Clothes Make the Christian

Sermon

True confession: I have been fascinated by some of the fashion choices at last week’s Democratic National Convention. I do know that what a person wears is really insignificant compared to the ideas and ideals they have, but still: political conventions are largely theater, and what’s a good show without costumes?

Early in the week, Kamala Harris wore a tan pantsuit—a tan suit—in a brief appearance, signaling this was not her moment, and harkening back to the scandal when President Obama committed a great fashion faux pas when he wore a tan suit while in office. When Michelle Obama spoke, she wore a sleeveless jacket that showed her bare arms and perhaps hinted that she was ready for a fight, and some commentators thought her jacket had a military feel to it. President Obama eschewed the usual red or blue tie and wore instead a silver one, a sign that he is now an elder statesman above the fray. And Oprah Winfrey wore a purple suit, in a speech designed to attract the undecideds, who may be red or blue, but when combined, make purple.

Convention fashion was on my mind as I read again this passage from the letter to the Ephesians. The writer of the letter—who may or may not have been the apostle Paul—uses this clothing metaphor to remind the community of Jesus followers what they were to be about. But it’s a very specific kind of clothing he references—military garb, the kind of stuff the people of Ephesus would see on the Roman soldiers who lived and worked among them.

It’s an interesting choice of metaphor. Part of me wonders if in describing Christian virtues in terms of military wear, the author is poking fun at the Roman soldiers, mocking their defensive armor, which preserves their lives, when really it is Christ who gives true life. An interesting point, but zero commentators mentioned this, so we’ll just move on.

Still, it’s an interesting choice of metaphor, given that the earliest Christians were really pacifists, people who would never have need to wear such gear. Perhaps the author was making an oblique reference to the Christian tradition of being clothed anew after baptism.

As interesting a choice of metaphor as this may be, I struggle with reconciling armor intended for warfare with the Christian virtues of righteousness, truth, faith, and peace. God knows (literally) that over the course of history, Christianity and Christians have been a part of terrible violence and unjust wars. But at the time the letter was written, that was not the case.

The metaphor works in its original context. Throughout the letter, the author writes about the spiritual warfare that the followers of Jesus face, so at the end of the letter, the author equips them for the battle. It is not a phalanx of Roman soldiers who threaten them, but Powers (with a capital P) that do not have their best interest at heart, Powers and rulers who are interested in their own way and care not for the people.

Most of us don’t think much about spiritual warfare these days. We don’t think of oppressive, unseen powers that are at some kind of work that is against us. Spiritual warfare is not an ingredient in the recipe of our faith, of our relationship with God. But maybe we haven’t thought deeply enough about it.

Theologian Walter Wink has written extensively about the Powers, and perhaps his words might help. “This overarching network of Powers… is characterized by unjust economic relations, oppressive political relations, biased race relations, patriarchal gender relations, hierarchical power relations, and the use of violence to maintain them all.” (The Powers That Be, p. 39) Those things we see every day, and some of us know them. After reading Wink’s description, a more modern image comes to mind.

In 2016, a Black man named Alton Sterling, who had committed no crime, was shot and killed by police in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, setting off a round of protests. In one of the protests, Reuters photographer Jonathan Bachman took a picture of a woman, standing calmly in profile, as two police officers in riot gear were running up to her.

The woman, Iesha Evans, said this about that moment. “I just—I needed to see them. I needed to see the officers, I’m human. I’m a woman. I’m a mom. I’m a nurse. I could be your nurse. I could be taking care of you. You know? Our children could be friends. We all matter.”

The Powers that are against humanity do not see people. They don’t think people matter as much as profits. They see people as obstacles, or as a means to an end, but they don’t see people, human beings, especially people who don’t have much political power or wealth or status. Those are the people, the author of Ephesians would tell us, who need to be fortified to go live their lives against the Powers.

So maybe a breastplate of righteousness, and a shield of faith, and a helmet of salvation, and a sword of the gospel are exactly what is needed. But still, I struggle with these images which come to us from the sphere of violence. Is there another way?

If you were to go home and Google the image I referred to, using the words “Iesha Evans Baton Rouge protest” you might notice her posture. She is standing straight up. Her feet are firm. Her face is serene. Her dress flows out behind her. She is solid.

I do not know what her faith is, or what feelings rushed through her in that moment. I don’t know if she leaned on her God when that photo was taken, or if she stood firm in her humanity, in her desire to know the men behind the riot gear, in her desire to show up in the face of injustice. Perhaps in that moment of crisis and conflict, Ms. Evans stood firmly, knowing who she was and what she believed in.

That could be what’s happening in this passage from Ephesians. One commentator writes, “[the author] is talking about Christian identity and the roots of our common faith. In order to stand firm, we have to be nurtured in a tradition, a faith community, and grow deep in its rich soil.” (Archie Smith, Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 3, p. 374)

Are you grounded enough in your faith so that, when put to the test, you are able to stand firm? Are you solid in your knowledge of who you are, and what you believe in? Brené Brown writes about this when she talks about living with a strong back, a soft front, and a wild heart. She got this idea from a Buddhist woman named Joan Halifax, who wrote:

“All too often our so-called strength comes from fear, not love. Instead of having a strong back, many of us have a defended front, shielding a weak spine. In other words, we walk around brittle and defensive, trying to conceal our lack of confidence. If we strengthen our backs, metaphorically speaking, and develop a spine that’s flexible but sturdy, then we can risk having a front that’s soft and open. How can we give and accept care with strong back, soft front, compassion, moving past fear to a place of genuine tenderness?” (https://brenebrown.com/podcast/brene-on-strong-backs-soft-fronts-and-wild-hearts/#transcript)

Brené Brown talks about how hard it is to keep a soft front, to remain vulnerable, when you are being attacked. In her podcast she says, “For some of us, the strong back is easier than that soft front. It is so hard to keep the front soft when there’s so much mean-spiritedness and cruelty in the world today, it’s hard….

“I really default sometimes to strong back, armored front, just strong everything. But it’s no way to live. Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, joy, trust, intimacy, courage, everything that I want more of in my life. And an armored front sounds good when I’m hurting, but it ends up causing us so much more pain in the end. You know, when we let people take our vulnerability or fill us with their hate, we turn over our entire lives to them. It’s like I try to look at some of these comments [responding to her blog and podcast] and I try to say, ‘You just can’t have my hate. I can’t give up my soft front for you.’ Because the price is too high.”

The Powers like it when we have a soft back and an armored front, because they see that we are afraid of them. It gives them the wherewithal to take our humanity from us. The Powers come for us, for our righteousness, for our commitment to the truth, and they attack our faith. They want to make us less human. They want to make us less faith-filled. They want to make us less so that they can be more. More racist. More violent. More greedy. More hateful.

Back in that hard summer of 2020, I went to one night protest downtown. It was just after the Wall of Moms was formed, and before it was proved to be problematic. I went with a few friends, in my yellow shirt, with my phone number written on my arm. I wore an N95 mask, and had my cell phone with me.

As I remember, we lined up in front of the federal court building and linked arms and shouted along with whoever was leading us. Or we tried to—it was so noisy it was really hard to hear what was going on. My little group agreed that if one of us wanted to leave, we would. I had determined that I wanted to leave before the police in their riot gear and smoke bombs arrived.

As it turned out, I left before that for a kind of silly reason. There was so much sage smoke in the air that I got a migraine, and I was pretty sure that the cause did not need me barfing on the sidelines. And really, I was afraid. I was afraid of the smoke bombs. I was afraid of the rubber bullets. I’m grateful for that migraine, a cowardly excuse to leave.

But while I was there, I stood up straight. My back was strong. And my front was very vulnerable. And while I was there, I prayed without ceasing. When I got home that night, and determined that those protests were not my thing, I thought long and hard about how I could continue the work of fighting racism.

All of which is to say that your armor may not look like my armor. It’s a harsh world out there, more harsh for some than others, and it is into that world that Jesus sends us with the admonition to be as wise as serpents and as gentle as doves. What, then, shall we wear?

A corset of faith to hold us up. A beanie of wisdom to help us discern. The sandals of peace are always a good thing. A coat of compassion, or maybe two, so we can share. So may we go out into the world, strong backs, soft fronts, feet of peace, hearts of love.

To the glory of God.