone involved in conflict participates. He knew that the endless cycle of violence that tears God’s children apart would ultimately consume him and the people he loved.

And so Jesus wept. Today the living Christ weeps still for all of God’s children.

I think this is the source of the profound sadness I have felt all week long. To be sure, there is some sense of closure in the death of Osama bin Laden. There is a sense that justice was indeed served, that he suffered at long last the consequences of his evil actions.

Yet there is also the realization that things are not closed at all. The so-called war on terror is not over. Like the mythic hydra, another sinister head will rise to replace bin Laden. People will continue to hate us, and we will continue to hate others. We will continue to wage war. We will continue to respond to violence with more violence.

Unless we take seriously Jesus’ radical alternative. Is it possible to respond to violence with something other than violence? Is it possible to transform the world as it is into the world as God envisions it to be? Is it possible for the kingdom of God to emerge as a new heaven and a new earth?

Though I struggle to imagine it myself, every fiber of my being believes that this is what Jesus died for. This is why Jesus did not allow his friends to resist the powers that killed him. This is why Jesus did not raise up an army to fight against his religious and imperial oppressors. This is why Jesus chose to confront power and terror in a totally different way.

For this vision, Jesus paid the ultimate price. Yet the mystery of Easter—like the return from exile or the liberation from slavery that came before—is that there is no tragedy so terrible that God cannot redeem it. There is nothing in this world that is beyond the redemptive power of God’s love.

Where is God in all of this? I have to believe that God is calling us to something new. With the tears of a parent grieving the loss of a child, God is calling us to recognize the things that make for peace. It’s not too late.

“Now is the time!” says Jesus. “Here comes God’s kingdom! Change your hearts and lives, and trust this good news!”

Amen.