Thoughts on the Beatitudes, Part 10: Blessed are those who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of God.

To this point, every Beatitude that we have considered has opened for us a plethora of questions of lesser or greater complexity. This week’s verse is no different, except that I’m finding it nearly impossible to find any issues that fall into the “simple to answer” category. Persecution is no different, but perhaps a bit less straightforward than the others.

What is persecution? What does the word mean? The Greek root, dioko, is a kind of hunting word that has the sense of ardent and aggressive pursuit. The idea isn’t always negative, but of course the biblical context here tells us that it is. As in every Beatitude, Jesus’ promise of happiness and glory appears only in juxtaposition to something that challenges our normal perception of what is good for us.

Given our definition, then, what does it mean to be persecuted? We all would agree that the drowned Catholic Christians of 17th century Japan; the beheaded Coptic Christians of 21st century Egypt; the Protestant Christians murdered in 20th century China; or the millions of believers who endured death under the Roman Empire all earned the right to inclusion in the ranks of the persecuted. Equally so if you’re actually the victim of a beating for the name of Christ, or someone comes along and confiscates your home and worldly goods.

But does the spiritual equivalent of “na na na boo-boo” count, a la Toby Mac’s “I don’t really care if they label me a Jesus Freak”? Can we claim persecution just because we’re annoying, obnoxious, or in-your face about our faith? If someone takes us to task because we trumpet dubious or debatable personal opinions about society or politics or the price of eggs in China as literal Gospel truth, have we qualified for Beatitudinal status? It seems that Christians are ready to measure persecution by their own experiential standards; somehow I doubt that Jesus sees it that way.

As I think about Jesus’ promise, I have to ask myself if I have ever really been persecuted? I do remember an instance where I was making a zealous attempt at evangelism. As I “worked” two men who were my gospel targets, our conversation turned to the biblical claim that the tongue is the organ which we find most difficult to tame. My evangelees began arguing that the mind was more important as the source of all evil. Instead of finding a way to acknowledge that what they were saying was a good and reasonable point, I joined the fray full on and fully armed with all my Bible knowledge. It doesn’t take a particularly lively imagination to predict the outcome of our battle: nothing more than a brief salvo of rather unremarkable invective launched in my direction. No stunning conversion story. No repentance, except my own to a God I had pretty poorly represented. And certainly no claim to persecution.

Remembering this big dud moment of Christian public testimony – which I have repeated in other situations – leads to several crucial questions related to the Beatitudes: Am I peresecutable? And if I am not, why not? Do I actually have what it takes to be honestly the beneficiary of  persecution? Perhaps this isn’t such a live issue in our semi-tolerant American society; perhaps, though, it isn’t “live” because we’re not really demonstrating a life that is sharp enough to warrant real opposition. After all, the (as usual impossible) standard is being persecuted for the sake of righteousness.

Here’s the nub of our persecutability deficit: The whole persecution thing is intertwined with the other Beatitudes. We have come to the last and longest of Jesus’ descriptions of happiness, a kind of capstone on his own life that began with the incarnation (poverty of spirit) and ends with his death at the hands of enemies whom he readily forgives from the cross (meekness and mercy). In his ministry, Jesus marvelously joins together in himself uncompromising hatred of the World, and utter love for the world.

Jesus’ demonstration of this dialectic is the only way to arrive at true persecution. The one side of the equation is summed up in the Letter of James’ declaration that “friendship with the World is enmity with God” (Jas. 4:4). By implication, the contrary is also true: friendship with God is enmity with the World. The things that make the world go round are not the engines of the kingdom of God. Jesus’ disciples are called to an unwavering commitment to God’s character and to what he declares to be true about himself. We are blessed when we hunger and thirst for righteousness, which begins with the Spirit’s own work of conviction and transformation in our own lives.

The principle that balances James’ assertion is found earlier in the same letter (2:13), where we read that “mercy triumphs over judgment.” Our allegiance to righteousness is intimately joined to the grace of meekness. If it is not, we will simply engage in expressions of self-righteousness, in harsh evaluations of others, in Christian tribalism. As familiar as the story has become for us as disciples, we should never lose our amazement that the Son of God came to die on the cross for his enemies when he could have just as – in fact, could have much more easily – stretched out his hand to eliminate us from the face of the earth. The Lion of Judah is also the Lamb that was slain, and both aspects of Jesus’ nature are part and parcel of why both Jews and gentiles hated him and put him to death.

How can we live and be fruitful with this outrageous tension? Faith is the fulcrum on which the dialectic balances. It is confidence in the Lord as sovereign over our lives, and over the entire universe, that allows us to live in freedom from the world’s allurements – faith in his claims to what is just, right, and good. It is that same confidence that gives us the courage to love. Had I been listening to and trusting in the Spirit in my interactions with those fellows whom I mentioned earlier, I would have stood a much better chance of opening a door to a greater knowledge of Christ. And I could have been able to do so without denying the truth of God’s word.

The problem is that we Christians are self-conscious about our status in the world, and are often of two minds about how we think about ourselves.  On the one hand we demand that society accord us all the same privileges and honor and position that everyone else receives, and are offended when equal stature eludes us. On the other hand, we hunker down in a kind of minority mindset that reeks of paranoia and breeds isolation from and hostility toward those around us.

We have become decidedly schizophrenic. At one moment, we try so hard to make the world like us that we end up in a “me, too” conformity. We say to the powers and people that be, “See, we’re no different from you; we like you – please like us.” This is the path of accommodation, the delusion that cozying up to the world will gain us a way in. The result is neither opposition nor admiration, but a great, collective yawn – a massive indifference and even contempt toward us from those who do not know Christ. And, whether we like it or not, indifference toward us means indifference toward Jesus himself. We have helped others become lukewarm, that deadly condition of Revelation 3:15.

At other times, we engage in public ranting and other expressions of knee-jerk belligerence. We are the Party of No in the face of Jesus, who is God’s consummate “yes.”  Eating and drinking with sinners is no less our privilege than it was Jesus’; unfortunately, the scourges of the prosperity gospel, the identification of Christianity with this or that socio-political movement, the rise of nativism, and a kind of spiritual Darwinism all combine to blunt our mission to carry the grace of the Lord’s redeeming purpose to those whom he would call to himself. Engaging in such compromising activities – all the “Jesus and …” – and taking up unbiblical means of displaying them leads us to experience what we think is persecution, but which is simply contempt and enmity from those whom we offend by our manner (rather than by the gospel).

Of course, there are other impediments to enduring true persecution. The most common one is probably a simple desire to avoid it at almost any cost. In my early, single-life years as a Christian, I thought that being a martyr was almost “cool,” the authentic mark of discipleship. As I have become a father, husband, and person with real responsibilities, however, that early zeal is in danger of nearly entirely dissipating. It’s a subtle form of friendship with the world that makes me feel that I really need to be here and comfortable for the sake of everyone else.

What Jesus would bring about in me and us is quite different: A life of righteous meekness, a bold humility that never sacrifices truth on the altar of fear or compromise, but that also never sacrifices love at the shrine of arrogance or judgmentalism. The sign of such a convergence of truth and grace – the life of Jesus himself in us – is a joyful acceptance of the Father’s good pleasure. And, if that means the promised hatred of the world, our security in him will keep us from anger, bitterness, and defensiveness and will mark us as true citizens of his kingdom.

And that will be more happiness than we could imagine.