God knows; and He is merciful! He hath proved his mercy, most of all, in my afflictions. By giving me this burning torture to bear upon my breast! By sending yonder dark and terrible old man, to keep the torture always at red-heat! By bringing me hither, to die this death of triumphant ignominy before the people! Had either of these agonies been wanting, I had been lost forever! Praised be His name! His will be done! Farewell! (ch. 23).

Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter is a study in the truth of 1Tim 5:24 (to paraphrase): “Some sins come to light right away, some take a while. If the baring of yours is late, may it nonetheless be in time.”

The adulterous Rev. Mr. Dimmesdale dies a death of “triumphant ignominy” because he comes to understand, though almost too late, that the torturous, red-hot letter he bears in secret on his heart and the accusations of the envy-devoured, sinned-against Chillin gworth are means of grace. Dimmesdale discovers in them instruments of a merciful God who will not surrender a loved one to a damning dichotomy between outward piety and inward corruption. If, with pain — actually, precisely through pain —, He will indeed effect that “sanctification without which no one will see the Lord” (Heb 12:14). And so, if tardily, Dimmesdale tells the truth about himself.

E. Digby Baltzell, late professor of sociology at Penn, once said, “Community exists to protect us from ourselves.”

As Dimmesdale confesses, “Praised be His name,” indeed! Praised be … for friends who ask (and want to know), “How are things — really — in your life?” Praised be … for each week’s meeting with a congregation of folks in aggressive pursuit of the God who has taken hold of them and me and who will not let go. Praised be … for students who, preparing for heroic lives of ministry — some even knowing that the prospects for martyrdom in the corner of the world in which they will serve are real, deserve professors who aren’t conflicted profligates.

Praised be … for a world so out of control, that moral sanity looks like the wisdom it is. Praised be … for a wife who makes the desire for a secret life, well, not very exciting. Praised be … for sons who need a dad who does not live a secret life.

Praised be … for the Word of God that seems fresher and more penetrating with each read. Praised be … for baptismal waters that remind me of my share in Christ’s death and resurrection. Praised be … for a Eucharistic table that promises I will become what I eat.

By these means, Lord, make me, unlike, Brother Dimmesdale, quick to own the otherwise damning truth about myself.

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner.

“Any song that makes you think you’re born to lose, bound to lose, no good to nobody, songs that run you down or poke fun at you because of your bad luck or hard travelin’, I’m out to fight these songs to my very last breath of air, to my last drop of blood. I’m out to sing the songs that will prove to you that this is your world, no matter what color, what size you are or how you were built.” — Woody Guthrie

I never thought I’d be naming Woody Guthrie my theologian of the week. I never thought that crusty folk singer would put me in mind of the hope Christ came to bring. But today he reminded me of how tired I am of fear-based and hope-bereft theology. Somebody gave Eeyore the microphone, and it’s time to take it away.

This past Sunday during church I happened to be in a position to watch people’s faces while a women’s ensemble sang Nicole C. Mullens’ “Call on Jesus.” Our preacher (who this week was Orangewood Presbyterian’s much loved founding pastor, Chuck Green) had just challenged the congregation to consider the way the Lord had responded when Elijah called to him (contrary to the Baals who were apparently unable or unwilling to respond to their 450 prophets — see 1 Kings 18).

The song was rendered in solo/ensemble fashion, and we hadn’t distributed nor were we projecting the lyrics. I thought we’d surely field complaints about lack of visual support for the song’s text. Curiously though, I watched tearful faces silently mouthing the words, “When I call on Jesus all things are possible.” I was reminded both how desperately we need to know that hope, and how magnificently true it is.

Our God is not like the Baals. He’s not too busy. He’s not going to the bathroom (for which the Bible’s “turning aside” is a euphemism). He’s not on a journey. Not asleep and in need of awakening (see 1Kg 18:27).

Well, correct that: in fact, he did busy himself — thus, Jesus Christ stood before his friend Lazarus’ tomb and “stirred himself” (Jn 11:33). Coming as one of us, he experienced all of what it means to be a human — and that’s got to include “turning aside.” He undertook the most momentous of journeys, as Richard Baxter penned, “from heaven to earth, from earth to the cross, from the cross to the grave, from the grave to glory.” As a result, Paul notes, the risen God-man now sings his all-conquering love all around the world (Romans 15:9).

What Guthrie’s lines put me in mind of is how profoundly the song of the reality of Christ’s resurrection drowns out the nay-saying Eeyore songs. The songs that run, “Lord, have mercy … even though I know you never will.” It’s time to lose the “you’re born to lose, bound to lose, good to nobody” defeatism. It’s time to refuse the voices that bring only condemnation. Whether it’s the internal voice of self-condemnation: “I blew it so bad this time, he’ll take me back.”

Or the voices whose “Onward Christian Soldiers” is but a veiled carping against others in the camp: “You’re so concerned to stress that Jesus died for individuals, you’ve lost his vision for the church. You’ve lost the gospel.” Or the converse: “You’re so focused on the institutional church, you’re robbing true believers of their individual assurance of salvation and simultaneously offering nominal believers a false assurance. You’ve lost the gospel.”

Hello. The gospel is that Christ died for our sins according to Scripture … and rose to make all things new. New hearts and a new creation. Each and all. Somebody take Eeyore’s microphone and give it to Woody.