Another Sinatrian Heresy

Another Sinatrian Heresy--March 23, 2018

[Jesus said:] "Now is the judgment of this world; now the ruler of this world will be driven out. And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself." He said this to indicate the kind of death he was to die. [John 12:31-33]

I think we have let too much Sinatra infect our theology.  Seriously.

The obvious example, of course, is the self-important idiocy of "My Way," (which I have often heard referred to over the years as "the national anthem of hell"), a song which seems to claim that all that matters in life is me getting to do what I want the way I want to do it. Now, I know that nobody claims that Frank Sinatra sang "My Way" as an illustration of the Christian way of life, but I do know plenty of folks who think that the two are compatible with one another.  And so let this be one more of those moments to be clear about important things: that's a load of fresh fertilizer.  You almost couldn't write a song that was more explicitly opposed to the way of Jesus if you tried. 

But the Sinatrian heresies don't stop there.  There's another one that I suspect has crept into our pop theology, although, again I know that Ol' Blue Eyes wasn't singing it as a theological treatise.  The song this time around is "Witchcraft," and the trouble is that we have a way of picturing God as a sort of master persuader, but nothing more.  You know the lyrics: "Those fingers through my hair... that sly 'Come hither' stare... that strips my conscience bare--it's witchcraft."  I get it--it's a song about the potent allure of a seductive would-be lover.  I get it--it's about the way she charms and beckons.  And if we could be clear that the drama of human romance is different from the power of divine love, that would be fine.  The trouble is, we tend to picture God as just a religious version of the same thing; we imagine that all God can do is coax, whisper, and invite, but has to wait for us to take the bait, as it were, before we can be drawn into a divine embrace.  

And I think part of the problem for us, really, is that we have a terribly weak picture of what it means to "draw" someone in.  We hear the word "draw" and picture that "sly come-hither stare", or the way the smell of a fresh-baked apple pie can "draw" you into the kitchen, or the way mattress salesman try and draw in more customers over long weekends by calling it the "Presidents' Day Sale," or the "Memorial Day Bargain Blowout."  These are basically  attempts to coax, to persuade, or to lure--but they have no compelling force.  They have no teeth to them, as it were.  The big inflatable balloon men outside car dealerships serve no function other than to get your attention and draw you in--but you have to make the choice to pull into their lot to look around at sedans and SUVs on your own.  And basically, that's the problem with our collectively Sinatrian version of the gospel: we imagine that like the romantic enchantress of the song, "Witchcraft," that the most God does is "coax" but waits for us to make the first move, to accept the invitation, to take the first step.  And we have come to that conclusion because that's what we think it means to "draw" someone in close.

Fresh fertilizer, once again, I say!

When Jesus talks here in John's Gospel about "drawing all people to himself," it's not a weak and wishful curling of the finger, and it's not a marketing gimmick.  Jesus doesn't bake a heavenly apple pie and leave it cooling on the window sill hoping that the scent will make us want to come close.  Jesus uses a word that carries the sense of pulling, hauling, even dragging.  It's the same word they used in Greek for hauling in a fish net, or for pulling on a rope.  It's not about "witchcraft" or "come-hither stares;" it's about elbow-grease and strong arms. 

That's what Jesus says the cross is all about.  "When I am lifted up, I will draw all people to myself," he says. Jesus doesn't just say, "Come here, world," in a pleasant voice, but actively pulls us into his embrace.  He is like gravity, or like a mama kitten clutching her kittens by the nape of their necks to bring them to safety.  Grace has teeth that way.  

Now, the reason that all of this matters is this: if my being embraced by Jesus depends on my being clever enough to accept Jesus invitation first, or my being courageous (or curious) enough to come toward a divine 'come-hither stare,' then I'll always worry and wonder if I've done enough, and I've really just saved myself by being oh-so-smart or oh-so-brave.  But if it is true that at the cross, Jesus "draws all people to himself," then I don't get the credit for anything.  I'm the kitten; Jesus is Mama Cat.  All I bring to the scene is my blind helplessness.  Jesus does the pulling, the drawing, the hauling, the saving. The cross is that lifted-up place from which Jesus' arms can pull us close and draw all people into the embrace of the living God.  It is a scene of infinitely greater strength and power than God simply setting up an inflatable tube man at the side of the road and hoping it will pique our curiosity enough to make us look around at the inventory.  

This is the crux of it all (literally): the God who goes to the cross doesn't wait on us to "drop on by the store" when we get a chance.  The God we meet in Christ isn't sitting on his hands waiting for us to get in touch.  The God whose name is Jesus pulls us, a whole world full of us ("all people," after all, in Jesus' words) to himself there at the cross, because sightless kittens that we are, we will never come to him first on our own.  We couldn't even see a come-hither stare if God had one.  But we can be carried.  We can be, in a word... drawn.

Lord Jesus, thank you for drawing us to yourself.  Let us see the cross as that place where your love took hold of us and pulled us into your embrace.