God Crosses Our Lines

Written for St. Andrew Lutheran Church, Franklin, TN + 23rd Sunday after Pentecost + October 23, 2016

Readings: Jeremiah 14:7-10,19-22; Psalm 84:1-7; 2 Timothy 4:6-8, 16-18; Luke 18:9-14


I’ve mentioned The Church of Another Chance many times before in sermons here: it is the church my friend Pastor Scott leads in the Davidson County jail system. When I attend worship there, the part of the service that moves me the most and stays with me for weeks and even months afterward is the time of prayer. The group shares the things we are thankful for; we share our current struggles or the struggles of people we love; when the people are ready to be really vulnerable with one another, we sometimes hear stories of childhood trauma. Often men cry while those around them say, “It’s okay, take your time.”

This prayer time may even become a time of public confession. One day an older man stood up; he looked around the room, making eye contact with many of the young men in matching orange jumpsuits before speaking. “I used to be you,” he said. “I got locked up for the first time when I was 19. I’m 64 now; I been in and out of places like this my whole life. I just keep doing the same dumb things. I get out, and I swear, Things are gonna be different this time. And I try, but then my friends are like, ‘Hey just come have one drink with us,’ and then that turns into other stuff, and then I’m dealing again…and then I’m right back here. Again.”

I prayed silently in my head: Lord, thank you that I am on the path I’m on. Thank you that I didn’t get caught up in that kind of world.

The man continued “So I just want to say to you young guys: don’t be stupid like I was. Don’t do what I did. Get your head right, change your thinking, change your behavior. Stay outta here. You got your whole life ahead of you. And I just want to say, pray for me; it’s hard to change.”

So which of us — me, the pastor; or him, the inmate — went away from that worship service justified by God?

It’s easy for us to miss the shock of Jesus’s parable about the Pharisee and the tax collector, easy for us to miss the wide reach of its meanings. We’re quick to think we’ve got the message: Proud, hypocritical Pharisee = bad; humble, repentant tax collector = good. Don’t be a proud hypocrite. Admit you’re a sinner. Got it.

 But if we could hear this parable with first-century Jewish ears, it wouldn’t be so easy to stomach. With our 21st-century Christian ears we are used to hearing stories where Pharisees are the hypocrites in need of Jesus’s correction, and we are used to hearing about how Jesus hung out with tax collectors. We even carry the tradition that one of our scriptures (the Gospel of Matthew) was written by a former tax-collector. We’re comfortable with those characters.

But Jesus’s original audience would have carried the opposite assumptions. They may have heard nothing wrong with the Pharisee’s prayer of thanks that he walked the righteous path. After all, the Pharisees were righteous members of the community, religious leaders, and they were probably admired by most Jews. Why shouldn’t the Pharisee give thanks for the life-path he was on, glancing over to the tax collector and whispering, “There, but for the grace of God, go I”?[1]

Tax collectors, on the other hand, were far more despised than IRS agents. They collected taxes, but they did not go to an Israeli government. A tax collector’s job was to “take money from the local population and funnel it [into the treasuries] of the invading empire.”[2] They were betrayers of their own people; they were selfish survivors with no backbone and no sense of duty to the community.

In their daily lives Jesus’s listeners probably would have seen the Pharisee and the tax collector as representing the two opposite ends of the religious-ethical spectrum: the Pharisee represented righteous people who held tightly to the laws and traditions of their ancestors, given to them by God; the tax collector represented the people who become puppets of the pagan foreign rulers. But in this parable Jesus made the tax collector the role model. Jesus ripped apart the way his listeners saw the world; he ripped apart their ideas of where God stood in relation to their world.

What would Jesus rip apart today?

Often times we stand in a place similar to that of Jesus’s first listeners. We draw lines to help us make sense of this big, crazy world. And as we do so, we draw lines to categorize people: these are the ones we should try to be like; these are the ones whose behavior we should criticize. These are the ones who should teach us; these are the ones we should mistrust. Then we tell stories to prove why those lines exists, and we retell them enough that they feel natural and undeniable. And then when we meet someone from the other side of one of those lines, we think we already know their story. We might whisper, like the Pharisee, “Thank God I am not like that tax collector over there,” and, like the people listening to Jesus, everyone around us might nod in agreement, “Yes, thank God.” Because, of course, that tax collector is on the other side of the line.

Churches are often places where these lines and stories are affirmed and even sanctified as if they were given to us by God. For example consider the ways many U.S. churches have reinforced the lines between white and black Americans throughout our history. In the 1800s Christians quoted the Bible to prove that slavery was part of the divine plan. They preached from texts like the cursing of Noah’s son, Ham, and his descendants (Gen. 9:20-27), saying that these descendants were the people with dark skin, and their God-given curse was slavery. During the Civil Rights protests of the 1960s, Christians again turned to this Bible story, and they paired it with the story of the Tower of Babel and the dividing of peoples there (Gen. 11:1-9), saying that these stories proved that segregation was instituted by God.[3]

These are fairly strong, dramatic examples, that might feel distant to many of us, but I’m sure you can think of other ways that you have experienced churches upholding the lines we draw in society. And because God is perfect, we assume that God must be a little more present on the “good” side of our lines; we think that if we are looking for God, we ought to look mostly at the people who are closest to perfect.

The problem is that — according to this parable — God seems to ignore all our lines. Actually, God transgresses the common way of seeing the world throughout the Gospel of Luke, and throughout the Bible’s stories. God doesn’t often take side with the perfect and exalted people. God shows up most clearly among the suffering, the outcast, the weak, and even the despised. God chose the tiny little nation of Israel; God chose the youngest, smallest son to become King David; God sent prophets on behalf of the poor; God’s Son was conceived in the womb of a young, poor, unmarried woman; Jesus made a name for himself by healing the sick, eating with the most despised of sinners, and standing up on behalf of the needy. The New Testament itself was written by and for a group of people who suffered often, facing hardships, ridicule, and even persecution as members of this new religious sect.

So maybe, if we are looking for God among the “most perfect,” the most exalted people and places, we are missing most of what God is doing and saying today. Maybe we need to be listening to the experiences of the suffering, the outcast, the weak, and the despised — for their benefit, yes, but also for our own as people of the God who ignores our lines and sees only people in need of grace.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer provides one powerful example of the transformation that can occur when we hear the gospel with the help of those who suffer. Many of you are familiar with the story of Bonhoeffer, a German Lutheran pastor who stood up to the Nazi regime in the 1930s and 40s. He was eventually arrested and then killed at the Flossenburg concentration camp just two weeks before U.S. soldiers liberated the camp.

In his earlier days Bonhoeffer was not nearly so radical. At the age of 24, already holding a doctorate in theology but too young to be ordained as a pastor, Bonhoeffer came to New York to continue his studies. While there he actively attended Abyssinian Baptist Church, an African-American congregation in Harlem. Forming relationships with African-Americans, Bonhoeffer came to understand the suffering caused by racism from the point of view of those who experienced it. And Bonhoeffer came to understand the gospel from the point of view of that suffering. He grew familiar with the writings of the Black theology and the Harlem Renaissance, writings like those of Countee Cullen, a poet who connected Christ on the cross with the all-too familiar image of the black man on the lynching tree, writing:

How Calvary in Palestine,

Extending down to me and mine,

Was but the first leaf in a line

Of trees on which a Man should swing

World without end, in suffering

For all men’s healing, let me sing.[4]

From the African-American preacher at Abyssinian Baptist Bonhoeffer heard the message that the gospel loses its meaning if it is “disconnected from a suffering world.”[5] The gospel offered essential spiritual comfort, yes, and it also demanded that Christians work to relieve physical, economic, and political suffering.

African-American churchgoers, preachers, and writers had a tremendous impact not only on Bonhoeffer’s own religious views, but also on his later fight against the Nazis. Perhaps when Bonhoeffer saw the Nazi party targeting the Jews, Roma, African-Germans, people with disabilities, and others, he heard echoes of the suffering already familiar to him from his time among African-Americans. We know that he had a clear sense of what the gospel demanded of him in response to their suffering.

We, too, may hear the gospel in new and powerful ways when we are willing to step over our lines, to lay down the stories we tell about other people, and to listen without assuming we know better, or we know where God stands. We need to listen with humility, “for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.”


[1] Amy-Jill Levine, The Misunderstood Jew, (New York: HarperOne, 2006 ), 40. Referencing Timothy A. Friedrichsen, “The Temple, A Pharisee, a Tax Collector, and the Kingdom of God: Rereading a Jesus Parable (Luke 18:10-14a),” Journal of Biblical Literature 124.1 (2005): 89-119 (94).

[2] Levine, 38.

[3] Lucinda Borkett-Jones, “Why white US Christians are repenting for the Chruch’s role in racism,” Christianity Today, 26 June 2015, referencing Stephen Haynes. Available online http://www.christiantoday.com/article/why.white.us.christians.are.repenting.for.the.churchs.role.in.racism/57175.htm. Accessed 22 October 2016.

[4] Countee Cullen, “The Black Christ,” The Black Christ and Other Poems, (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1929), 69. Available online http://library.missouri.edu/news/special-collections/the-black-christ-by-countee-cullen-with-illustrations-by-charles-cullen Accessed 22 October 2016.

[5] Alan Bean, “The African-American roots of Bonhoeffer’s Christianity,” Baptist News, 30 October 2015. Available online https://baptistnews.com/article/the-african-american-roots-of-bonhoeffers-christianity/#.WAj7rJMrKt8 Accessed 22 October 2016.

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Seen Differently (“And blessed is anyone who takes no offense”)

Written for St. Andrew Lutheran Church, Franklin, TN + 4th Sunday After Pentecost + June 12, 2016

Readings: 1 Kings 21:1-10, 15-21a; Galatians 2:15-21; Luke 7:36-8:3


We’ve got three main characters in today’s gospel story: Jesus (I’m pretty sure we all know who he is); a Pharisee named Simon, who’s hosting Jesus for dinner; and a woman. She doesn’t have a name. Well, presumably in real life she had a name, but in the story she doesn’t. In the story the only details we are given to identify her are: “a woman in the city, who was a sinner.”

If we look at this from up on the Christian high road, it seems odd. Don’t we believe that everyone is a sinner, that everyone is in need of God’s forgiveness?

But if we look at that description – “a woman in the city, who was a sinner” – a little more honestly…of course we know what it means. She is one of those special sinners. One of those offensive sinners. The kind that are so obviously sinful that’s its okay to judge them, to identify them as sinners. She is one of those sinners we get to put in a special category and treat differently than all us regular sinners: we can avoid them, or openly shun them; we can turn them away and refuse to help them; we can hold them up as particularly bad examples. The story doesn’t tell us what kind or kinds of sin this woman is so well-known for, but, whatever they are, they are public knowledge, and polite society is not willing to make excuses for her. Polite society is openly offended by her.

In the history of the Church people have tended to assume that this woman was a prostitute. But, like I said, that’s not written anywhere. And there were so many different people in Jesus’s time that could have been placed in the category of offensive sinners. Often, it was assumed that people with long-lasting disease or blindness or the inability to walk were especially sinful. You might remember that tax collectors often got thrown into the lists of especially despicable people in the gospels. Then, as now, there were some sins that stood out in common society more than others did.  And of course there are certain sins that are just more obvious or more fun to talk about – but you could probably do those things and still not be labeled “a sinner” if you were wealthy or powerful enough. Getting thrown in with the offensive sinners often had less to do with the grievousness of the sin or legal matters or religious obedience and much more to do with what was and wasn’t socially acceptable. Little has changed when it comes to that.

So this “woman…who was a sinner” slips in to the dinner party. Simon the Pharisee sees her and immediately recognizes her as one of “those” sinners. When she touches Jesus, Simon is obviously deeply offended.

The woman must have known that this was the reaction her presence and her touch would give – that she was offensive. So what inspired her to come in to this dinner? And what gave her the boldness to reach out and touch Jesus – this well-known teacher – to touch him over and over again, intimately: to anoint his feet with oil, to weep on him, to dry him with her hair?

The only answer we get from the story is: she had heard that Jesus would be eating at this Pharisee’s house.  We can’t assume that’s she’s ever even met Jesus face-to-face before. All we know for sure is that she has heard of him.

But we can make some good guesses as to what she may have heard about him. In the passages that come right before this story, we get sort of a summary of Jesus’s reputation at this point in his ministry. John the Baptist is in prison, and he sends two of his disciples to ask Jesus, “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” In other words: Are you the messiah? Are you bringing in the Kingdom of God? And Jesus responds: “Go and tell John what you have seen and heard: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, the poor have good news brought to them. And blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me” (Luke 7:18-23).

From this short interaction we can get a neat summary of what Jesus is up to, what he is known for: he’s spending time with the sick and the outcast and the poor; he’s bringing healing and new life to the people everyone else just pushes aside. And I especially love that last line Jesus says: “And blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.” Because that means he’s offending people. He’s offending people because he’s spending his time with offensive people; he’s giving his healing and his good news to offensive people.

Well, that’s how the people who are being offended see it, anyway. But can you imagine being one of those “offensive sinners” and hearing about this man? This wandering teacher and miracle-worker who touches lepers and carries hope to the poor? Who is invited to table with the Pharisees, the religious leaders – but who also eats with prostitutes and tax collectors and other offensive sinners? You spend your life knowing your presence and your touch offend people; you notice people purposefully looking away from you; maybe you hear the nasty things people say about you; maybe you even get spat on in the street, or kicked out of the way. You know how just about everyone sees you. But this man sees you differently. This man who has kind words for the poor and harsh words for the elite; this man who has the power to heal and, they say, even raise the dead; he sees you as human being in need of compassion and healing and forgiveness. And he gives it to you.

From that perspective: Jesus is so obviously bringing the Kingdom of God. Jesus is bringing a whole new world for the offensive sinners: a world where they are not kicked away, but welcomed; not condemned, but forgiven; not identified as “a woman…who [is] a sinner,” but as “a woman who is a child of God.” And once Jesus sees them as a child of God, they are able to see themselves that way, too.

Maybe all of that is what is going on inside of this “woman…who was a sinner,” as she enters the Pharisee’s dinner party and weeps at Jesus’s feet. She is overwhelmed with love and gratitude for this man who sees her differently: for this new world that is opened up to her.

Of course this whole new world, the Kingdom of God, comes to everyone else, too. It comes right to Simon the Pharisee’s dinner table as this offensive woman lingers at his guest’s feet. And as Simon cringes, thinking about how he would never let a woman like that touch him, feeling much more pious than this wandering preacher he’s invited to dinner, and, I’d guess, wondering how we can get Jesus out of there before dessert —- Jesus catches him. And he holds up that woman, who was a sinner, as a better example of love than Simon the Pharisee.

You remember that frustrating line Jesus has, about how it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the Kingdom of God? This story is a good example of what Jesus may have meant. That woman had been publicly labeled a sinner and had to bear that as the first marker of her identity; she had to struggle under the disdain of other people, and who knows what else she had to deal with…she was poor in spirit, and so she went running into the kingdom of God, weeping, ready to anoint the feet that brought her the good word that she was a forgiven child of God. But the Pharisee – we assume – had never felt that same desperation, had always thought he was behaving at least a little better than everyone else, had “a lifetime of doing right to cling to,”…he was rich in spirit and goods, and so when the Kingdom of God showed up at his dinner table, he found it offensive. It couldn’t be the Kingdom of God if people like her could get in.

So where does all that leave us?

I’m guessing that most of us, as individuals, finds ourselves relating a little more to the woman, or a little more to Simon the Pharisee. Some of us are feeling that overwhelming need to be forgiven and to be seen as a child of God – to see ourselves as a children of God – or feeling gratitude for that grace. And some of us are hearing God say “Wake up! Guess what – those people that offend you? I love them too. That’s the way it is — welcome to my Kingdom.”

But as a community and as a church, we have a calling, a responsibility, a mission to relate to that third character, Jesus: to be the Body of Christ. We are called to be the community that sees people differently; the community that causes offense by spending time with the offensive; the community that brings healing and compassion to those suffering with the realities of disease and hurt and loneliness, realties most of us would rather ignore. We are called to carry hope to the hopeless and forgiveness to the sinner. We are called to live in the Kingdom of God, where all people are seen as children of God, and we are called to invite others into that kingdom. We are called to be that new world that Jesus opened up when he saw people differently. And blessed is anyone who takes no offense. Amen.

The Kings God Warned Us About

Written for St. Andrew Lutheran Church, Franklin, TN + Second Sunday in Pentecost + June 7, 2015

Texts: 1 Sam. 8:4-20; Psalm 138; 2 Cor. 4:13-5:1; Mark 3:20-35

Today I’ll be focusing on the first of our Bible readings: the story of the beginning of Israel’s line of kings. And since we’re talking about kings and kingdoms, it seems only right to start off with a “once upon a time…”story. This one’s from the Bible, but it takes place a couple of generations after our reading.

So: once upon a time, in the days of the kings of Israel, the famous Solomon died and left the throne to his son, Rehoboam. The people went to their new king, hoping for a change. “Your father made our lives hard,” they said to him. “Be easier on us. Make our burden lighter, and we will serve you gladly.” The king went to his advisors, thought on it for three days, and then gave the people his answer: “My father was tough on you? Well, I will be even tougher. He disciplined you with whips, but I will discipline you with scorpions” (1 Kings 12:1-14).

Soon after this the kingdom divides into two separate kingdoms: Israel and Judah. The kings and queens of these nations follow Rehoboam’s lead: of the 39 kings that come after Solomon, the scriptures compliment only two.[1] The rest are condemned based on these two criteria: they were not faithful to the one God, and they exploited the people.[2]

This is the exact fate described or predicted in our Bible reading, the story of the beginning of Israel’s kings. Up until this point in history, Israel had existed as a tribal culture, with people grouped together by family ties, more or less ruling themselves. But now the people say, “We want a king like the other nations have. We want someone to rule over us and to fight battles for us.” And God mourns, “They’re forsaking me yet again,” but God grants them their wish. “Fine. Have it your way. But you know what a king does, right? He will take your sons and daughters to work for him; he’ll take the best of your crops and your animals and your slaves. And you will basically be his slaves.” I don’t hear this as a punishment on Israel because they dared to ask for a human king. I hear it as a reminder of what is bound to happen – at least most of the time — when one human being has so much power over others. But the people don’t care; they want a king.

History tells us story after story of rulers who do exactly as this passage says. From Ahab and Jezebel, to those abusive lords in Bravehart, to Bashar al-Assad, we’ve seen the truth of the proverb: absolute power corrupts absolutely. But what really breaks my heart in this universal story is how often rulers claim that their power – the power they use to abuse and exploit – comes from God. So many rulers claimed they ruled by divine right, that God had given them their authority, and that to contradict the king was to contradict the will of God.

This idea of a “divine right” to rule over others had sort of a trickle-down effect. For generations and generations we have put our faith in a God-given pecking order. We have believed that some people are just naturally made to be rich and in-charge, while others are made of stupider stuff: they deserve little and need others to tell them what to do all the time, or to force them to do things.

Let me tell you another story.

Once upon a time, in the days of Columbus, on a Carribean island, there lived a young Spanish priest named Bartolomé de las Casas. But he didn’t live the life we’d expect of a priest, at least not today. He owned a plantation which was worked by slaves taken from the island’s native people. He helped to capture more slaves. He fought and killed to conquer new land. Even when a group of Dominican priests arrived on the island and denied communion to all those participating in the brutal slave system, las Casas argued that his actions as a slaveholder were just. What we would call violence and cruelty, he said were ordained by God. And many, many others agreed with him.

They said the natives were barbaric and pagan. They didn’t know the right ways to behave. It was for their own good that the colonists ruled over them. And if they refused to submit? Well, then violent force was for their own good, too. These natives must submit to the colonists, just as humans must submit to God.

This story raises a whole lot of questions. Questions about respecting other cultures, about seeing equality across differences, about the right to conquer. And I hope you’re all asking those questions. But I’m going to cut right to the obvious theological question.

The argument before us is that God’s will was for the colonists to conquer, capture, beat, kill, and enslave the natives for their own good, just as all of us humans submit to God for our own good. But is that how the Lord God rules us humans? Does God look down on us and say, “Compared to me, you humans are foolish barbarians. You have no idea how the world works. You just keep doing what is bad for you. I’ll keep you in line.” and then thwack us with a big stick to keep us from sinning?

Does God value us according to how close we come to measuring up to God? Does God make saints rich and powerful and sinners poor and weak?

No. The psalm we read today praises God for being the opposite of worldly rulers: “The Lord is high, yet cares for the lowly, perceiving the haughty from afar.” God doesn’t award social status based on how righteous we are. God sees past our social status to who we really are.

Las Casas — the priest from our story — caught on to this eventually. Or, rather, the Holy Spirit stepped in and transformed him. Just as Saul of Tarsus, the intense persecutor of Christians, became the apostle Paul, the great evangelist, Las Casas the slave-hunter became the loudest opponent of New World slavery. He argued that the native peoples were not inherently inferior to the Europeans. They, too, were created in the image of God. And furthermore, Jesus didn’t send his disciples to all nations to conquer and enslave, but to baptize and make disciples. To follow in his example of compassion and humility and sacrifice.[3]

Those colonists were not ruling like God rules. They were ruling like the kings God warned us about: by taking and taking and taking for themselves, with no regard for those they saw as inferior. By saying, “I deserve this. You don’t. Get back in your place.”[4]

“Fray Bartolomé de las Casas” (1875) by Felix Parra

So let’s go back to the Bible. To our reading, where God warns the people that a king will only bring suffering. There are lots of places in the Old Testament with this point of view. But, as I’m sure you know, there are also many promises about kings of Israel. God promises David that his descendants will reign forever. Even when Israel is conquered and all the royalty are dragged away into exile, God says, “David’s line is not dead. Israel will have a king again, and then the wicked will be punished, and the poor will be lifted up, and there will be peace and justice.” (For example, see Isaiah 11.)

It seems strange at first that our scriptures would say in one place “God thinks kings are a bad idea”, and then in another place, “God promises to send a king who will fix everything.” We could tease it out from a historical point of view, and say that the different writers had different opinions about Israel’s politics.[5] But we’re not here today for history; we’re here to figure out something new about our faith and our world. So what are we to do with this contradiction?

I think the answer is the simplest Sunday school answer. You know the joke: A pastor sits down for a children’s sermon about God’s love for the animals, and she asks the children, “Who is small and brown and furry, with a bushy tail, lives in trees, and likes to eat nuts?” and little Billy says, “JESUS!”

But really, this time I think Jesus is the answer. Because as Christians we believe that Jesus is that king God promised to send, the good king, the king who tears down all the ways that we use each other and restores things to how they should be. We say that in Jesus of Nazareth, we have a real view of how God would treat humans if God were one of us. Actually, we say more than that. We say we that in Jesus of Nazareth we have a view of how God did treat humans when God was one of us.

Jesus said the poor and the hungry and the grieving people were the blessed ones. Jesus said the meek will inherit the earth. Jesus rode a young donkey, not a warhorse. Jesus hung out with uneducated fisherman and the tax collectors everyone thought were the worst of society. Jesus didn’t claim the best place on the social ladder — he said over and over that our social ladder was all wrong.

Jesus was not the kind of king God warned us about. Jesus was and is the king God promised.

Let’s tell one more story. Not from “once upon a time,” but from here, in this time. In the story of our world today, there are still the kind of rulers God warned us about. There are people still saying, “God put me here and you there, so you do what I tell you.”

We’re all characters in that story. Sometimes we’re the ones being told to get back in our place: you can’t do that, you don’t deserve that, you’re not good enough. That’s for better people. But other times, we are the ones saying those things or hearing them said to others. And sometimes those things even sound reasonable. Like in the story of Las Casas: he had to argue against a whole lot of people who used theology and philosophy and common sense to say that it was good to conquer and enslave. And I don’t think he won against those reasonable arguments.

So I encourage you to be on the lookout for that old phrase, “God put us here, and them there; we deserve this; they don’t.” in all of its sneaky forms. And when you find it, hold it up to that old, worn-out Sunday school question, “But what would Jesus do?”

[1] Knight, Douglas A. and Amy-Jill Levine, The Meaning of the Bible, (New York: HarperCollins, 2011), pp. 412.

[2] Knight and Levine, pp. 407.

[3] Information about Las Casas and those who argued against him is from Paul Lim’s “Christianity in the Reformation Era” course, Spring 2011, at Vanderbilt Divinity School in Nashville, TN, and from Las Casas’s writings, “Only Method of Converting the Indians,” and “In Defense of the Indians.”

[4] I read up on early colonists’ interactions with Indians in the first pages of Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States.

[5] Knight and Levine, 405-406.