Blog Posts
The Death of Death (Romans 6:1-11)
“So you also must consider yourself dead to sin and alive to God in Christ Jesus.” (Romans 6:11)
Dead to sin and alive to God in Christ Jesus? There are days when that confession seems easier to voice than others.
When death is not stalking our communities in the twin forms of pandemic and racism, police violence and anti-black prejudice, it may be possible to confess confidently with Paul that I am dead to sin and alive to God in Christ Jesus. But when sin entangles every aspect of our everyday lives, when racism and sexism and homophobia worm their way into every corner of this world, it may prove that much more difficult to proclaim along with Paul that I am, that we are dead to sin.
Is Paul right? Are we dead to sin? Really, are we? How can we say that?
Perhaps we have to move carefully here so that we can connect this ancient confession and the realities of the world today. I wonder if Paul is describing not the world as it was, the world he saw with his own eyes. After all, he lived in a world where empires reigned and spilled blood, a world of hunger and want, a world of disease and plague. I don’t think that Paul was simply being naive or optimistic here.
Even more, I wonder if Paul is describing not even the world as it could be, some placid dream, some intoxicating promise that lets us float on the high of a heavenly destiny while we suffer in the moment.
No, I wonder if Paul is describing the world as God is making it, the world God is crafting right here and right now and forever.
I wonder if Paul’s declaration that we are dead to sin is a way to collapse the future of God’s promises and the present of our realities, a way to know and feel and be the resurrection people Jesus has already made us to be.
But Paul does not start here. He starts earlier. And we should too.
With Paul, we have to start at the beginning. Not just the beginning of Paul’s letter to the Romans but to the beginning of the story he weaves in this letter, the narrative into which he invites us, the divine tale Paul hopes we see as our own story.
You see, I worry that too many Christians see the letters of Paul as a pile of confessions, a litany of doctrine, a list of things we believe on a check-list. In the church where I grew up, Paul was often a favorite source for all our deepest convictions. Paul’s letters leapt out from a distant culture and time and place with the freshness of the moment because they were letters written directly to us, to address every question of doctrine, every inquiry about dogma. The letters were distillations of what we believed. The letters were carriers of Paul’s thinking, injected directly into my mind so that I too might know the mind of Christ.
But what if we realized that Paul’s letters were not the careful, organized thoughts of the theologian as much as the anguished, desperate story-telling of a preacher at the cusp of a world being turned upside down? What if Paul was writing theology not for the calm of everyday life? What if Paul was telling a story for the end of days, a story to make sense of a world seeming to be crumbling that much more with every unjust day that passed?
When the world seems to be falling apart, when communities are frayed, when nations shake, that is when we most need Paul’s letters, not as an escape into some ethereal imagination about doctrine and thinking the right things, but as a pathway into the soil of everyday life, the cries of the harmed, the lament of the dying.
Why? Because Paul’s letters invite us into a story, a story whose beginning Paul narrates right before our passage.
You see, Paul recalls, there was once a person whose transgressions, whose trespass caused us all to fall under the shadow of condemnation. All this hurt. All this brokenness. All this death. It had a start. It started when one person’s disobedience created a crack between us and God, a crack through which Sin and Death found a way to make of that crack a wedge of separation. A wedge that separates you and me and God from one another.
But this one person was not the end of the story for there was another, another who would not precipitate our imprisonment but our deliverance, one who would deliver us into the bounties of resurrection through obedience to God, even obedience that led to a cross. With Jesus, we are no longer bound to Sin and Death, no longer captured by these destructive forces. We are free. We are alive in Christ.
To understand this story fully, however, we have to understand that when Paul writes about Sin and Death in Romans, he is not just referring to lower-case s sin, the things I do wrong in my everyday life, the missteps and mistakes that haunt me and not just to lower-case d death, the moment when my lungs will cease and my heart will stop beating and my thoughts will draw to a close. As Katherine Grieb has explained, Paul refers here to capital-S Sin and capital-D Death, to forces that invade, to personified realities in our lives that wreak havoc wherever they tread. Capital-S Sin is not just that which I do wrong but the forces of destruction that separate us from our neighbors and our God. Capital-D Death is a usurper who takes lives that do not belong to capital-D Death.
Sin and Death once ruled over us, but no more, Paul declares, for when we are baptized in Christ, we die and the dead can no longer die to capital-D Death. Sin and Death lose their hold on us through Christ.
Death is dead. Sin is dead. This what Paul urges us to confess not because Paul is naive, not because Paul is closing his eyes and stopping his ears to the pain of his neighbors, to the realities of his own life in an empire that would take his life.
Death is dead. Sin is dead. This, my friends, is a radical proposition in this moment in history. We declare that Death is dead not because we will pretend that all lives matters. Not because we will refuse to face squarely an upside-down world. Not because we will neglect the nearly 120,000 of our neighbors who died, too many of them alone. And let me just say that I’ve updated that last sentence several times in the last weeks. Each time was more devastating than the last.
No, we will confess that Death is dead and Sin is dead when we live “Black Lives Matter.” We will confess that Death is dead and Sin is dead when we confess that the systemic, sinful tentacles of racism and colonialism and homophobia are coursing through our veins, but that those logics have died at the cross of Christ, those ways of structuring have no power over us because Death is dead and so is Sin.
But notice that the death of Death comes at a high cost. It’s not some easy and magical exchange. That “in Christ” at the end of v. 11 carries a great deal of weight. That “in Christ” is the sacrificial love of Christ. It is Jesus’ death that makes Death die. It is Jesus’ death at the hands of the empire that crumbles the throne room of Caesar. Jesus dies as we roar approvingly at the foot of the cross that empire is keeping us safe by terrorizing someone else. It is Jesus’ death that liberates us from the false promise of prosperity on the backs of those who suffer.
The death of Jesus clarifies who we are but also whom God has made us to be.
Death it turns out is clarifying.
When we see into the eyes of those dying under the weight of empire and fear, when we hear someone breathing their last. When we are witnesses as someone calls out to their mother, we run directly into the clarifying power of death, the way death exposes our frailty and brokenness and injustice.
My friends, hear the good news of Jesus. You are dead to Sin and alive to God in Christ Jesus. You have been baptized with Christ. Sin no longer holds you captive. Death is no longer your enemy, for Death has been defeated.
But there’s more. Verse 10: “The death he died, he died to sin, once for all; but the life he lives, he lives to God.” Death had one shot and missed. Death came for the king, and Death missed. But Jesus’ life is so much more than the empire’s failed attempt to kill him. His life is abundant and free, full of grace and love and transformation and, yes, the judgement that sets the world right.
And his life is now ours. Verse 5: “For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his.” My friends, that is our life now. A life liberated from the sting of Death, the shackles of Sin.
But it’s one thing to say it aloud; it’s a whole other matter to live as if what we confess is actually true.
If Death is dead, then a pandemic that deals death in ways that show us how deeply imbedded racist structures are in every aspect of life is a call to action towards life. If Death is dead, then the death of people of color whether because of pandemic or racism is not just an accident of history but a call to a different world. If Death is dead, then the cries of our Black neighbors are not just another protest, but a holy demand that Death stay dead. If Death is dead, then protest is not just a way to signal our holiness but a way to align our hopes and our lives with those who cannot breathe.
“So you also must consider yourself dead to sin and alive to God in Christ Jesus.”
Dead to sin and alive to God in Christ Jesus? There are days when that confession seems easier to voice than others.
But there are no days when that confession is no less true. There are no days when that confession does not bear upon us as we leave this place to enter a world God has already made new.
Dr. Eric D. Barreto originally preached this sermon as part of the Montreat Summer Worship Series on June 21, 2020. Church Anew is honored to share the text with our blog readers.
Used with permission.
Eric D. Barreto is the Weyerhaeuser Associate Professor of New Testament at Princeton Theological Seminary. His passion is to pursue scholarship for the sake of the church, and he regularly writes for and teaches in faith communities around the country. Twitter | @ericbarreto
Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.
As an ecumenical and inclusive ministry of St. Andrew Lutheran Church, the content of each Church Anew blog represents the voice of the individual writer and does not necessarily reflect the position of Church Anew or St. Andrew Lutheran Church on any specific topic.
Torah, Darsheini, and Black Preaching in Response to the Killing of George Floyd
Photo courtesy of Deanna Thompson at the memorial site for George Floyd, 38th and Chicago in Minneapolis
I offer these words on the murder of George Floyd as a “d’varTorah” – words of Torah, in the broadest sense of the word. Torah is not only what’s in the scrolls in the synagogue, though I will draw on them. Torah is also life, our lives today, which, like what’s written in the scrolls, cry out ‘darsheini’ – explain me, interpret me, dig deep. The African–American Christian preaching we heard at Floyd’s memorial service and funeral also drew both on our shared sacred texts and our lived experiences, in the effort to bring comfort and find meaning.
I was moved by the preaching of Rev. Al Sharpton at the memorial in Minneapolis. I know Sharpton is a problematic figure for many in the Jewish community. I acknowledge this, but also want to dispose of it for the moment and talk about his preaching.
[Sharpton] spoke not only about Floyd’s death but about death itself, about his belief in a world beyond this one, where justice and peace already exist, a place where the wicked have no power.
Sharpton used the well-known verse from Ecclesiastes – “There is a season and a time for every purpose … ” urgently charging listeners that now is the time to address meaningfully and courageously both racism and police practice. He spoke not only about Floyd’s death but about death itself, about his belief in a world beyond this one, where justice and peace already exist, a place where the wicked have no power. “Go on home, George”, he said; “Get some rest, George;” words spoken with love and anguish, offering a pathway from the horror of Floyd’s murder, to an exquisite and eternal peace that we on earth can only imagine.
Sharpton’s sermon went from real time to the timeless and eternal nature of God. By the end he was shouting the words God is, God has, God shall. It was powerful; he had me. These words are part of the Hebrew hymn Adon Olam, a hymn sung at the conclusion of Shabbat services; v’hu haya, v’hu hoveh, v’hu yihiyeh – He was, He is, He shall be. Jews who join in Shabbat communal prayer sing those words regularly but I’m not sure we feel the words as an urgent statement of faith that could bring great comfort, especially when this world seems so broken.
By the end he was shouting the words God is, God has, God shall. It was powerful; he had me.
Like many of you I’ve been going over in my mind the scene of George Floyd’s killing, wondering what I might have done had I been among the onlookers. I’ve been fixated on the two rookie cops sitting on Floyd’s back and knees. Why didn’t they stand up and say, “This is wrong, I won’t be part of this”? If I’m honest with myself I can imagine a partial answer. While I think of myself as strong and courageous, I know there have been times when I’ve chosen, whether out of fear or uncertainty, to not question the chain of command (though not with catastrophic consequences like here). It takes role models, experience and maturity to find one’s voice and use it. It has taken me years to find mine, and I’m still a work in progress.
The scene of Floyd’s dying brings me back to the scene of Joseph and his brothers when Joseph was nearly murdered. People love to say of the young Joseph, “He was spoiled, clueless, and arrogant.” But his flaws pale next to the murderous actions of his brothers.
Yet those ten brothers were not a monolith. The original plan was to murder Joseph and throw the body in a pit. But oldest brother Ruben intervened, saying, “Don’t kill him, throw him in this pit alive, so we won’t have blood on our own hands.” Hard to know why he didn’t simply stand up and say, “Don’t do this, it’s wrong.” Nonetheless his intervention saved Joseph’s life. He accomplished what we are hearing from parents of Black children, who teach them, “Your job is to survive the encounter. Do whatever you have to do to survive the encounter.”
Then we hear from Judah. Joseph is crying out from the pit when a caravan is passing by, and Judah gets the idea, “Let’s not leave him to die, let’s sell him. After all he is our brother, our flesh and blood.” His words are often interpreted as morally flimsy; I hear in them a spark of moral awakening. And some courage: he dares say to a mob bent on murder, that the intended victim is a human being and their brother. “We are connected,” he seems to realize. Selling Joseph was an imperfect intervention, but the result was that Joseph survived. Maybe there is a hint of divine help in Judah’s awakening – after all not one but two caravans just happened to come by.
[Judah’s] words are often interpreted as morally flimsy; I hear in them a spark of moral awakening. And some courage: he dares say to a mob bent on murder, that the intended victim is a human being and their brother.
One of the preachers at Floyd’s memorial services referred back to this very story, quoting Joseph’s words to his brothers later in life: “You meant to do me harm, but God has used this for good.” The preacher continued, “God doesn’t make everything happen, but God knows how to use what happens.” This is just how Joseph evaluated his own suffering, which ultimately brought about good for his entire clan. The preacher at Floyd’s funeral carefully expressed a similar sentiment: Floyd’s killing was a very bad thing, but what God does with it, what we do with it, need not be.
I’m grateful to have been brought into the world of these African American Christian preachers these past few weeks. I will appreciate Adon Olam more now. And I share with them a passion for our timeless stories, mirroring as they do aspects of our own realities: the dynamics among the brothers, the hierarchies, the hatreds, the naïve but perhaps genuine yearning on Joseph’s part to be one with his family; Judah and Ruben, who despite growing up with some violent brothers still had the flame of humanity alive in them, and were able, however imperfectly, to raise their voices and save a life.
Violence and hatreds persist; in every generation we are called upon anew to stand up to bullies, to listen, and to develop the skills and the courage to raise our voices.
Violence and hatreds persist; in every generation we are called upon anew to stand up to bullies, to listen, and to develop the skills and the courage to raise our voices. We each must work hard to recognize the humanity in each other, so that when conflict arises, no one has to die in order that what God intends for good can come about.
These words by Rabbi Shosh Dworsky, Associate Chaplain for Jewish Life at St. Olaf College, were originally delivered at Beth Jacob Congregation in Mendota Heights, MN. Rabbi Dworsky’s position at St. Olaf is funded by The Lutheran Center for Faith, Values, and Community, and the open-hearted interaction she models between Jewish Torah study and Black Christian preaching in the aftermath of George Floyd’s death embodies the kind of interfaith engagement the Center hopes to foster at St. Olaf and beyond.
Used with permission from The Lutheran Center for Faith, Values, and Community at St. Olaf College, Northfield, MN.
Rabbi Shosh Dworsky is the Associate Chaplain for Jewish Life at St. Olaf College and the Associate Chaplain for Jewish and Interfaith Life at Carleton College.
Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.
As an ecumenical and inclusive ministry of St. Andrew Lutheran Church, the content of each Church Anew blog represents the voice of the individual writer and does not necessarily reflect the position of Church Anew or St. Andrew Lutheran Church on any specific topic.