"Relax, Eat, Drink, Be Merry" (Luke 12:13-21)

Living the Dream, Unhappily

I remember when a friend in college went through a particularly difficult breakup. Her first reaction was to lose herself in any amusement or recreation that she could find. She would skip classes, stay up late watching movies, and eat ice cream and junk food. She did everything she could to forget the past and to be happy. She essentially followed the advice that the rich fool from Jesus’ parable gives himself: “Relax, eat, drink, be merry” (Luke 12:19). You would probably already guess this on your own, but I’ll go ahead and share the result: she was not happy. Beneath all the self-indulgence, there was a broken soul. All the pleasures in the world would not fix it.

Similar stories play themselves out across our world every day. Sometimes it’s just a college student trying to make their way through life’s difficulties. But the story is especially evident in the lives of the rich and famous. For the American Dream has convinced many of us that happiness is to be found in prosperity, and yet the individuals who are living the dream are so often profoundly unhappy. The recent media circus around Johnny Depp’s trial is but an echo of the selfish struggles and hurt and loneliness that haunt a life that chases after riches and reputation. How many times must he have said to himself in his soul, “Relax, eat, drink, be merry.” But beneath all the riches, there lay a broken soul. All the money in the world would not fix it.

The Problem of Possessions

In today’s gospel text, a man in the crowd demands that Jesus take his side in an inheritance dispute. Jesus refuses. It is as though he already sees the heart of the matter, which has little to do with the inheritance. I remember a couple of occasions previously in ministry when someone shared with me similar disputes that they were having with others in their family. I so wanted to be helpful. I asked about family dynamics, the will, any circumstances that might pertain to the inheritance. I tried to be sympathetic and supportive. I wish, though, that I had followed Jesus’ example instead. “Friend,” he says, “who set me to be a judge…over you?” (12:14). Jesus can tell that the man is using him. He refuses to be triangled. He refuses to speak about something that is not his concern.

Instead, he addresses a danger he sees lurking in the man’s heart. Maybe the man is right in his claim, maybe not. But the rightness of his claim has nothing to do with righteousness—that is, living in right relationship with others and God. The man could be legally entitled to the inheritance, but his very grasping for it may deprive him of what really matters. Even now he is at odds with his brother. Jesus suggests that, in fact, he is at odds with life itself. “Take care!” he says, “for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions” (12:15). And then he tells a story about the problem of possessions.

What is the problem? Well, it depends on who you ask. If you ask the rich man, the problem is simple: space! This is someone who literally has more than he knows what to do with. What’s curious—and perhaps illuminating—is that the man lives entirely in his own world; he never once acknowledges anyone else. Perhaps this is the real problem. His possessions have become like a wall between him and the world. It’s a little odd that he neither gives thanks to God for the abundant harvest nor considers the possibility of sharing its surplus with the less fortunate around him. Instead, he has only himself to talk to. And what he tells himself is that these possessions have secured him the good life for many years. “Relax,” he tells himself; “Eat, drink, be merry” (12:19). Jesus, however, closes the story on the ominous note that the man’s life will soon be ending, and his possessions will be for naught. My own take is that this ending merely dramatizes what is already true. This man is already dead to the world. Beneath the abundance lies a broken soul. All the possessions in the world would not fix it.

Of Things and People

I’ll confess that, growing up, this parable seemed a bit stern and severe to me. It scared me in the same way that the ghost of Jacob Marley scared me in Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. I would have conceded that the rich man is rather greedy. He’s got more than he knows what to do with, and he’s so selfish that the thought never even crosses his mind to share it. He can’t really complain when it catches up with him. But still, it did not sit well with me that God chastises him right after the man has expressed his desire for the goodness of life, “Relax, eat, drink, be merry” (12:19). Is it so bad to think those thoughts? To say to yourself, “Life is good. Enjoy it.” Does God want to take that away from us?

I realize today that this discomfort and unease was, in part, an expression of my privilege and my fear of losing what I had. Even though I wouldn’t begin to compare myself or my family to the rich fool, I could still identify with him. When he says, “Relax, eat, drink, be merry,” my mind is suddenly flooded with occasions when my family did just that. I think of Thanksgiving dinners, when I couldn’t even fit all the food on one plate. I think of Christmas gatherings that began early in the morning and ended late at night. I think of summer evenings, when my dad would grill out and my family would sit on the back deck and relax and eat and drink and be merry. So, when God says to the rich man, “Tonight you’re going to lose it all,” I wondered if God were saying the same thing to me. I wondered if it were wrong for me to have enjoyed all those good moments.

…of course not. There’s a big difference between enjoying the company of others and trying to enjoy possessions. I think back to my friend in college. Why was she binging on mindless pleasures in the first place? She was heartbroken. There had been another person, a relationship. That’s where she had discovered life. And then that person was gone, and she tried to fill the void with things. “Relax, eat, drink, be merry” can be heard in two very different ways. It can be filling the void with things. Or it can be enjoying God’s gifts with others.

In fact, the very same terminology of the rich fool—“Relax, eat, drink, be merry”—appears elsewhere in the gospels to depict the goodness of life. These very same terms illustrate a very different way of living. The word “relax” is what Jesus uses when he tells his disciples, “Learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest [relaxation] for your souls” (Matt 11:29). In other words, truly relaxing does not mean drowning oneself in possessions but following the gentle, humble, childlike way of Christ, trusting God to provide according to each need. The words “eat” and “drink,” of course, refer to the activity for which Jesus was notorious. “This man eats and drinks with tax collectors and sinners,” the people would say (cf. Matt 11:19; Luke 5:30), reminding us that Jesus saw tables as an opportunity to connect with others, especially the marginalized. And “be merry” is the same expression used to describe the celebration of the loving father when his prodigal son returns home. In other words, God’s love is all about celebrating—being merry—in the good moments of reconciliation and communion.

I guess what I would want to say to anyone else who feels privileged like me, is that my childhood fears are not confirmed in scripture. God does not want to take the good life away from us who are already enjoying moments of it with others. But—God also does not want the good life to be squandered, and that is what happens when we put possessions before people. The good life is meant to be shared. That’s precisely what makes it good. The Catholic bishop Fulton Sheen once observed that loving things and using people is a recipe for unhappiness, but loving people and using things is a recipe for life.

Perhaps the best embodiment of “Relax, eat, drink, be merry” is Jesus himself. A homeless man whose love met frequently with fear and rejection and ultimately with a cross. Yet we believe he lived the best, fullest life of all. We believe he enjoyed it more than anyone else. He relaxed in his Father’s care and provision. He ate and drank with others, drawing them closer to God. He was merry with others, as merry as a father reconciling with a long-lost son. His life consists not in the abundance of possessions, but in the abundance of God’s love.

Prayer

God of life,
Whose good gifts are meant
To draw us closer to you and one another:
Give us eyes to recognize
Where our possessions have become a wall;
Give us hearts to feel
The loneliness of this false security
…
Lead us opposite the rich fool.
Lead us in the way of Christ,
Who lived and enjoyed life to the fullest.
In him who was crucified and risen: Amen.

Not Me (Luke 11:1-13)

“Anyone Want Anything?”

God is not a cosmic vending machine. We all know this. And yet…

Who among us has not begged God for what we wanted? “Please just let me pass this class, God!” “Please get me this job, God!”  Even an atheist may find himself praying in a real pinch. “If you’re really there and you just let me survive this, God, I’ll change my ways, I promise.”

For many people, this is what prayer is. A request for something we want. As comedian Flip Wilson once put it: “I’m gonna pray now; anyone want anything?”

When the disciples ask Jesus to teach them how to pray, I think they already have an inkling that prayer is something different. Because by now, they have seen the effects of prayer on Jesus. They’ve seen Jesus repeatedly steal away to pray. But has it brought him riches? No. In fact, he’s what we might call homeless; “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head” (9:58). Has prayer brought him prestige? Not quite. He has met with rejection repeatedly, including in his own hometown where they tried to throw him off the cliff. Has prayer brought him power? No, at least not in a worldly sense. The religious authorities have set their face against him. And he keeps talking about a cross and great suffering.

All of this to say, Jesus’ prayer life does not reap the rewards that many people seek in prayer. His prayers do not result in riches, prestige, or power, or even comfort or convenience. They have not made his life any easier by worldly standards. If anything, his life seems pointed in the direction of hardship and adversity. So why would the disciples ask Jesus to teach them to pray? Why would they desire a prayer life like Jesus’ if there was no benefit to them?

The Presence of God

My guess is that they saw something in Jesus that they did not see in people who had great riches, great prestige, or great power. They saw in him a certain ease with the world, a deep joy, a steady serenity, a real peace. They saw in him not struggle or striving, but acceptance and trust. In a word, they saw God in him. In today’s lectionary passage from Colossians, Paul writes, “In [Christ Jesus] the whole fullness of [God] dwells [in a body]” (Col 2:9).

So they ask Jesus, “How did you get this way? Teach us how you pray.”

In response, Jesus gives them a prayer that is remarkably different from the popular version of prayer. It is completely empty of “I” or “me” language. Perhaps this is part of the reason for what the disciples see in Jesus. There is no “I” or “me” getting in the way of God. The fullness of God can dwell in Jesus. Instead of praying for himself, Jesus prays for something larger than himself. He prays for God’s glory to become tangibly real in the world, for God’s kingdom to appear. He prays for the material and spiritual needs of his community, for bread as well as for forgiveness. And Jesus envisions that his community will become partners in God’s response. They will forgive one another as God has forgiven them. Presumably, he envisions that they will provide bread to one another as well, as God has provided it for them. For he follows up his model prayer with a story in which one friend begs another for bread—not for himself, but for someone else, a guest.

In Jesus’ model prayer, the self is not the center of the universe. Rather, God is the center, and God’s goodness radiates into all the community. The last few verses, however, throw a bit of a curve ball. They seem to present prayer according to the popular view, as a request that will be granted. “Ask…search…knock…,” Jesus says, and you will receive (11:9-10). But notice what is received. “If you then…know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!” (11:13). Jesus assumes that we will be praying desperately not for any old thing, but for the Holy Spirit, which is to say, the presence of God within us. At the heart of Jesus’ prayer is the desire for the presence of God.

“My Best Thinking Got Me Here”

Old-timers in the twelve-step program will often confess, “My best thinking got me here.” Whether their struggle is with alcohol, drugs, food, relationships, gambling, is irrelevant; the struggle itself begins with their will. It’s not that their will is too weak. It’s that their will is too strong. They think they know best. They think they can manage their own life. But as their grip on things gets tighter and tighter, their life spins further and further out of control.

You don’t have to be in a twelve-step program to identify with this feeling. “Addiction” is just a special modern word for an ancient human problem: attachment. We all get attached to things. It could be a substance, or a person, or a political party, or a certain way of thinking. Whatever it is, we think it is the answer. The ultimate reality. We think it will satisfy us, solve all our problems. We think it will give us certainty and happiness. The real problem, of course, is not the object of attachment, but our single-minded, willful pursuit of it. We think we know best. We think we can manage our own lives. All the while, our own thinking detaches us further and further from God and the world.

Growing up, I understood prayer as thinking to God. Talking to God inside my mind. I have no doubt now that God hears these prayers—just as a parent hears their child’s endless rationalizations for getting what they want. I would not want to dismiss those honest, heartfelt prayers filled with emotion; many of the psalms follow just such a pattern. What I would like to suggest, however, is that, by itself, simply praying whatever we’re thinking leaves little room for God. Praying what we’re thinking directs God more than it allows God to direct us. Praying what we’re thinking may well keep us mired in our own mess, in denial, self-deception, and judgment of others. If it’s true what many addicts have said—“my best thinking got me here”—then praying what we’re thinking may be little else than a monologue to accompany our long descent to “rock bottom.”

Breaking the Toxic Trance

The gospel texts for the last two Sundays featured characters who justified themselves before Jesus. First there is the lawyer, who engages Jesus in debate about who qualifies as a neighbor (10:25-37). Then there is Martha, who points out that Mary is doing none of the work (10:38-42). Both characters are stuck in their own thinking, and it seems to be dragging them down with self-importance and resentment. The Lord’s Prayer presents a stark counterpoint to these stories. Rather than double-down on his own thoughts, Jesus opens up to God. He practically begs God to be present with him, in him, all around him.

One of my favorite names for God comes from the Twelve-Step Program: “Not me.” Whatever else God is—and there’s plenty of room for debate here—God is “not me.” Prayer, then, is first and foremost about opening up to something other than me. It’s not about getting the words right. It’s not about having the right request. It’s not about my worthiness or not. It is about welcoming something other than me. In the words of Anne Lamott, it is about “break[ing] the toxic trance” of my own thinking. Prayer is not me changing the world, it’s God changing me.

This past Wednesday, I was gardening and apparently got too close to some plants that waged war with my allergies. As a result, I’m afraid I look a little bit like a zombie if you get close enough to see my face. Now, I’m a self-conscious person. The last thing I wanted was to stand up in front of a congregation with a zombie-face. When I read Jesus’ instruction on prayer, however, this trivial, self-centered fear began to evaporate. I was changed. In prayer, I found peace. Not the peace of getting what I wanted, of my allergies magically lifting…but the peace of not being the center of the universe, the peace of knowing God did not care about my zombie-face nearly as much as I did, and the peace of knowing that God would be with me and help me to be with others.

The irony of authentic prayer is that we receive so much more than we ever receive in the “gimme, gimme, gimme” popular version of prayer. And maybe one of the reasons for this is that God is actually for us more than we are for ourselves. Our own thoughts tend to disconnect us from the world, but when we pray for God’s presence and God dwells within us, we are reconnected to the world and our own life becomes fuller and richer. We become even more ourselves, as we begin to share our gifts with others and as the needs of others draw us out of our shell. When we open up to the great “Not Me” of our world, we find our authentic “me,” who is in relationship with God and all the world around.

In today’s lectionary passage from Colossians, right after Paul says that the “whole fullness of [God] dwells” in Christ, he says that we “have come to fullness in him” (Col 2:9). I have to believe that prayer is an essential part of this transformation. Just as Jesus emptied himself and was filled with the fullness of God’s love, so we too may relinquish our own best thinking and welcome the fullness of God into our lives, wherever we are—right here, right now. All it takes is saying “yes” to something other than ourselves, to the great “Not me.”

Prayer

Faithful God,
Who is for us
More than we are for ourselves—
Our own best thinking
Is like a trance,
Desensitizing us to the world,
Disconnecting us from others and from you
…
Open us up to your presence,
Where we discover our true selves.
Not our will, but your will, be done.
In Christ, crucified and risen: Amen.

Untitled (Luke 10:38-42)

Talking about Food Versus Eating It

Growing up in the church, I learned to approach the Bible as a source of information. The Bible told me about God. The purpose of reading it was to gain knowledge.

There’s nothing wrong with approaching the Bible this way. But there is a lot lost if this is the only way we read the Bible. Reading the Bible for knowledge about God is a very modern approach, and it has a scientific feel about it. Science divides the world up into objects that can be studied. There is the subject, us, and then there is the object, which is under the microscope or behind a glass exhibit. Science requires a certain distance between us and the object of study. It presumes that the object is separate from us and can be observed in its entirety. The result of this approach, then, is that we treat God as an object, as a thing that is distinct from us, as a thing that we can comprehend in its entirety and perhaps even master—instead of treating God as an experience, a relationship, a mystery in which we live and move and have our being.

Imagine with me a group of people who think they love food. They see a feast, and immediately they start talking about it. They talk about the chefs who prepared it and the recipes that may have been employed; they speculate and debate about the ingredients that were used and the cooking instruments and various methods; they share theories and they debate and they proclaim the greatness of this food, until their mouths are positively watering. But imagine that they do not eat the food themselves. What a sad scene it would be. There they are, proclaiming the greatness of this food right in front of them, yet they remain starving. They might know all about the food, but they have not tasted it, experienced it, enjoyed it.

Reading the Bible for knowledge is a little bit like talking about food instead of eating it. It’s like trying to God see through a microscope, instead of encountering God in the mystery of one’s own life. It’s like reading romance novels but never entering the risk of a real relationship.

Lectio Divina

Since the beginning of the Christian tradition, followers of Christ have read scripture in a much fuller and more profound way. They have not read it for information, but rather transformation. They have not read it for analysis, but for experience. They have read it with the expectation that they would personally encounter the God of all the universe, and that this God would speak to them and embrace them and guide them.

In the 12^th century, a monk named Guigo (“Guy”) the Second offered a helpful tool for reading scripture this way. The tool is called lectio divina, or “divine reading,” and I’d like to share it with you today as we read our gospel scripture, which is Luke 10:38-42.

Lectio divina consists of four basic steps, through which I will guide us. Let me say now at the beginning that this practice is entirely voluntary. I will invite you after each step to share a word or a sentence or two with a neighbor around you, but it’s also fine if you prefer not to do that (or you may not have a neighbor sitting nearby).

We begin first with a prayer. Would you join me? Loving God…help us to set aside our thinking, controlling minds. Open us up to your presence in scripture and in our lives. Amen.

1.     Now I will read our scripture a first time. Listen for a word that catches your attention, that beckons to you, that makes a special impression on you. Don’t analyze why it draws your attention. Simply abide with it, and let it settle within you. I will leave one minute after the reading for you to identify the word and to sit with it.

[Read scripture. Afterward, wait one minute.]

If you choose, I invite you now to turn to a neighbor (or two, if you happen to be in a clump), and share the word.

2.     Now listen as our scripture is read a second time. This time, allow your word to unfold or grow. Notice any images, feelings, or memories that emerge in association with your word. I will leave one minute after the reading before inviting you to share with your neighbor.

[Read scripture. Afterward, wait one minute.]

If you choose, turn to a neighbor (or two, if you happen to be in a clump), and briefly, in one or two sentences, simply name the feelings, images, or memories that emerged.

3.     Now listen as our scripture is read for a third and final time. This time, reflect on your word and its unfolding, and consider how God may be speaking through it to you. Is God inviting you to something, calling you, challenging you, asking you a question, declaring something to you? How is God speaking to you through your word? I will leave one minute after the reading before inviting you to share with your neighbor.

[Read scripture. Afterward, wait one minute.]

If you choose, turn to a neighbor (or two, if you happen to be in a clump), and briefly, in one or two sentences, simply name how you sense God’s call through your word.

4.     The practice of lectio divina concludes with resting in God’s presence.

I will invite us, then, to pray silently in response to God’s personal call. There is no right or wrong way to pray here. Just be honest with God. Maybe you’ll share your feelings, maybe you’ll ask for help, maybe you’ll express your gratitude…or maybe you have nothing to say. When you’re finished praying, rest in God’s embrace. In one minute, I will say a short blessing to conclude.

Loving God, keep us rooted and grounded in your love, and in your call to us.
In Christ: Amen.

Meditation:

Sitting While Not Sitting

I would like to share with you the word that grabbed my attention. It was the word “sat.” Mary “sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to what he was saying” (10:39). It reminds me of today’s psalm, which proclaims, “I am like a green olive tree in the house of God. I trust in the steadfast love of God forever and ever” (Ps 52:8). I imagine the psalmist sitting, rooted and grounded in God’s presence.

I wonder: Was Martha wrong not to sit? Was she wrong to stand, to move about, to have her hand among the many tasks of hosting a guest?

In the previous passage in Luke, Jesus tells a story about a good Samaritan who was very active in caring for the beaten and robbed man on the roadside. Caring for others is not wrong. Today’s passage begins by saying that Martha cared for Jesus the way any good host would care for a traveler. She “welcomed” him (10:38). Martha was not wrong to be up and about. Food must be cooked if empty stomachs are to be filled. Places must be prepared if weary souls are to find rest.

It is only when Martha becomes resentful and requests that Jesus rebuke her sister that Jesus gently invites her into his presence. He expresses concern not for the hustle and bustle of her hand but for the hurt and hard feelings in her heart. “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing” (10:41-42).

The divine call that I hear in this story is not an invitation to physically sit in contemplation like Mary, but rather to live out my responsibilities like Martha all the while remaining present to God. What I hear in this story is this:

There is a way to sit even when I’m not sitting.
A way to sit while I’m walking, working, talking, thinking.
This way of sitting is not the absence of activity.
It is activity that is fully present.

This way of sitting while not sitting is activity without an agenda.
It does not try to be productive or successful.
It tries to be faithful.

This way of sitting while not sitting is attentive.
It hears the words that are spoken.
It sees what is not spoken.
It knows the needs of a situation.

This way of sitting while not sitting is certainty—
Not certainty with the head,
But certainty with the heart;
Not the certainty of knowledge,
But the certainty of commitment.
It knows the peace of God that surpasses all understanding (Phil 4:7).
It knows the love of Christ that surpasses all knowledge (Eph 3:19).

There is a way to sit while I’m walking, working, talking, thinking.

Prayer

Loving God, let us be like a green olive tree in your house.
Keep us rooted and grounded in your love, and in your call to us.
In Christ: Amen.

One Who Draws Near (Luke 10:25-37)

 

A Good Neighbor

The friendliest neighbor I ever had was Richard. I was living at the time with several other research students in a terraced house in the hills of Sheffield, England. Two of us would regularly drink an early morning coffee just outside the back door, as the sun rose over the valley. Richard would often pop out and have something interesting to say. We learned over the course of time that Richard was a bit of a hippie back in the day and boasted an extensive collection of Bob Dylan’s records. We learned that he had a granddaughter of whom he was very proud. And we learned that he was suspicious of the university students who were renting all over his neighborhood.

Of course, we were university students ourselves. But we were different, he said. We were good neighbors. What he meant, I think, was that we did not throw loud parties, we spoke the same language that he did, we had the same color skin, and we drew from a similar cultural heritage and could appreciate together the finer things in his life—like his record collection. In other words, a good neighbor (according to Richard) is someone who lives near to us and someone who is rather like us.

When the lawyer in today’s passage asks Jesus, “Who is my neighbor?” I think what he’s really asking is, “How far must my love extend? To the students next door who throw loud parties? To the people down the street who speak a different language? To people who have different stories and traditions—who cannot appreciate my record collection?” Must I care for them the same way I would care for my own? Where’s the line?

“It's a Trap!”

Luke tells us the lawyer was “testing” Jesus, which suggests his question may have been a trap, intended to make Jesus say something that would ruin his reputation. Perhaps the lawyer had earlier heard Jesus say something about loving your enemies, and he wanted to see if Jesus would follow that statement through to its ultimate logical heresy. Would Jesus actually say, “Yes, you must care for the oppressive Roman soldiers who regularly spill Israelite blood the way you would care for your grandmother”? Or “Yes, you must care for the greedy tax collectors who bleed you dry the way you would care for your own children”? It would be like, today, if Jesus visited America and a Christian asked him, “What about undocumented migrants? How must I love them? Or what about Antifa—or the Proud Boys—or the Capital rioters—or Black Lives Matter?” If Jesus were simply to say, “Yes, they are your neighbors, you must care for them as you would your own family, no exceptions, no ifs ands or buts,” then Jesus might well find himself on his way to another crucifixion.

A Neighbor Is as a Neighbor Does

If the lawyer’s question is a trap, then Jesus deftly sidesteps it the way he regularly does: he tells a story. Like all his stories, this one does not answer any questions, but rather turns things around and puts the listener in question.

The lawyer assumes that neighborliness is a matter of identity. He essentially asks Jesus, “Who’s in? Who’s out? Is it a matter of ethnicity? Religion? Politics? Just tell us how far our love must extend.” But through his story, Jesus transforms neighborliness from a matter of identity to a matter of behavior. The priest and the Levite are both meant to be model Israelite citizens, holy in all their conduct. Yet when they see a fellow Israelite half-dead on the side of the road, they move away from him. They may be neighbors in the common sense of the word, but they do not act like it at all. Then there’s a Samaritan—and suffice it to say, Samaritans were considered enemies by many Israelites due to historical differences of culture and religion. This Samaritan, Jesus says, draws “near” to the Israelite and cares extensively for him. He’s not a neighbor in the traditional sense of the word, but he acts like one.

When Jesus reaches the end of the story, he has not answered the lawyer’s question. He doesn’t say, “Your neighbor is of the same race, or the same religion,” or anything like that. Instead, he asks the lawyer, “Who in this story was the neighbor?” The lawyer cannot even bring himself to say the name of “Samaritan.” He can only identify the man by his action: “The one who showed…mercy” (Luke 10:37). And thus Jesus has changed the definition of neighbor from what a person is to how a person acts. A neighbor is as a neighbor does. A neighbor is not someone who is near (such as the person who lives next door), but someone who draws near.

Whatever Distances Us

There’s a part of me that really wishes Jesus had shared why the priest and Levite do not draw near, why they actually do the opposite and go to the “other side” of the road (Luke 10:31-32). Some commentators suggest that they were afraid the man was dead; if they touched him, they would be rendered ritually impure for seven days and unable to fulfill their services at the temple. I think this is unlikely, as they were actually leaving Jerusalem and thus had just finished their temple service. Seven days of ritual impurity would not have been a problem for them.

Why else, then, would these model Israelites shirk their duty of love and compassion? Your guess is as good as mine. They were both men of considerable importance in the community. Maybe they were on their way to teach Torah at their local synagogue, to visit the sick and dying in their community, or to resolve a legal dispute at the town gate. And maybe they were afraid of committing to yet another responsibility that would threaten to eat up their calendar. Maybe they rationalized that there were plenty of passers-by, and someone else would offer aid soon enough. Whatever their motivation is, I think Jesus keeps it hidden on purpose. He knows that his audience—us as much as the lawyer—wants to justify itself. As soon as we know what the priest and Levite’s motivation is, we can begin to justify how we are different than them, how if we ever avoid the needful it is for better reasons than theirs. By keeping silent about the priest’s and Levite’s motivation, Jesus invites us simply to identify with them, to accept that we too have crossed to the other side of the street.

There are many things that might distance us from those in need, that keep us from drawing near to them and acting as a neighbor. The boardgame Monopoly sheds some surprising light on the anti-neighborly forces in our world. Growing up, my family rarely played Monopoly...primarily because my mom said it turned it my dad into a different person! She might feel validated to learn that her experience has actually been documented by a social psychologist who ran an experiment with the game Monopoly and observed “dramatic” behavioral changes in the players who were winning. In the experiment, the game was rigged so that a randomly selected individual would be given all sorts of advantages, including more mobility and more money. Time and again, this privileged individual exhibited behavioral changes that seemed antagonistic to the other players: they talked louder, their movements were more forceful, and they assumed more arrogant postures and conduct (including hogging all the pretzels).[1]

Elsewhere in the gospel of Luke, Jesus tells a story about a rich man and a beggar who lived beside him. But the proximity counted for nothing. The rich man ignored the beggar. The implication of the story is simple: money can create an unbridgeable chasm between people who live side-by-side. But not just money. Throughout the gospel of Luke, Jesus acknowledges a host of “cares” that can distance us from the needful, including religion (e.g., 6:6-11), social status (e.g., 9:46-48), heritage (e.g., 9:49-50), and even our own family (e.g., 9:61-62; 14:26). The point of the parable of the good Samaritan is to demolish the conditions of identity that distance us from others, and to invite us unconditionally into deeds of mercy for whoever is in need. To love our neighbor is to draw near to the needful, to make them our neighbors. The lawyer asks Jesus for information about who a neighbor is, but instead of giving him information, Jesus invites transformation. Make yourself a neighbor to everyone—no conditions, no questions.

What Draws Us Near and Gives Us Life

The parable of the good Samaritan begins with the lawyer’s question, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” which is to say, the life that is full and abundant and worth living. Jesus answers, Love God, love your neighbor. “Do this, and you will live,” which is to say, you will live an abundant life, fuller and more meaningful than anything you can imagine or foresee.

What follows in Jesus’ parable is a suggestion of what keeps us from others, and what draws us near to them. Riches, social standing, nationality, religion, family pressures—all these may distance us from others. In so doing, they distance us from God and abundant life. What draws us near to others? In this parable, the doorway to neighborliness is not virtue or achievement or any standard of greatness. It is the opposite. It is weakness and woundedness. Jesus says that when the Samaritan sees the half-dead Israelite, he is “moved with pity” (10:33). He does not see an Israelite, a heretic, an enemy, someone who speaks in a different dialect and worships on a different mountain. Rather, he sees something closer to home: a wounded body. As an enemy Samaritan in Israelite territory, he would be familiar with the experience of being beaten and bruised, if not physically, then at the very least verbally and emotionally.  When he sees this man, whose body has been wrecked, his own body churns within him. He can identify with the wounds of this man. And so he draws near and becomes his neighbor.

It is a paradox of our faith. In our weakness, is strength—the strength of God’s love and mercy. It cuts through all the barriers we might set up, whether language, or skin color, or nationality, or record collection, or sexual orientation, or income, or religion. Those conditions can determine an awful lot in our world, including who gets a loan for a house in the nice neighborhood, who gets a promotion or a pay raise, who really belongs in a church, and so on. But those conditions of identity say nothing about God’s mercy. In Christ, God knows the weakness and woundedness of every human, identifies with all of us in our brokenness, and shows us mercy. In Christ, God draws near to us and makes himself our neighbor. And in Christ, we are called to do the same for others.

Prayer

Merciful God,
In Christ, you show us
Who a neighbor really is.
You draw near to us
In our woundedness.
Help us to see beyond the constructs of identity
That distance us from others…
Help us to see the wounds of others
Who live in our neighborhood, our workplace, our city.
Help us to identify with their wounds,
That we might make ourselves their neighbors
And know the fullness of life.
In Christ, whose kingdom is our neighborhood. Amen.

---

[1] https://planetsave.com/2013/12/23/a-rigged-game-of-monopoly-reveals-how-feeling-wealthy-changes-our-behavior-ted-video/, accessed July 6, 2022.

Bearing Each Other's Burdens (Gal 6:1-5)

A Different Way Than the Empire’s Way

In the fourth century, Christianity went from being a persecuted faith to becoming the official religion of the Roman Empire. You would think that was a good thing. No more persecution, right? But curiously, this moment inspired a mass exodus of Christ-followers from the cities to the desert. At the very moment that the Roman Empire accepted Christianity, many Christ-followers rejected the Roman Empire and fled into the wilderness. Why? Because they could see that the empire’s way was not the way of Christ. If they lived as citizens of the empire, they would risk compromising their faith. Many early Christ-followers rejected the class system of Roman society, welcoming slaves and foreigners and the poor as equals, but as citizens they would be expected to honor the class system and uphold it. Many early Christ-followers rejected violence, but now they would be expected to enlist in the Roman army and take up the sword.

This mass exodus of Christ-followers to the wilderness resulted in a fascinating grassroots movement. Its participants developed such a reputation that they came to be known as “the Desert Fathers and Mothers.” The Desert Fathers and Mothers bore witness to the way of Christ in a revolutionary, countercultural manner. And although they aspired to holiness and the kingdom of God, they were anything but pretentious. Rather, they were humble, painstakingly honest about their condition, and often surprisingly humorous.

Ammonas Condemns the Accusers and Saves the Condemned

I was reminded of the Desert Fathers and Mothers when I read this week’s scripture, where Paul instructs the Galatians to restore sinners “in a spirit of gentleness.” I must confess, scriptures like this one make me anxious because they acknowledge the reality of confrontation. Generally, when I sense that someone else may be caught up in a particular sin, in something that is unhealthy to themselves or others, I would prefer to ignore the situation or to cast judgment on it safely from afar. In either case, I would prefer to keep my distance. The church has historically behaved in a similar manner. Today, we have only to open the newspaper to read the story of another cover-up, where a church was afraid of addressing situations of abuse, often perpetrated by its own leaders. On the other hand, the church has often exercised a heavy hand of judgment against its enemies, quick to blame and shame the people with whom it disagrees. In either case, it has kept a safe distance from the situation and avoided any genuine efforts at restoration.

Thankfully, though, there are followers of Christ who have actually put into practice the countercultural manner of confrontation and restoration that Paul is preaching here. There are examples for us to consider. The Desert Fathers and Mothers give us one of those examples. Ancient Rome had an honor-shame culture, much like our own today. It judged people according to the merit of their actions and punished them accordingly. But the Desert Fathers and Mothers followed Christ and exemplified another way. When the Desert Father Ammonas learned that a fellow monk “of evil reputation” had received a woman visitor for illicit purposes, he dropped in on him. Now, several others were already there, pointing the finger and accusing the monk of wrongdoing. Ammonas knew that their accusations were accurate. In fact, he could tell that the woman was in the room with the monk, but hiding in a large cask. The story goes that he kept this a secret “for the sake of God.” In fact, he sat on the cask and then commanded the rest of the room to be searched. When no woman was found, Ammonas reprimanded the accusers, saying, “May God forgive you!” After they left, however, he turned to his fellow monk, and said, “Brother, be on your guard.”[1]

Care, Not Condemnation

By the standards of our culture, Ammonas has it all backwards. He does not rebuke the man who is guilty of sexual sin. Instead, he rebukes the accusers—even though their accusation is correct! He condemns the self-righteous accusers and saves the condemned. Ammonas knows his fellow monk has done wrong, but he does not point the finger. He does not judge him or give him unsolicited advice. He only expresses concern for him: “Brother, be on your guard.”

One of the curiosities of today’s scripture is the way that Paul begins by talking about a “transgression” but later speaks in terms of “burdens.” In today’s culture, wrongdoing is understood fundamentally in terms of crime and punishment. You do the crime, you serve the time. But Paul says that when we detect a brother or sister in a transgression, we should “bear [their] burdens” (6:2). In other words, Paul understands wrongdoing as a burden, a wound, as an affliction. First and foremost, it requires care, not condemnation.

Care, Not Control

To bear a burden is simply to feel its weight. What is heavy for someone else, becomes heavy for us. Bearing a burden, however, does not mean controlling it or becoming personally responsible for it. When Paul says, “Take care that you yourselves are not tempted,” the context of the letter suggests that he is referring to the temptation to judge and manage someone else’s life. At the end of today’s scripture, Paul talks about taking responsibility for our “own work” and concludes by saying, “All must carry their own loads” (6:5). Here, again, Paul seems to be advising against our kneejerk instinct to manage other people’s lives for them. I don’t know about you, but I can relate to that instinct. When someone else is uncomfortable or not doing well, I become uncomfortable too. I want to help them, but really it’s because I want to feel better myself. I want to be in control. But Paul says that when another person is lost and hurting, our responsibility is not to control them. It’s to care for them.

I think, again, Ammonas provides a good example. He does not judge his fellow monk or exclude him or try to fix him. He has compassion for him, but he does not try to control him or change him. (My dad is fond of telling me that the only person you can change…is a person who wears diapers.) Ammonas merely invites his fellow monk to be honest with himself and with God—who is the only one who can truly heal and restore a person anyway.

What Is Healing Our World

Today’s scripture is an uncomfortable message for our world, and perhaps for that very reason a necessary one. Because our world gravitates to the comfort of two extremes. Either it takes a hands-off, laissez-faire approach to sin, letting people living their own lives and quietly suffer the consequences; or it takes a hands-on, judgmental approach, naming and blaming and shaming people, excluding them without any sympathy or effort toward restoration. Either way, it says, “Not my problem!”

What it would look like if we, as followers of Christ, bore witness to a different way? What if we saw the sin of the world as a deep wound? What if instead of condemning or trying to control all the wrong we saw, we got close enough to feel the wound ourselves and to show care for it? What if we, like Ammonas, gently guarded the dignity of others even as we pointed them to God? What if we trusted in the healing and restoring power of God’s love? What would that look like?

One of the healthiest spiritual traditions in the modern, western world that I know is the twelve-step tradition, and I think it gives us a helpful glimpse of this countercultural way of compassion. For on the one hand, it acknowledges the woundedness of our world. It understands that hurtful behavior is but the symptom of a spiritual disease, and it is quick to offer its sympathy and care. On the other hand, it discourages taking the moral inventory of anyone other than ourselves. It acknowledges that we are not the ultimate agents of healing. We are responsible to care for others, but not to control them.

For what is ultimately healing the world is not our condemnation or our control of crime or consequence, but God’s love. As Paul says in today’s scripture, by bearing each other’s burdens, we fulfill the law of Christ. And the law of Christ, which he cited in last week’s scripture, is simple: “Love your neighbor as yourself” (5:14).

Prayer

God who is rich in mercy,
Who cares for us
In whatever condition we are in—
Embolden us to bear witness
To your revolutionary manner of care
In our own relationships.
Where we see wrongdoing around us,
Help us to see more deeply the wounds
From which it springs.
. . .
Help us to bear others’ burdens
And make space for your healing love. In Christ, who bears our stripes. Amen.

---

[1] Benedicta Ward, The Sayings of the Desert Fathers (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian, 2003), 27-28.

Real Freedom (Gal 5:1, 13-25)

You Don’t Have to Do a Thing

I still remember a conversation I had with a stranger nearly two decades ago. I was working at a café in college, and a friendly customer had struck up a conversation. When he learned that I was a religious studies major, he immediately became concerned for my eternal salvation. I guess the fear is that too much study might lead a person to question their faith. (My experience has been the opposite, but that’s another story.) The man asked me, “Do you believe in the trinity? Do you believe that Jesus was the son of God and was God himself? Do you believe in the resurrection?” Suddenly my neck felt hot, and I couldn’t think straight. I certainly wasn’t thinking about my own firsthand experience of Christ. Instead I felt only the pressure to answer “correctly,” so that this man would approve and we could be on the same team.

Two thousand years ago, the Galatians had a similar experience. The Galatians were a community of gentiles—that is, non-Jewish people—who had become followers of Christ. Apparently when they first became followers of Christ, it had transformed their lives. Paul says earlier in his letter that they had been filled with the Spirit and witnessed wonderful deeds of power (Gal 3:4-5). But later, other Christians began to interrogate their faith. “Have you been circumcised? Do you keep kosher? Do you abide by the purity laws?” In other words, these other Christians criticized the Galatians for not becoming Jewish. After all, Jesus was Jewish and had followed the law. If a person wanted to enjoy the full embrace of God, they said, they first needed to become a part of the Jewish people, with whom God had already established an everlasting covenant. 

I imagine the Galatians felt uncomfortable—not unlike how I felt in the coffee shop years ago. I imagine they felt pressured to answer with the “correct” answers. They probably began to doubt their own experience of faith. This is why Paul writes them. Remember your original experience of Christ?—he asks earlier in his letter (cf. 3:2-5). You didn’t have to do a thing for that. Belonging to God is not a matter of what we do but a matter of what Christ has already done for us. In Christ, who loves us all, we already belong to God; it doesn’t matter if you’re Jew or Greek, slave or free, male or female (3:28).

“For freedom Christ has set us free,” Paul says in our scripture today (5:1). Faith is not tied up with doing the right things or having the right beliefs. We don’t have to pass a test. In Christ, we already belong to God. We don’t have to do a thing. “Stand firm, therefore,” Paul concludes, “and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery” ( 5:1). If we become slaves to certain behaviors or beliefs, thinking those are what save us, then we have effectively unwrapped God’s arms from around us and left God’s unconditional embrace (cf. 5:4).

The Enslavement of the Flesh

Right after Paul celebrates our freedom in Christ, he does a curious thing. He warns us about our freedom in Christ. We are only one step away from disaster, he says. If we put the emphasis on freedom and forget to live in Christ, we may end up thinking we have license to do whatever we want. For this reason, Paul begs the Galatians, “Do not use your freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence” (5:13). He proceeds to explain the dangers of this self-indulgence, which he calls living in the “flesh.” The flesh is just Paul’s shorthand for our shortsighted, impulsive way of living. Living in the flesh is doing whatever promises instant gratification. It’s eating a slice of cake disregarding the fact you’ve just had a full meal and you’re not really that hungry. It’s winning an argument at the cost of a friendship.

The “flesh” is a good word for what Paul’s talking about, because our selfish desires generally originate in the body, such as desires for food, comfort, and especially the security of being in control. (Doesn’t it feel good to be in control?) Traditionally readers have assumed that the word “flesh” refers to sexual sins, but in today’s scripture, only two of “the works of the flesh” clearly refer to sexual immorality (5:19). Most of the words refer to competition and conflict: “jealousy, anger, quarrels, dissensions, factions, envy” (5:20-21). I would playfully suggest that the key to Paul’s list is actually the word that seems the least relevant to us today: “sorcery.” I used to think that sorcery was a biblical idea that we have outgrown in the modern world. We know better than the ancients, right? Spells, magic wands—those things don’t actually work. What I have learned, however, is that the fundamental biblical concern with sorcery is not some outdated belief that sorcerers could actually change reality. The problem with sorcery is not that a person might actually succeed in their magical incantations. The problem is what’s in their heart and how it influences their behavior. Engaging in sorcery is saying to God, “My will, not yours. My kingdom come. We’re doing things my way.” Sorcery is telling God what to do.

At its heart, sorcery is like every other item on Paul’s list. It’s about control and getting our way. Paul is adamant that, while living this way may promise satisfaction, it actually results in profound disappointment. Doing whatever we want looks like freedom, but it is actually enslavement. Addiction, or what the spiritual traditions call “attachment,” is a stark example of this truth. Our attachments are in fact heavy shackles on our souls. They keep us, Paul says, from living in the kingdom of God (5:21).

The Parable of the Successful CEO

What, then, does real freedom look like—if it’s not being in control, if it’s not the pursuit of happiness? Paul’s answer is actually quite simple. You could say it in a single word. But first I’d like to try to say it in a story. Let me share with you a parable about a man who was enslaved by the works of the flesh, who was attached to getting his way—but whom Christ visited in a very unassuming manner, offering him freedom.

Once upon a time, there lived a very successful CEO. At work, he was ruthless. And people respected him for it. He was a master of manipulation, a man who knew how to get what he wanted and prosper his business. He knew how to work the press. He knew how to advertise and shape the hearts of consumers. He knew how to outwit his competitors. He knew how to quietly remove employees who were more trouble than they were worth. Occasionally his selfish desires resulted in certain “indiscretions,” but he knew how to cover those up and maintain the look of innocence. As if by some sorcery, he always came out on top.

But being successful was exhausting work for our CEO. He was always competing, always grasping, always seeking more control. Only when he returned home late at night did he know peace. At home, he was almost a different person—and for one reason: his dog. His dog was his one joy. He could not resist his dog’s earnest eyes, his wagging tail, his faithful presence. Toward his dog, our successful CEO was patient, kind, generous, faithful, gentle—all the things he was not at work. He indulged his dog with treats. He readily forgave him his canine blunders. It is not an exaggeration to say he loved his dog.

Sometimes at night, after our CEO had turned off his lights but before he had fallen asleep, he found himself dreading the next day and wishing he could live a different life—a life more like the one he shared with his dog.

Freedom Is Like Fruit

Real freedom, Paul says, is love. We find it first when we discover God loves us unconditionally—sort of like a dog loves us. Christ reveals to us that we don’t have to do a thing to belong to God. We belong to God just as we are. That is liberating news.

But that’s not the full picture, Paul says. Being loved naturally flows into loving others. And this love is freedom because it does not need to be in control. The freedom of love, Paul says, is like fruit. Fruit, of course, is not something we can control. We can plough, we can sow, we can reap, but we do not grow the fruit itself.  When Jesus compares the kingdom of God to a seed, he explains, “The seed sprouts and grows, the [farmer] knows not how” (Mark 4:28).  Fruit is not about control, but about love and faithfulness.

Our successful CEO knew the freedom of love—when he was with his dog. He did not control his dog but rather delighted in him, giving him treats, forgiving him, just enjoying his company. The irony is that at nights he wished for a life he already had. The lesson is one we could all learn, I think. The love of Christ, which sets us free, has to start somewhere. It could be something as small as a pet, or birds at the birdfeeder, or family or a friend—whatever primes the pump. But to know the full freedom of Christ is to celebrate this love and to allow it to flow into the rest of our lives.

Who knows? Maybe one day our CEO will wake up and recognize the face of Christ not only in his dog. . .but in his employees, in his competitors, in his customers. Perhaps at nights he will stop dreading the next day. Perhaps he would not be as successful. . .but perhaps he would be at peace—and free indeed.

Prayer

God of tiny seeds,
Whose kingdom is growing in our hearts
And in our world—
Awaken us to where we are shackled
By selfish, short-sighted desires.
And awaken us to where we are alive and free
In the love of Christ.
. . .
May the fruit of your Spirit
Be the feast we most desire.
In Christ: Amen.