Helpless Before the Throne by Jessie Larkins
A Right to an Answer? by Mark Ryan
Twentieth Sunday after Pentecost
“Indeed, the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing until it divides soul from spirit, joints from marrow; [he] is able to judge the thoughts and intentions of the heart. And before him no creature is hidden, but all are naked and laid bare to the eyes of the one to whom we must render an account.”
I always understood this to be a reference to scripture as the “word of God.” I am not sure that I do anymore. Recently, I have come to apply the Johannine use of the term “logos,” which is translated here as “word,” to hear this passage as a reference, not to the text of scripture, but rather to Christ, the Word of God.
I suppose one could argue with the integrity of that decision, supposing that the Johannine use of “logos” does not necessarily make its way into the other books of the New Testament. But the rest of our reading from Hebrews also gives us reason to think it is referring to Jesus, seeing that the following verse (13) speaks of a person, using personal pronouns and the phrase “the one to whom we must render account.” Similarly, the following, well-known passage from Hebrews speaks directly of Jesus, our “Great High Priest.” The one who judges thoughts and intentions of the heart is also the one who is able to sympathize with them.
For this reason, I believe the author of Hebrews is speaking of Jesus, and it makes even more sense as we see this two-edged sword do its work on the Rich Young Ruler in the Gospel reading from Mark 10:17-31. Here we see a pious man conflicted in his loyalty, perhaps unable to discern his own thoughts and intentions, and the call of Jesus will act with surgical precision in an attempt to divide a masked-but-unclean spirit from this beloved soul.
Willie Jennings, commenting on Karl Barth’s exegesis of this passage, points to the posture and piety of this young man as he approaches Jesus, kneeling and honoring Jesus by calling him “good”. He is, as Jennings says, the “properly formed religious subject.” That is, he makes the right gestures and even admits to a life of righteous behavior after Jesus names the commandments of the “second table,” those directed at love of neighbor.
Here is where, however, the two-edged sword begins to split soul from the spirit that possesses the Rich Young Ruler: “Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said, ‘You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.’” The devastation of the Rich Man at this instruction reveals both his wealth (for we have not known of it until this point in the reading) and of his absolute devotion the unclean spirit of wealth accumulation. Christ has called the man into covenant partnership, and, as Jennings says, “The rich man already has a covenant partner: mammon.” The man is not only ruled by this unholy covenant partner, but we are also led to ask whether his religious formation and right observation of the law were funded by this greater devotion to Mammon. Could his financial security be the bedrock of his religious mastery, with Mammon then being the great provider for the possibility of his religious devotion?
Jennings gives us these questions to ponder, while also pointing to the invitation of Jesus as a direct challenge to the lordship of Mammon in the life of the Rich Man:
The Rich Man’s theological mastery is resourced by his financial mastery, and he is being asked by Jesus to exercise that mastery in offering up both to God and neighbor…The man through his giving will have treasure in heaven and thereby begin the reorientation of his life through an alternative financial calculus. That alternative financial calculus is aimed concretely at the poor as the new point of coordination for wealth. It is in exactly how the poor and disadvantaged are helped that shows love of neighbor and constitutes the material conditions for the transformation of the rich man.
Jesus speaks to the Rich Man in love, asking him to follow him – to join him in covenant partnership and signify this partnership through the redistribution of his possessions to the poor – the very neighbors he has apparently neglected to serve in the course of his pious observation of the Law. For, his law observance was always subject to the call of Mammon and that unholy pursuit, grounded in the Lordship of wealth and service in that temple. Jesus is beckoning him toward a different pursuit, one that redirects wealth and possessions toward a shared life with Jesus and the poor who will inherit his Kingdom. Thus, there is Good News to be shared with the Rich, as Saint Oscar Romero has said, “that they, too, become poor in order to share the benefits of the Kingdom with the poor.”
But this severing of the spirit of Mammon from the soul of the Rich Man proves to be too difficult for him, and the Word of God has laid him naked and bare before the other disciples and, perhaps, to himself for the first time. This man only feels the love of Christ as judgment, and the invitation to covenant partnership, to discipleship, reveals just how tightly his identity is bound to the pursuit and maintenance of his wealth. Again, Jennings is spot on in his lecture:
By calling the rich man to covenant partnership, Jesus has killed him. He has killed him by bringing him into [Jesus’] own life – his obedience to God his father and his life in the Spirit. God confronts the rich man with a death that leads to life. If no one can see God and live, then the rich man is now looking at God asking him to die.
This is nothing less than the call to discipleship, and we stand with the disciples asking Jesus the same question, “Then who can be saved?” Their question reveals their own temptation toward the pursuit of mammon, and it should resonate with us as we navigate a world where financial pragmatism and “stewardship” is measured by acquisition, accumulation, and growth. We are asked with the disciples, “Who are you trying to become? The Rich Man? Or the One who bears the cross in solidarity with the poor?”
The gate of the Kingdom is as narrow as a needle’s eye for those burdened with the heap of accumulated wealth. If the church is to bear witness to the Lordship of Jesus and the Spirit of Grace, wealth must be shared and distributed as each has need so that no one is so burdened at the entrance of the Kingdom that they cannot easily pass through the narrow gate that leads to life abundant.
1 Quoted from the NRSV, with the article changed from “it” to “he” in 4:12b. There is not article in the Greek text; it is an addition to the English translation.
2 Bradley Jersak, A More Christlike Word: Reading Scripture the Emmaus Way, 34-35. Jersak’s experience recounted on those pages mapped onto my own, and I am grateful to him for exposing this as simply as he does in this book.
3 The bulk of my reflections on this passage stem from a lecture I heard years ago and return to regularly. The lecture is titled, “A Rich Disciple? Karl Barth on the Rich Young Ruler,” and it was given at the annual Karl Barth Conference at Princeton Theological Seminary by Willie James Jennings. The audio/video of the lecture is no longer available online, but it seems to have been published under the same title in Reading the Gospels with Karl Barth.
4 Oscar Romero, “The Political Dimension of Christian Love,” Commonweal, March 26, 1982. https://www.commonwealmagazine.org/archives-political-dimension-christian-love.
Nineteenth Sunday After Pentecost
My parish, over the past few weeks, has been engaged in a study of Wendell Berry. This past Sunday we read Berry’s essays, “Health is Membership” and “Damage.” This week we’ll be discussing the essay, “Healing,” and the short story, “Fidelity.” With those works on my mind I could not help but hear our scriptures for this Sunday with an echo of Berry’s voice. From our lesson from Genesis 2 to Psalm 8, the opening of Hebrews and Jesus’ engagement with the Pharisees, we find the themes of the membership, damage, healing, and fidelity.Read more
Eighteenth Sunday After Pentecost
One of the frustrations of our present moment is the constant attempt to draw lines in the sand, to make almost every hill one on which to die. One group or person will agree with another on most things (and likely all essential matters), but the remaining disagreements – no matter how minor – become a bridge too far. We see it both inside and outside the church. Every difference becomes a potential point of division.
The results are all too familiar. Constant anger at someone else and their tribe. Frustration at the ongoing tension, which is often exacerbated by the trivial nature of the disagreement. Isolation as we slowly cut ourselves off from others. And exhaustion as the mental and emotional weight of such tension takes its toll.
Sometimes the history of the church can occasionally offer some solace. Perhaps we can find some context to our present perception of the world. Perhaps we realize that it is not as bad as it was in the past. Of course, it is also possible that we discover things have been like this for a long time, which can actually add more frustration.
Recently, I was struck by the similarities between oft-used contemporary rhetoric and that of Charles Spurgeon within the so-called Downgrade Controversy of the late nineteenth century. Among other things, Spurgeon was concerned about the embrace of new methods of biblical interpretation that he saw as threats to the Bible’s authority. He also railed against violations of expected moral guidelines such as ministers going to the theatre.
While there were some serious theological concerns that needed to be addressed, Spurgeon did not seek to address them through conversation. Instead, he offered divisive rhetoric, declaring that a “new religion has been initiated, which is no more Christianity than chalk is cheese.”
This view further contributed to division, as Spurgeon argued that “Christian love has its claims, and divisions are to be shunned as grievous evils; but how far are we justified in being in confederacy with those who are departing from the truth?” It is quite easy to hear echoes of these sentiments in some contemporary tribes of Christians. Even if his opponents approached him with openness to conversation, Spurgeon expressed his skepticism of their sincerity: “Let every believer judge for himself; but, for our part, we have put on a few fresh bolts to our door, and we have given orders to keep the chain up.”
The result of this controversy was a split between Spurgeon’s church and its denomination, and his censure by that denomination. While there is quite a bit to lament in this story, in recent years (and quite recently), Spurgeon’s actions have actually been hailed as heroic and as an example to emulate.
The appointed Psalm reading for this week echoes this perspective as well. In it the psalmist gives thanks for God’s actions on behalf of Israel. The repeated phrase, “if it had not been the Lord who had been on our side” (Psalm 124:1-2), speaks with certainty that God was (and is) on their side. For the psalmist, this is about the futility of Israel to save itself from the grasp of its enemies or from the overwhelming flood. Gratitude becomes the result here. However, from another vantage point, we can easily project the psalmist’s certainty forward, concluding that since God is on our side, who can stand against us?
The gospel lesson enters the conversation at this point. As Jesus is traveling with his disciples, John states that he and several of his companions saw a person invoking Jesus’ name in order to perform a miracle to help someone. In response, they worked to stop that person “because he was not following us” (Mark 9:38). This exchange is placed immediately after last week’s gospel lesson, where Jesus said, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me” (Mark 9:37).
We are not told what motivates John to speak up in this moment and tell Jesus this story. Perhaps he is concerned that this new miracle worker is usurping the disciples’ self-described importance. Maybe he thinks he is protecting Jesus from outsiders. Perhaps he simply picks up on “in my name” in Jesus’ previous instruction and proceeds to talk about another instance where his name was used. Of course, Mark’s gospel is filled with examples of the disciples simply failing to understand what Jesus is talking about. That is especially true in this particular section of Mark.
Jesus’ response is simple yet profoundly helpful: “Whoever is not against us is for us” (Mark 9:40). He notes that anyone who can support Jesus to the extent of performing a miracle cannot truly betray him elsewhere.
As we saw in last week’s lesson, Jesus uses a single word to open doors to the marginalized: whoever. There is an inclusivity here that holds off on painting lines of division. Whoever. This word seeks to find friends and allies in unexpected places. Whoever. Rather than taking sides against our neighbors, we are urged to take sides with God and find fellowship and common ground with whoever we find there.
Contemplating these passages in light of our present experiences (and even reflecting on older events such as the Downgrade Controversy), we see Jesus unsettling our certainty about God being on our side. More importantly, we see Jesus blurring any lines we may prefer to draw or divisions we might like to solidify. This undermines the entire project of excessively drawing lines in the first place.
This does not mean that there will not be serious doctrinal differences that might be problematic, but Jesus cautions against seeing every difference as a fault line and point of division. “Whoever is not against us is for us.” This is crucial for taking Jesus’ closing admonition in this week’s lesson seriously: “be at peace with one another” (Mark 9:50).
Image Credit: Chris Goldberg
Seventeenth Sunday After Pentecost
Jesus’ face was turned toward Jerusalem; he was on his way to meet death. Things were different now. He didn’t want to mingle with crowds; he wanted to go deep with his friends, to teach them the most important lessons at all. Time was short and the days were desperate. Jesus knew if he didn’t get his message across to these twelve, his mission had failed. He was desperate to see some measure of understanding in the disciples’ eyes.
“The Son of Man is going to be betrayed into the hands of men.” Jesus scanned their faces—there was a traitor among them, and he knew it. “They will kill him, and after three days he will rise.” He announced it as fact, a warning, maybe even as an appeal.
Not a glimmer of insight showed on the faces of his friends. His words didn’t fit their plans or dreams; they grew quiet and began to fidget. The Master’s sense of gloom, his talk of death, cast a shadow on them all. They were like a patient who receives a dreaded word from the doctor: “We’ve found something in your x-rays…” There are times when you don’t want to know more.
“They did not understand what he was saying and were afraid to ask him.” Fear kept the disciples from asking hard questions. Peter already made one attempt to manage Jesus, and earned the name “Satan” for his trouble. Maybe it was just easier to keep quiet. If they could have worked up the courage, what questions do you suppose the disciples might have asked?
Why must you suffer? What kind of a Messiah dies? Will you leave us? What will happen to us?
Pause for a moment and ask yourself: What questions am I afraid to ask of Jesus?
Jesus’ frustration bubbled out after they found a place in Capernaum to spend the night. “What were you arguing about on the road?” he asked them, and a guilty silence filled the room. They glanced at one other, hoping someone would come up with a decent answer. On the road they had been working out seating arrangements for the ticker tape parade that awaited them when they hit Jerusalem with the Messiah in tow. They had squabbled over who got the office next to the boss, who was the alpha disciple? You can almost hear Jesus pray: “O Lord, how can the keys of the Kingdom be entrusted to these guys?”
Do you demand proper respect? Do you enjoy the titles and trappings of your position? Are you driven to succeed in your field, to rise to greater levels of authority or respect? Do you long for recognition, fame, wealth, security? Does being stuck where you are stick in your craw?
If so, join the circle of the twelve. It may be hard to find a place; everyone is elbowing in for the best seats. The morning session has already begun.
He sat down, called the twelve, and said to them, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” Then he took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”
Sixteenth Sunday After Pentecost
In the opening paragraphs of his 1979 essay “Standing by Words,” Wendell Berry states:
“Two epidemic illnesses of our time—upon both of which virtual industries of cures have been founded—are the disintegration of communities and the disintegration of persons. That these two are related (that private loneliness, for instance, will necessary accompany public confusion) is clear enough…What seems not so well understood, because not so much examined, is the relation between these disintegrations and the disintegration of language. My impression is that we have seen, for perhaps a hundred and fifty years, a gradual increase in language that is either meaningless or destructive of meaning. And I believe that this increasing unreliability of language parallels the increasing disintegration, over the same period, of persons and communities.”
I often share these remarks with the Rhetoric and Composition students I teach, as a way of diagnosing a problem that I believe it is our calling to address, in whatever small way we can. This problem, which certainly hasn’t gotten any better in the forty-plus years since Berry published his essay, is our careless neglect and misuse of one of God’s greatest gifts to humanity, the gift of words, whether written or spoken. While we might not always treat this gift with the respect it deserves, that doesn’t change the simple fact that words matter. They matter to God, and they should matter to us.
As our lectionary texts for this week demonstrate, this is a concern that has been with us far longer than any of us can fully grasp. That is to say, for as long as human beings have been writing—probably for as long as human beings have been speaking to one another—the mystery and the responsibility of language have weighed heavily on us.
The passages from the Old Testament point to some of the most important uses for this gift, the tasks of worship and prayer, of teaching and proclamation, of exhortation and lament. With the speaker of Psalm 116, we cry out to God in our trouble. We join in the prayer of Psalm 19, asking that the words of our mouths will be pleasing to God. With Isaiah, we wrestle with the responsibility that comes with having “the tongue of a teacher,” knowing that we might be called upon to “sustain the weary with a word,” but at the same time knowing that our words might be met with derision and even abuse.
Still, we strive to be faithful to that calling, balancing the knowledge that it is the Lord God who vindicates us when others might declare us guilty, with the humility that comes from knowing it is never our words, or our wisdom that we make known. We are, at most, vessels of that divine Wisdom that cries out in the streets, calling the wayward home. We are, even at our most eloquent, simply part of the chorus of creation that declares the glory of God. And so we pray that the words of our mouths and the meditations of our hearts would be pleasing to our God, our Rock, our Redeemer.
In the New Testament texts, likewise, we are confronted with the reality that this gift of language, the ability to express the meditations of our hearts, to speak truth and wisdom, is not to be taken lightly. In one of the best known passages about the power of speech, James reminds us that our tongues, despite being small, exercise an enormous amount of power, both within us and in the world around us. Like a rudder, the things we say can provide guidance, steering the lives of our friends and family, our neighbors, our students, our brothers and sisters in Christ, where they need to go. But just as easily, our words can provide the spark that burns a life down. When we speak, whether from a pulpit or in private conversation, whether in a sanctuary or on social media, we must do so with an awareness of what our words can do.
Finally, the Gospel recounts the story of Peter’s confession, a moment when Jesus asked his followers a question and the words of Peter’s mouth revealed the meditations of his heart in a way that pleased his Lord: “You are the Messiah.” Other accounts of this same event depict Jesus acknowledging just how significant Peter’s statement was, declaring that this confession was not revealed to him by human beings but by God. But just as quickly, almost before we, the readers of this story, have fully digested the import of Peter’s moment in the sun, Peter does what he so often does. He speaks in a way that reveals his lack of understanding. He speaks from the heart, to be sure. He speaks with honorable intentions. Upon being told about Jesus’ imminent betrayal and death, Peter takes Jesus aside and rebukes him. When Jesus responds with what must have been the most withering critique that Peter (or any of us) had ever received, “Get behind me, Satan! For you are not setting your mind on divine things, but on human things,” it not only serves as an indictment of Peter’s words, but a powerful reminder of James’ teaching, that out of the same mouth can come good things and bad things. Our words should therefore be measured carefully, spoken with discernment, and guided by a wisdom that is beyond us.
Of course, we also do well to remember that, just as speech is a gift, so is silence. The Wisdom that cries out in the streets only helps us if we listen. To be a disciple is, first and foremost, to be a student. If we would be faithful teachers, messengers, evangelists and encouragers to those around us, this must begin with a willingness to hear what God is saying to us, through creation, through the Holy Spirit, through Scripture, and through the discerning community of the saints that God places in our lives. Only by listening can we become more attuned to the Word of God at work among us, and thus stand by our words more faithfully.
Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost
On this lonely road, trying to make it home
Doing it by my lonesome, pissed off, who wants some
I’m fighting for my soul, God, get at your boy
You try to bogart, fall back, I go hard
On this lonely road, trying to make it home
Doing it by my lonesome, pissed off, who wants some
I see them long hard times to come…
–Gangstagrass, “Long Hard Times to Come”
If another sins, what is that to you?
When the sinful suffer publicly, do you
find secret comfort in their grief, or will
you also weep? They are surely grieving;
are you weeping now? Assuming sin is sin,
whose do you condemn? Who is judge? Who
will feed the lambs? The sheep? Who, the goats?
Who will sell and give? Who will be denied?
Whose image haunts the mirror? And why
are you still here? What exactly do you hope
to become? When will you begin?
Scott Cairns, from “Bad Theology: A Quiz”
I’ve been thinking a lot about anger lately, if for no other reason than it’s become all but ubiquitous. Anger and reports of anger pervade news cycles, as alienated souls fortified by the railing of television and internet pundits launch verbal and sometimes physical assaults on those they’ve been told are their enemies. So angry have we become that it’s worth asking whether we’re any longer capable of anything other than spleen venting. I use the word “we” deliberately here because I am far from immune to outrage. Truth be told, my own struggle with anger is the likely source of my noticing – and (ironically) becoming angry toward – the anger of others. I realized this was a problem one morning last fall, when I was reading an article about the horrors to which detained immigrants at our southern border were being subjected, including accusations that American physicians had performed involuntary sterilizations on some of the women who had been detained. Quite spontaneously I found myself yelling at my computer screen, “What the hell is wrong with these people? God damn them!” Later that day I sheepishly confessed my violation of the third commandment to a friend, who advised me, “Maybe you should pray for them.” Maybe, indeed.
To be sure, there is plenty to be angry about. The recently released report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change presented us with what looks to be a choice between things becoming incrementally worse before they stabilize somewhere between really bad and imminently cataclysmic, depending on whether we finally find the courage to pull our heads out of our rears, reduce consumption, and start paying the debt we’ve been accruing to Creation for the past 150 or so odd years. The exuberance attending our fleeting and ultimately illusory control over Covid-19 in June and July gave way by the beginning of August to overfilled intensive care units and escalated squabbles over local mask ordinances–reminders of how deep the opportunism, gullibility, and suspiciousness that have given us the mask wars and anti-vaccine conspiracy theories run. And this is to say nothing of myriad, less-reported tragedies, from the continued reign of an exploitative economy to the innumerable divisions wrought by racial and ethnic bigotry. How could any caring, right-thinking person not be angry about all this?
But there’s a line separating righteous anger from sanctimonious outrage. The latter is a form of self-deception, and its consequences are invariably unhappy. This week’s gospel text, from Mark, nicely illustrates the difference. In the story, a group of Pharisees, likely the leaders of surrounding Galilean synagogues, and some scribes from Jerusalem, ostensibly in the region to confirm (or challenge) what they’d heard about the new Galilean prophet, gather around Jesus and begin asking questions. These experts in the Law of Moses observe that Jesus’s disciples, who were eating, hadn’t first washed their hands, which they found at least offensive and perhaps an indication that Jesus was no prophet at all.
Ritual washing of various types was a significant practice in first century Judaism, thanks primarily to the “tradition of the elders,” a collection of orally transmitted glosses on the Law, of which the Pharisees and scribes regarded themselves the custodians. In this passage, it becomes yet another point of contention in the ongoing argument between Jesus and his interlocutors about how best to understand and embody the Law, including its very point – what it is for. From the perspective of the scribes and Pharisees, ritual washing was necessary, either as an acknowledgment of one’s ritual or moral uncleanness or as a safeguard based on the presumed danger of becoming polluted by daily interaction with a world full of unclean things and people. Just so, they simply assumed that Jesus’s disciples were defiled by their failure to wash before eating, which they found outrageous, especially among the followers of a supposed prophet.
Jesus’s response was not to attack the Law of Moses, nor even the tradition of the elders as such, but stridently to call out the hypocrisy of those experts who used the tradition of the elders to supersede the Law, often as a means of exercising self-interested social power (e.g., Matthew 23:1-26). His argument is predicated on an example having nothing to do with hand washing, which serves both to make his broader point about his opponents’ intentions and to divert attention from their undue concern with clean hands. The Decalogue, he notes, clearly tells the faithful to honor their parents (Exodus 20:12), an instruction that includes the obligation to support those parents financially when they become unable to provide for themselves. Yet the tradition of the elders frees those who follow it from this obligation by instead making a voluntary sacrificial offering – a “Corban” – to God. The point Jesus makes here is not that sacrificial offerings are wrong, but that using them to override the tenets necessary to maintain the integrity of the community and the health of its members is a giant case of missing the point of the Law, which Herbert McCabe describes as “an outline of friendship,” which “draws a boundary around friendship to show where it stops.” This is important, he says, insofar as “the Decalogue is part of God’s summons to be his people,” the first step of which “is to be human people, and that means living in friendship.”
The supposition that living in friendship is requisite to living as God’s people is entirely consistent with what Jesus says when he turns his attention from his interlocutors to the crowds gathered around them. “Listen to me,” he says, “all of you, and understand: there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile.” Later, explaining his assertion to his disciples, Jesus names some of the defiling things that “come out,” offering a list that seems more exemplary than conclusive. Either way, though, the point he argues with his interlocutors and the list he shares with his disciples suggest that those attitudes, words, and actions that divide us, those that alienate us from each other and harm the most vulnerable among us, are those with which we ought to be most concerned.
Which brings us back to anger, which comes from within us and which the epistolary, from the book of James, addresses by making a point not unlike the one Jesus makes in the gospel lesson. In James, as in Mark, the author is concerned to show a distinction between religiosity and faithfulness, between godliness and the mere appearance thereof. James also works with a contrast, not between defilement from without and within, but the goodness of that which comes from above and the potential wickedness of that which comes from within. Those things we receive as gifts – good things – James says, come from God, who is not simply the author of goodness, but goodness itself. Such gifts are to be used, he suggests, not simply for our own benefit, but for the benefit of our fellow members of Creation, of which the people of God are to be “first fruits.”
The author of James is calling on his readers, then, to cultivate a disposition of gratitude and generosity, which he contrasts in what follows with anger born of certitude, resentment, and envy: “let everyone be quick to listen, slow to speak, slow to anger; for your anger does not produce God’s righteousness. Therefore rid yourselves of all sordidness and rank growth of wickedness, and welcome with meekness the implanted word that has the power to save your souls.” What matters most, he concludes, is performing, rather than merely hearing, the word. While the latter yields a religiosity that is not, one might imagine, unlike that of the scribes and Pharisees, the former produces a “pure and undefiled” religion, which consists in caring “for orphans and widows in their distress” and keeping “oneself unstained by the world.”
What both of these passages suggest is that faithfulness consists in being a faithful member of a people, one constituted by the call to love: one another, our neighbors, and even our enemies. The name for that love, at least according to McCabe, is friendship, which is made impossible by the sanctimonious outrage that today passes as anger. For what I take to be the most significant consequences of anger, one often overlooked, is alienation, or, if you prefer, loneliness. Anger makes enemies, spawning and perpetuating alienation, which in turn fuels further anger, for there is no one quite so angry as the one who is isolated and cut off from the fellowship that makes us human.
So perhaps a way forward in a world so divided as ours is to seek ways to hear, understand, discover commonalities, and perhaps even welcome those angry others whose outrage tempts us to anger – especially those who call themselves Christians, with whom we share a baptism. Nothing concrete may come of our efforts, but that is not really the point; or so says our friend and former EP board member Brian Volck, who asks:
What would happen if I acquired the habit of listening to the other—even the ranter, the bigot, and the prig— with the necessary compassion to acknowledge that person’s adversities and brokenness, unique to them yet so similar to mine? What would it take to tell someone not only where I think they’re wrong but also what part of their truth I need to hear? What would I have to change in me in order to love my enemies? What, in short, must I do to follow the Christ I say I believe in?
What, indeed. We’ll only know as we try. Let us begin.
Image Credit: Christ Among the Pharisees by Jacob Jordaens
Thirteenth Sunday After Pentecost
Few other Gospel texts capture the tension between Jesus’ accessibility and his acceptability. Jesus is easily accessible. He’s like the bread that came down from heaven, indiscriminately accessible to everyone. But he is not always easily acceptable — “and the bread that I will give…is my flesh.” When many of his disciples heard it, they said, “This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?”In the Gospel of John, it is common for people to misunderstand Jesus.
Jesus also has a tendency to lean into these misunderstandings. Many times his “clarifications” only serve to further muddy the waters for his listeners. Perhaps this is because some of his would-be followers are only desiring to nibble on the bread of life, while Jesus is inviting them to a feast. The New Oxford Dictionary defines food as “any nutritious substance that people eat or drink in order to maintain life and growth.” When I eat something, it becomes a part of me, and it enables me to live and move and have my being. Just as our bodies have a space and capacity to receive the life and vital nutrients of food, so too do our souls have a space and capacity to receive the life-sustaining love of God, which becomes a part of our lives. As Thomas Merton once noted, “the root of Christian love is not the will to love, but the faith that one is loved. The faith that one is loved by God.” And this love is offered to us as a love feast, not an appetizer or a supplement.
It is also worth noting that not all food is good. Much of my health comes as a direct by-product of what I eat. And the things that I perpetually eat will be transformed into the molecular structure of who I am. Literally every cell in my body comes from the food that I eat. The human body is a space of transformation. We take food into our being and it is transformed into our body’s material reality. Jesus is offering us nothing less than to consume divine food. When we take this food into our being, it has the potentiality to transform our material reality into something divine. We become partakers in God’s divine nature. “Thus he has given us, his precious and very great promises, so that through them you may escape from the corruption that is in the world because of lust, and may become participants in the divine nature.” (2 Peter 1:4)
While God has created us with the capacity to become divine by consuming the heavenly food of Christ, we also have the capacity to become vile by consuming the rancid feed of this world. We must remember we are going to become that which we continually take into our lives. The good news of Jesus Christ is that the same God-given capacity to become is what enables to receive the life-giving bread of God. But it doesn’t happen without cultivating a continual and constant hunger to take Christ into our lives. Christ embodies what it means to be human, and Christ himself is at the fulcrum of this transformation and becoming.
The Word becomes flesh. Through the power of this Word-become-flesh we see water become wine for the sake of a feast. We also see a few scarce loaves of bread become a feast to feed the multitudes. At Christ’s table we proclaim that just as water became wine, so now wine becomes blood, and bread becomes flesh. Christ invites us to this table of transformation and becoming. As we take take this reality onto our lips and into our lives, may almighty God transform our everyday lives into the body of Christ, and may Christ make of us an eternal offering to God.
The following reflections on this week’s texts are taken from the EP archives: