Messianic Complexes, and all that
Bono recently made a reference to his "Messianic complex." When I heard him say it, it sounded so flippant and foolish that I dismissed it as another instance of Bono's brand of rock star Christianity. But maybe he's onto something. By Messianic complex, he means he wants to come to the world and overhaul it, fix it, repackage it, give hope to the huddled masses, feed the hungry, and make the children laugh again. It sounds silly and prideful when you say it that way, but I want the same thing.
I want to matter, so desparately and cloyingly that I spend my nights staring into the blackness of the lights-out night, lying on the couch, iPod playing some wistful prog rock, and I sit convinced that I'm one neuron-fire away from the Big Idea that will change the world. I have assured myself that I have some weird cocktail of talents that I will one day tame, and then, then, then I will pull it all together. People will be inspired, hearts will be open, and I will matter.
And then there's Christianity: ah, there's the ticket! What better place to nurture a Messianic complex than the religion that coined the term. The message of Christianity is that the last shall be first, and that a single man can matter. That's what it sometimes sounds like to me.
And if you completely eviscerate Christianity, the hollow shell looks like that. It takes a genuine theological dwarf to talk yourself into turning Christianity into rugged individualism. But I do it every day. I stare at the crucified Christ, and I look him in the eye and say "Yes! You did that for me." And I celebrate as if redemption is a line on my resume. I have taken the cross of Christ and turned it into a first step on some ladder of self-importance.
It's a picture of the peace and humble submission of Christ that he goes on, day after day, and week after week, and lets me walk on him. 2000 years ago, Christ died. And if his corpse were still around, I would step on it, climb over it. That's the form of sin: staring at Christ in all his blessed humiliation, and asking for a little more. We hoist ourselves on our self-made crosses and stare down and furrow our brows. We look at God with disbelief, convinced that someone has to fix this broken world, and Christ sure didn't do the job right.
There are two kinds of Christians in the world. The people like me, the flailing saints, demanding that the world be fixed. We are so self-righteously upset by poverty and genocide and terrorism and a million social ills, and like petulant children we pray for God to fix it. And then there are the real saints, who lie face-down on the ground, palms toward heaven, praying for mercy, mercy, mercy.
Only the man who can smell the gangrene of his own sin can find any value in the cross. In that sad sorry rot, God can implant a soul that's clean, a soul that can breathe, if we'd lie still long enough to let it.
I want to matter, so desparately and cloyingly that I spend my nights staring into the blackness of the lights-out night, lying on the couch, iPod playing some wistful prog rock, and I sit convinced that I'm one neuron-fire away from the Big Idea that will change the world. I have assured myself that I have some weird cocktail of talents that I will one day tame, and then, then, then I will pull it all together. People will be inspired, hearts will be open, and I will matter.
And then there's Christianity: ah, there's the ticket! What better place to nurture a Messianic complex than the religion that coined the term. The message of Christianity is that the last shall be first, and that a single man can matter. That's what it sometimes sounds like to me.
And if you completely eviscerate Christianity, the hollow shell looks like that. It takes a genuine theological dwarf to talk yourself into turning Christianity into rugged individualism. But I do it every day. I stare at the crucified Christ, and I look him in the eye and say "Yes! You did that for me." And I celebrate as if redemption is a line on my resume. I have taken the cross of Christ and turned it into a first step on some ladder of self-importance.
It's a picture of the peace and humble submission of Christ that he goes on, day after day, and week after week, and lets me walk on him. 2000 years ago, Christ died. And if his corpse were still around, I would step on it, climb over it. That's the form of sin: staring at Christ in all his blessed humiliation, and asking for a little more. We hoist ourselves on our self-made crosses and stare down and furrow our brows. We look at God with disbelief, convinced that someone has to fix this broken world, and Christ sure didn't do the job right.
There are two kinds of Christians in the world. The people like me, the flailing saints, demanding that the world be fixed. We are so self-righteously upset by poverty and genocide and terrorism and a million social ills, and like petulant children we pray for God to fix it. And then there are the real saints, who lie face-down on the ground, palms toward heaven, praying for mercy, mercy, mercy.
Only the man who can smell the gangrene of his own sin can find any value in the cross. In that sad sorry rot, God can implant a soul that's clean, a soul that can breathe, if we'd lie still long enough to let it.
posted by Tim Dees at 12:51 AM
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