Rachel: Give me Children or I Die

When Rachel saw that she bore Jacob no children,
she envied her sister; and she said to Jacob,
“Give me children, or I shall die!” (Genesis 30:1)

Give me children or I die -
die of yearning
after waiting all this time.
All my life
it was all I ever wanted,
taken for granted -
I never thought
it would be this hard,
never dreamed I might become
one of Those
whose arms stay empty
all their lives.

Give me children or I die -
die of envy,
surrounded by others,
my maid, my sister,
who become pregnant
if you but cough at them.
Why not I?
Don't I deserve
something good as well?
Why does she have four,
and I not even one?
Is that fair?

Give me children or I die -
die of frustration
at the remarks and the comments,
the stupid questions,
the useless suggestions,
unwanted advice.
"Your clock is ticking."
Believe me, I know.
"You gained weight -
could you be -" NO.
Don't people see
how much it's hurting me?

Give me children or I die -
die alone and destitute,
some day,
as yet far away,
but that day will come.
That day without a husband
and no son to support me,
no value to society,
just the poor barren woman
with no family to care.
If you loved me
wouldn't you provide?

Give me children or I die.
Yes, I wish it was in our control.
I wish I could blame,
I wish I could explain,
I wish there were
some four-step recipe,
one-size-fits-all solution.
I wish it really were
in your power
and cajoling you enough
could grant me my wish.
Instead, I go on,
month after month,
repeating my cry:
Give me children
or I die.

_____________________________________________________________________

[14. December 2019]

I have always found this proclamation of Rachel's intriguing. Even though I've written a poem for her already (here), I decided to write another one. :-)

Rachel desperately wanted children. She ended up having two (Joseph and Benjamin), but it was a long struggle getting there - and ironically, she ended up dying in childbirth. There are many reasons to want a child so desperately. In ancient times, children played an important social role, kind of like an "insurance" for old age. Childless women were at risk of ending up alone and poor if they were widowed.

I used to think the whole "childbearing contest" and Rachel's tantrum ("I shall die") were rather childish. In the meantime, though, I have come to know people who struggled similarly. We all need more compassion for people who have experiences different from our own. The Bible is one place where we can start, by reading about people who are different from us. I think sometimes we all too easily read the Bible with a "judging" eye already, trying to figure out which are the examples we're supposed to copy and which are those we should avoid. But the people we read about in the Bible are first and foremost people - and I think all of them have a bit of both in them, like all of us too. It helps me feel less alone when I find stories I can relate to. But I think it can also teach us compassion when we read stories we can't really relate to. That's part of why I write these poems. What happens when we try to put ourselves into these women's shoes just for a moment, and imagine what they feel, what they might want to tell us?


Art: William Adolphe Bouguereau

Parable of the Lost Coin: God is a Poor Woman

Luke 15:8-10

It's just a coin.

Maybe, to you.
Something small,
replaceable.
Not to me.

Six hungry mouths to feed,
ten precious coins
for bread and meat,
ten times a hard day's work,
ten coins to last us
a week, maybe two.
And then?
We'll see
as we always do.

But now there's just nine.
Where is the lost?

It's just a coin.
Maybe, to you.
Not to me.

One night more
awake to the tune
of hungry children crying
themselves to sleep,
one day of labour wasted away,
one day's sweat poured out in vain,
precious hope and sustenance
collecting dust
somewhere under a cupboard.

It's just a coin.
But I will turn this house
upside-down if I must.
And I will sweep away the dust
and shine my light in the darkest corners,
move furniture, disturb the cat,
I will not rest
until I find that coin at last.
And when I do - celebration!

It's just a coin.
Maybe, to you.
And you can leave it where it lies,
and go on with your life.
But to me it's so much more -
and so much greater the joy
when I hold it in my hands again at last.


Imagine, then:
God,
a poor woman like me,
and you
the precious coin she seeks,
a precious coin she needs,
not worthless or small or replaceable,
not useless
but the fruit of sweat and tears,
valuable for the work ahead,
worth looking for.

____________________________________

[30. July 2019]

I looked up the estimated worth of a drachma in ancient times. It was the currency of ancient Greece, a silver coin. It would have been the daily wages for a skilled worker. I have read very different things about how much it was really worth, but I decided to bounce off the idea of it being the pay for a day's labour, as well as considering this woman had 10 in total so a whole tenth of her complete savings was missing. It makes me assume she can't have been a particularly rich woman.

The sentence "God is a poor woman" snuck into my mind. I like the thought. On the one hand the reminder that God knows our human experiences - including the experience of poverty. On the other hand the thought that poverty can teach you the value of things. God knows the value of things. He doesn't need "extra". We are precious to him like the coin to the poor woman, without being something "special" or especially "spiritual".

Also while writing I considered: money is payment for work, the result of work, and we are God's work - and also: money buys things, so what does God want to use us for, what is God "buying" with us? It made me think of our inclusion in God's mission. A poor woman can use money to buy food to feed her children, so I had to think of how we are called to serve others, feed the hungry, care for the needs of people around us, ... What could it mean for us to be God's coins?!

Art by James Tissot.

Woman of Thebez: Mightier than the Sword

Judges 9

O great tyrant, powerful king,
you thought you had won,
thought power was strong.
See: you were wrong.

Now you lie
in a pool of blood
dying
at a woman's hand,
your head bashed in
by kitchenware.

The millstone is mightier than the sword.

Fear went before you,
destruction followed,
fire swallowed
women and men.
They said you were unstoppable,
they said you were unbeatable.
They thought power was strong.
Seems they were wrong.

Ashamed to die
at woman's hand,
your head bashed in
by kitchenware.

The millstone is mightier than the sword.

Not power is strong,
but furious love,
the love that burns behind the stove,
the love that feeds little open mouths,
the love that like a millstone
works hard day after day,
invisible until
she is unleashed,
protective
fearless
mightier
than a thousand armies.

The millstone is mightier than the sword.
Mother is mightier than king.
Woman is mightier than all your armies.
I am mightier than you.

_________________________________

[21. July 2019]

During the time of the judges Abimelech, son of Gideon, attempted to start a monarchy. He killed all 70 of his brothers to remove all competition. He reacted harshly against resistance, e.g. by burning a thousand people alive at Shechem. Thebez was his next stop - and his last. While he and his army were besieging Thebez, a woman threw a millstone down on his head - dying, he asked his armour-bearer to kill him so he wouldn't have to bear the "shame" of having been killed by a woman (eye-roll).

Anyway when I re-read this story last, I realised the fact that a millstone is a kitchen utensil (used to grind grain and things like that) - and liked the irony of that. In fact the Bible is full of ironies like this - mighty men losing to women who aren't using weapons, but household items or other "weak"-seeming things (Jael and the tent peg, Delilah and a haircut, Judith an flirting...). Looks like true power is not where we are used to finding it...

Art: Charles Foster

Mother of Abimelech: No Mother Knows

Judges 8:31 / Judges 9

No mother knows
what will become of her son -
and if she did
would that change anything?

Maybe I should have seen.
Maybe I should have suspected.
Little misbehaviours,
small cruelties.
Maybe I should have known.
Maybe I could have
if not
for that thing that clouds
a mother's eyes.

But
even if I did
would that have changed anything?

No mother knows
what will become of her son -
that he might be a king,
that he might be
a killer,
murderer
of his on flesh and blood,
tyrant,
oppressor.
Maybe
I could have known
if not
for that thing that clouds
a mother's eyes.

No mother knows,
but sometimes,
sometimes,
no, often,
she asks herself:
Why did I not know,
what should I  have done,
what did I do wrong,
is it my fault
that he has become
this?

No mother knows,
and if she did
would that change anything?
Maybe
I could have
changed all our fates
had I known
had I
Done Something
(what?)
(drowned him?)
(suffocated him in his sleep?);
if not
for that thing that clouds
a mother's eyes,
that thing that
even now
clouds my eyes with tears.

Because
how could I love him
any less?


____________________________________

[19. July 2019]

Abimelech was the son of Gideon (of Sunday School fame) (I don't know why they like to teach small children stories from Judges as hero stories... Judges is a terrible book about terrible people). His mother, Gideon's concubine, is mentioned in one small verse that talks about his birth (Judges 8:31). Yesterday I re-read his story (Judges 9) - a terrible story of extreme violence. To become king, Abimelech killed his 70 brothers. He laid entire cities to waste and burned people alive. He was a horrible person.

Thinking of his mother, then. A mother loves her child, expects and hopes good things for him. Sometimes, horrible people come from horrible family backgrounds, neglect, abuse etc. But I decided to assume here that Abimelech's mother was a "normal" mother. And to consider what might go through the head of a mother who realises her beloved son has become something terrible, maybe feeling guilty, maybe wondering what she could have done differently in bringing him up, how she might have prevented this happening... but still not being able to hate him. I imagine she would feel really torn and conflicted.

While writing this I had to think of the Swiss German song "Kei Mueter weiss, was ihrem Chind wird gscheh" (no mother knows what will happen to her child). Actually a Christmas song about Jesus. But true for any mother, and any child. There is only so much you can do as a mother (or father, or teacher, or any role in bringing up a child).

Art: Christian Krohg

Shiphrah and Puah: Breaking the Law

Exodus 1:8-21

I would love to
be an upstanding citizen,
do what the law says.
Usually, I do.
I would love to
submit to authority,
obey my rulers.
Usually, I do.
But I cannot, now.

For how can I obey
the laws of man
if they would have me break
the Law of God?

Don't you see
the death all around you?
No - you only see the law.
Don't you hear
the piercing cries of bereft mothers?
No - you only hear the law.
Don't you care
for the vulnerable trampled underfoot?
No - you only care about the law.

How
can you value something dead
above pulsing, screaming life?
How
can you expect me,
a servant of life
to obey the rule of death?

Sorry.
No.
I don't care anymore.
Take me.
Put me behind bars if you will.
Do what you like.
But don't speak to me
about your laws
when lives are at stake.
Don't expect me
to do what is wrong
just because it's the law.
For how can I obey
the laws of man
if they would have me break
the Law of God?

I will resist.
I will tell lies.
I will disobey.
I will fight.
And you may look on
in horror and disgust
as I trample your law.
But in the end,
in the eyes of God
I will be right.


_______________________________

[18. July 2019]

So I was sitting here with writer's block, not knowing how to start, when I realised that the story of Shiphrah and Puah is so very relevant right now. It has actually been replaying in the news recently. I ended up writing this with Captain Carola Rackete in mind, as well as other modern-day Shiphrahs and Puahs: brave people who stand up against unjust laws to do what is right.

Thousands of refugees trying to cross from Africa to Europe drown in the Mediterranean every year. Last year, 2'277 died or went missing (stats from UNHCR here). Meanwhile, many European countries are extremely restrictive. Carola Rackete, who does rescue missions on the Mediterranean, was arrested for docking a migrant rescue ship in an Italian port without authorisation - "against the law". Discussions about this on social media became truly sickening: people (many of them would call themselves "Bible-believing Christians") argued that people like Rackete are doing wrong rescuing the drowning because these actions break the law. One should not encourage illegal immigrants to come to Europe. In these discussions, the people suffering and drowning on the Mediterranean are dehumanised. I have in all honesty seen people claim it's "their own fault" and they should just stay in their countries. I can't believe this kind of terrible rhetoric. Since when is saving lives wrong? Since when is following "the law" more important than serving human beings loved by God?

I had to think of all this when I decided to write about Shiphrah and Puah - two Midwives who broke laws, told lies, and pretty much acted in a way that I know certain people, certain Christians even, would think wrong. They were commanded by the Pharaoh to kill Hebrew boys upon birth. They refused, saving many lives. They covered up their disobedience by lying that the Hebrew mothers gave birth too quickly for them to arrive on the scene in time.

Sometimes, we need to break laws to do what is right. Because it is more important to obey God than man (Acts 5:29). The worldly authorities are not God. I on purpose referenced Romans 13 for the first stanza, since that is often quoted to support submission to authority. But Paul is not talking about total, blind obedience in all things. He is talking about, as Christians (who will always be foreigners in this world because we serve a different master and belong to a different kingdom) respecting the society we live in as well as its rules. But it should be obivous to us that there is a very, very clear line in how much we can obey what other authorities dictate. Because ultimately, Jesus is our Lord, not our country or our government, and our allegiance should be to the Kingdom of God, not any country on this earth. There is a place for civil disobedience in obedience to God. Just because something is law does not mean it is right.

We need to discern and follow the will of God. Ask ourselves what Jesus would do - Jesus who died a criminal's death on a cross because he broke the law.

Art: Ancient Roman relief carving of a midwife

Widow Jerusalem: I Cannot Save You

Baruch 4:8-28

"But I, how can I help you? 
For he who brought these calamities upon you 
will deliver you from the hand of your enemies." 
(Baruch 4:17-18)

Alone with the pain,
alone without you.
What can I do?
Watching you as you go astray,
watching you fall and be taken away,
away from my loving arms.
What can I do?
What could I have done
to protect my lost sons,
to prevent all this pain?
What can I do
to rescue you,
bring an end to these wounds
you inflict on yourselves?

What can I do?
How can I save you?
What sacrifice
could this mother make?
I'd make them all,
I'd destroy myself
if only
if only
I could rescue you.

But it would be in vain.

What can I do?
I cannot save you.
How important for me
to realise this is true,
to learn to let go
and wait from afar,
not break myself
against your rocky hearts.
I cannot save you,
I'm allowed to let go,
let go and let God
who can do what I can't.

What can I do?
I can cry to the Lord,
day and night, all my life,
cry out for you.
I can watch, I can pray,
I can hope, as I wait,
encourage you with my faith
that you'll yet be saved.

Alone with the pain.
Alone without you.
I cannot save you -
and yet
there's still much I can do,
as I let you go
into the hands of God,
as I let him do
what I can't.
I will pray,
I will hope,
I will trust
until at last
the day comes
when I will have you back.

_____________________________

[26. May 2019]

I'm currently reading the Apocrypha (books excluded from the Bible during the Reformation, which were part of the Bible of the early church and are still in the Catholic Bible) and stumbled upon this personification of Jerusalem as a widow mourning her children. I loved this depiction and especially v. 17-18: "How can I help you? For he who brought these calamities upon you will deliver you from the hand of your enemies." As someone who has had to work through co-dependency, that really spoke to me.

Mother Jerusalem is struggling with the loss of her children who have been taken into exile. They have had to feel the consequences of their actions. As their mother she wants to rescue them - and co-dependent people tend to try to "save" others, to their own detriment. Trying to save other people is pointless, though - often our attempts are counter-productive. Often we end up protecting people from the consequences of their own actions so that they can never grow, at the same time breaking ourselves and losing ourselves. It is so very important to realise that we cannot save other people. The first of the 12 steps in Al-Anon (programme for loved ones of alcoholics) is to realise we are powerless over alcohol - i.e.: to realise what Mother Jerusalem is realising here. "How can I help you? - Only God can."

Realising we can't save people helps us give ourselves permission to let go. We co-dependents often feel we have to save the people we love. Realising we cannot gives us the freedom to let go and no longer give ourselves a bad conscience when we fail to change the people around us. Step 2 is: "Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity." And that is also what Mother Jerusalem realises in v.17-18: she cannot save her children - but God can. "Let go and let God" is one of the slogans of Al-Anon. Letting go does not mean giving up, but instead giving what I cannot do to someone who can. Mother Jerusalem does this here: in Baruch 4 she keeps emphasising her trust in God, her hope that he will change what she cannot.

These are some of the most important things I learnt about dealing with co-dependency... I cannot save the person I love - however, God can. So I am allowed to let go and no longer try doing what I can't do. Instead I can focus on what I CAN - and trust God with the rest. :-)

12 Steps of Al-Anon
Picture: Mary Jane Peale, "Pearl of Grief"

Kosbi: Durchbohrt

Numeri 25

Ich bin durchbohrt

für mein Vergehen,

durchbohrt von deinem Speer

und deinem heiligen Eifer.

Ich bin dein Sühnopfer,

Menschenblut

zu stillen den Zorn

der gekränkten Gottheit.

Mein Tod bringt zu Ende

Leiden und Plage,

mein Blut hat den Frieden erkauft.

Ich bin durchbohrt

für meine Vergehen,

dein Menschenopfer.

Du hast die Sünderin getötet

um die Sünde zu beenden,

die Schuldige

um vom Fluch zu befreien.

Jetzt trägt deine Gewalt

den Segen des Friedens,

die Zustimmung deines Gottes.

Jetzt trägst du

die grosse Verheissung:

ewiges Priestertum –

für immer so.

Und sie werden wundern und spekulieren

ob Der, Der Da Kommt, von dir kommen wird,

ob Der, Der Da Kommt, wie du sein wird,

ewiger Priester,

vom Eifer entbrannt.

Und sie werden wundern und spekulieren

und suchen nach einem neuen Pinechas

der mit Speer in der Hand

die Welt reinigt von Gottlosigkeit,

von Sünde saubermacht.

Schauen sie dann

auf den, den sie durchbohrt haben,

durchbohrt

für unsere Vergehen?

Denjenigen, nicht mit Speer in der Hand,

sondern vom Speer durchstochen

bis Blut und Wasser fliessen heraus;

denjenigen, dessen Eifer

sich nicht in Gewalt gezeigt,

sondern in Tod und Leid;

dessen Sieg über die Sünde

nicht im Töten gewonnen ist,

sondern durch Liebe,

die sich selbst hingibt?

Werden sie sehen

ihren Gott

durchbohrt

von den Pinechas dieser Welt

und ihrem heiligen Eifer,

ihren Gott,

ein Sünder durchbohrt wegen Blasphemie?

Durchbohrt

für unsere Vergehen,

durchbohrt von unserem Speer

des heiligen Eifers.

Gott, unser Sühneopfer

zu besänftigen den Zorn der Menschheit.

Gott, nicht der Zornige,

sondern Liebe

durchbohrt

durch unseren Hass,

ein Spiegel,

eine träumende Welt zu wecken,

unsere Speere zu brechen

und zu vergeben.

____________________________

Übersetzt von: Cozbi: Pierced

Erklärung (Predigt vom 19.04.19 - sorry, keine Energie sie zu kürzen):

"Durchbohrt aber wurde er unseres Vergehens wegen, unserer Verschuldungen wegen wurde er zerschlagen, auf ihm lag die Strafe, die unserem Frieden diente, und durch seine Wunden haben wir Heilung erfahren." (Jesaja 53,5)

Durchbohrt – das ist auch Kosbi.Kosbi ist eine Midianiterin, wahrscheinlich eine Tempelprostituierte. Die Israeliten sind auf dem Weg zum gelobten Land Midianitern und Moabitern begegnet, und haben angefangen, deren Götter zu verehren. Auch sind einige mit heidnischen Frauen involviert worden – nichts Kleines in einer Kultur, in der der religiöse Glaube durch die Mutter weitergegeben wird. Die Konsequenzen: Gott schickt eine Plage. Tausende sterben.

Pinechas, ein Nachkomme des Hohenpriesters Aaron, Bruder von Mose, greift ein. Er tötet die Tempelprostituierte Kosbi zusammen mit ihrem israelitischen Mann oder Liebhaber. Beide werden durch den Bauch erstochen - in den wenigen künstlerischen Darstellungen dieser Szene wird es darum so interpretiert, dass sie mitten im Akt getötet wurden. Mitten in ihrer Sünde, könnte man sagen. Der Text spricht von Sühne: die Plage lässt ab, Gottes Zorn ist abgewendet. Mit dem vergossenen Blut der beiden Sünder wird alles wieder gut.

Ja... was macht so eine Geschichte mit uns?  So eine blutige Geschichte von Gewalt und Zorn und Strafe... was machen wir damit? Diese Tötung von Kosbi und Simri – das klingt doch wie ein Menschenopfer, als ob Gott das Blut von Menschen gebraucht hat, um beschwichtigt zu werden. Was für ein Gott ist denn das? Und Pinechas, der Henker, wird gelobt für das, was er getan hat. Seine Tat bekommt das "Gütesiegel" Gottes: Gott ist zufrieden mit ihm, er hat es gut gemacht. Pinechas erhält einen Segen und eine Verheissung – eine Verheissung ähnlich wie die, die auch der König David bekommen hat. David wurde eine Verheissung von ewigem Königtum gegeben – hier bekommt Pinechas das ewige Priestertum zugesprochen. Eine sehr hohe Ehre – ein sehr starkes Zeichen der Zustimmung Gottes.

Gottes Versprechen an David ist für uns wichtig, weil daraus die Erwartung eines "Messias" entstanden ist, eines Retters, eines von Gott gesandten Königs, der sein Volk rettet und alles wieder in Ordnung bringt. Darum wird Jesus im Neuen Testament immer wieder "Sohn Davids" genannt. In der Zeit vor Jesus gab es eine starke Tradition, die davon ausging, dass der Retter von David abstammen würde – und entsprechend auch wie David sein würde, oder wie Davids Sohn Salomo: ein mächtiger König, ein weiser König, ein grosser Herrscher. Ein König-Messias.

Was viele aber nicht wissen: es gab zur gleichen Zeit eine starke Tradition, die auch einen "Priester-Messias" erwarteten – entweder die gleiche Person oder eine zweite, die zusammen mit dem König-Messias erscheinen und die Welt zurechtbringen würde. So wie der König-Messias dem Muster Davids folgen würde, würde der Priester-Messias wie der priesterliche Vorfahre sein – und dieser priesterliche Vorfahre, das war Pinechas.

Wenn also die Leute in der Zeit Jesu über den Messias nachdachten, dann stellten sie ihn sich wahrscheinlich nicht selten wie Pinechas vor. Besonders unter der griechischen und römischen Besatzung, die beide fremde Religionen nach Israel hineinschleppten und in den Augen der Gläubigen schlechten Einfluss brachten, hofften bestimmt viele auf so einen heiligen Eifer wie den des Pinechas, auf einen Retter, der zum Speer greifen würde und mit Gewalt die "Gottlosen", die Sünder und Ungläubigen entfernen würde.

Dann kam Jesus. Jesus ist nicht wie Pinechas. Und das Sühneopfer auf Golgatha ist nicht wie das Sühneopfer von Simri und Kosbi. Jesus tötet nicht die Sünder mit heiligem Eifer – sondern heiliger Eifer nagelt ihn am Kreuz. Urteil: Blasphemie, Gotteslästerung. Jesus trägt nicht einen Speer, sondern ist derjenige, der vom Speer durchbohrt wird.

Oft wird von Jesu Tod gesprochen, als wäre das ein Opfer, um Gottes Zorn zu besänftigen – als wäre Jesus ein Blitzableiter, der zwischen uns Menschen und Gott kommt. Ich hatte immer Mühe mit dieser Darstellung – denn in Taiwan, wo ich aufgewachsen bin, kennt man so etwas in der einheimischen Religion auch. Da muss man die Geister und Dämonen mit Opfern besänftigen, so dass sie einen nicht schaden. Ist unser Gott ein Dämon? Nein. Die Bibel sagt: Gott ist die Liebe. Und das Leben von Jesus, Gottes Sohn, beweist uns das. Der Sohn zeigt uns, wie der Vater ist. Gott kann nicht anders sein als sein Sohn Jesus. Wir wissen, dass Gott Liebe ist, weil wir das in Jesus sehen. Gott ist nicht ein zorniger Gott, der besänftigt werden muss. Jesus ist nicht gestorben, um den Zorn Gottes auf sich zu nehmen. Sondern Jesus ist gestorben und hat uns in seinem Tod gezeigt: Gott ist anders. Gott ist nicht der zornige Gott. Gott ist nicht im eifrigen Priester, der den Sünder umbringt – sondern Gott ist in der durchbohrten Frau. Am Kreuz hat Jesus den Platz von Kosbi eingenommen. Am Kreuz wird Jesus, als Krimineller verurteilt, von den Frommen und Eifrigen umgebracht. Gott selbst wird zum Opfer des frommen Eifers.

Ich glaube, der Tod Jesu zeigt uns, dass nicht Gott der Zornige ist, der besänftigt werden muss, sondern wir Menschen. Die Menschen suchen Blut und Rache und gewalttätige Lösungen. Der Tod Jesu zeigt uns, was passiert, wenn heiliger Eifer zu weit geht: dann töten wir plötzlich, ganz ohne es zu merken, Gott selbst. Jesus ist nicht gestorben, um Gottes Zorn zu besänftigen – sondern Menschen haben ihn getötet, um ihre Blutlust zu besänftigen.

Und die Kraft in diesem Tod Jesu ist, dass Gott nicht mit Rache und Gewalt und Strafe reagiert auf diese grösste Sünde von allen: auf den Gottesmord. Gott rächt sich nicht, er sendet keine Engel, um die Mörder zu erschlagen. Gott reagiert mit Vergebung. Wir haben es gehört: "Vater, vergib ihnen, denn sie wissen nicht, was sie tun." Gott reagiert mit Vergebung.

Und von dem Punkt aus können wir uns verändern. Weil Gott uns gezeigt hat, wo Rache und Strafe uns hinführen. Wo heiliger Eifer uns hinführen kann. Gott will nicht den heiligen Eifer, der gegen sogenannte Sünde kämpft. Gott will, dass wir ihm ähnlicher werden: dass wir wie Jesus werden, der am Kreuz hängt und vergibt. Jesus, der wie Pinechas hätte werden sollen, wird wie Kosbi. Gott wird zur durchbohrten Tempelhure, um uns sagen: stopp. So geht das nicht weiter. Am Kreuz hält Gott der Menschheit den Spiegel vor und ruft uns auf, unsere Speere fallenzulassen und zu vergeben. Es musste nie Gott zufriedengestellt und besänftigt werden. Sondern wir Menschen. Jesus ist nicht gestorben, um Gottes Meinung über uns zu ändern, sondern um unsere Meinung über Gott zu ändern. "Lasst euch versöhnen mit Gott!" fasst Paulus die Botschaft vom Kreuz zusammen. Und ich verstehe das so: es ist nicht Gott, der sich mit uns versöhnen muss, Gott hatte nie mit uns Streit, er hat uns nie abgelehnt oder gehasst. Sondern die Trennung kommt von uns aus. Da, wo wir der Liebe den Rücken kehren, wo wir hassen, streiten, rächen, nicht vergeben. Das Problem ist nicht der zornige Gott, sondern die zornige Menschheit.

Aber am Kreuz gibt uns Gott die Kraft, einen neuen Weg zu finden. Am Kreuz hält uns Gott den Spiegel vor, aber er gibt uns auch ein Beispiel, wie es anders geht. "Vater, vergib ihnen." Verzicht auf Rache. Verzicht darauf, die zu bestrafen, die es verdient hätten. Verzicht darauf, den Feinden eins auszuwischen. Verzicht auf die eigene Macht – auf die Allmacht. "Vater, vergib ihnen."

Am Kreuz wird nicht Jesus bestraft für all unsere Sünden – sondern am Kreuz ist das Ende aller Strafe und aller Rache. Am Kreuz sagt Gott: "Nein. Stopp. So nicht. So bin ich nicht." Am Kreuz gibt uns Gott eine neue Möglichkeit, Geschichten wie die von Kosbi anders zu lesen. Gott steht nicht auf der Seite des frommen Eifers, der Sünde verdammt und aufs härteste bestraft. Sondern Gott ist bereit, den Platz der Sünder einzunehmen, mit ihnen und für sie zu leiden.