Tragic
Choices
I’ve heard that among some communities in Central America, where monkeys run wild and will occasionally pinch food or other possessions, people have developed a clever device to trap them. They build a small container and put a banana or some other tasty treat inside. Then they carve an opening in the container that is just large enough for the monkey’s paw to reach through. When the monkey reaches in and grabs the food, however, he is met with a rude awakening. The opening, which was just large enough for his paw to reach through, is too small for his closed fist. And here’s the kicker: the monkey won’t let go of his plunder. He could free himself, but he won’t. The monkey’s selfish desire tragically keeps him trapped.
I’ve heard of a similar situation that strikes a bit closer to home, pertaining not to monkeys but to humanity. It is a piece of ancient Buddhist folklore. The legend holds that people who are very greedy in this life may be reincarnated—may be reborn in the next life—as a sort of mythical creature known as a “hungry ghost.” A hungry ghost is essentially what it sounds like: a person with an insatiable appetite, cursed with a hunger that they will never be able to satisfy. In one of the stories of this tradition, the hungry ghosts are gathered around a long rectangular table, with a feast in front of them. All that remains is to eat. But when the dinner commences, they run into an immediate problem. The utensils at the table are too long. No matter how they contort their bodies, they cannot get the utensils to their mouths. The tragedy in this case—and perhaps you’ve already figured this out—is that if they stopped thinking about their own hunger for just one moment, they might realize that they could feed each other; their utensils, which are too long to feed themselves, are just the right length to feed the person sitting across from them. But as with the monkey, their selfish desire prevents them from the good that is right in front of them.
In one sense, it is the same tragedy we see with those pesky monkeys and those hungry ghosts. Selfish desire prevents us from enjoying the goodness that is right in front of us. And what makes it tragic is that we don’t see this. When we find ourselves in a situation of willful conflict, the default viewpoint is not, “Oh, there I go again—wanting something I don’t have.” We don’t typically stop and chide ourselves when we’re in a fight, “Remember, the war is really within!” No, we draw battle lines, we identify enemies outside of us. In the heat of the moment, it’s all about getting our way.
But when James uses the word “enemy,” he is not referring to anything “flesh and blood”—he’s not referring to those oppressive Romans over there, or his audience’s Jewish brothers and sisters who deny Christ, or anyone else. Just as he first relocates “war” from without to within, from the battlefield to the heart, so he also redefines the terminology of “friend” and “enemy.” For James, the enemy is not a group of people but a way of living. When James talks about the “world” and whether we see the world as “friend” or “enemy,” he’s not referring to our planet and the people on it (which are undoubtedly “very good,” as God Godself saw at the conclusion of creation). By “world,” James is referring to a way of living, a mindset, an orientation. For James, the “world” is shorthand for our tragic habits of selfish desire. The “world” is code for the willfulness that keeps us tragically trapped like those monkeys who won’t let go, the willfulness that keeps us heartbreakingly hungry like those ghosts who can’t see others as their companions. To be a friend of the world is to live by these woeful habits that keep us locked in struggle with ourselves and one another, not realizing that the real enemy is not other people but the very attitude or mindset within that says we don’t have enough and everything would be better if we could just have that one more thing that we very well may have to fight for.
Fighting
Back…
If we are in the same tragic predicament as the monkey and the hungry ghost, then we are faced with the same challenge: namely, to let go of getting our way and instead gratefully receive that which is already within our reach. James says as much. A “friend of God,” James suggests, is a person who lives humbly, trusting in God’s grace to supply their need (cf. Ja 4:6). The irony of letting go is that while it feels like losing (the monkey must let go of the food in his hand, the hungry ghost must give up on eating the food on his own plate), the result is actually winning (the monkey is liberated from the trap, the hungry ghost gets not only food but a friend across the table who cares for them).
Intriguingly, as James invites his audience to let go, he continues to use military language. Just to recap, so far he’s talked about “war,” saying it’s within, not without, and the “enemy,” indicating it’s not “flesh and blood” but a way of living. Now he talks about fighting. “Resist the devil” (Ja 4:7), he says. The Greek word for “resist,” anthistemi, is a military term that means “to stand against” the attacks of the enemy. Practically speaking, resist means to “fight back against.” Jesus uses the same word in the Sermon on the Mount when he says, “Do not resist [do not ‘fight back against’] an evildoer,” but instead turn the other cheek (Matt 5:39). If we take Jesus’ instructions together with James, then a clear picture emerges. Our fight is not against other people. Our fight is against what is within, which is to say, a way of living that gains ground inside of us, that gains ground not by bombs and battles, but by thoughts and cravings for what we do not have. Call it evil, call it the devil, call it whatever you want—it’s what separates us from others, from our own selves, and ultimately from God.
…With
Tears?
If we do not fight against the devil with fists and firearms, if the real evil is not other people but in our thinking, then how do we fight back against it? James has some surprising advice: “Lament and mourn and weep. Let your laughter be turned into mourning and your joy into dejection” (Ja 4:9). It is clear James is not here to win a popularity contest….
In our culture, tears are often seen as a sign of weakness, something to be embarrassed about. If we cry in front of another person, we might hide our face and apologize, “I’m so sorry….” If someone wants to offer some hard counsel to a friend drowning in self-pity, they might say, “Well, don’t cry about it…do something!”
But according to James, tears are how we fight back against the devil, against the evil that is not out there but in here.
What do tears communicate? In one sense, it is impossible to say. Tears are beyond language; they express something beyond words. Sometimes they overtake us and we don’t even know why. Which sounds sort of like Paul’s description of the Holy Spirit interceding for us with groans too deep for words (cf. Rom 8:26-27). But if I had to say, I would suggest that tears most often accompany a profound feeling of loss. It could be a real loss, like the death of a loved one. Or it could be a more superficial loss, like the evaporation of a potential business opportunity. I imagine that if that trapped monkey were to by some strength other than his own let go of the food and walk free, there would still be something akin to tears wetting the cheeks of his soul.
Perhaps the tears that James commends, accompany a sense of loss, as we relinquish the need to be right, to be in control, to win. Such tears are not selfish or immature; they are honest, and they help us to see more clearly the reality that we will never live well as long as we seek only our own gain. (As one folk singer puts it, “It’s a hard hand to hold that is looking for control.”[1]) These tears of loss are the prelude to victory, to letting go and walking away. For letting go and walking away is how the war within us is won. How the devil is defeated. It’s one of those gospel paradoxes: die to live; lose to win; weakness is strength. We see it most clearly on the cross, where Jesus lets go of any need to be right, to be in control, to look good, to win. If Jesus had called down some angels and put up a fight…he would have lost to the devil. No matter how victorious he may have appeared, the devil’s spirit of division and contention would have thrived.
One church leader in the tenth century, Simeon of Byzantine, insisted that tears are the “second baptism,” the real baptism; they signify our spiritual surrender and our readiness for the reality of God. Letting go of the need to be right, to be in control, to win, may indeed be a tearful experience and feel like losing in the heat of the moment…but the good news of Christ (which James proclaims in a rather minor key, at times!) is that this loss is in fact a great gain. Or to put it more precisely, a great grace. For when we let go, we discover a much greater reality: God loves us and graciously provides for our need.
Prayer
Today I’d like to close by sharing a prayer written Mary Mrozowski, a native New Yorker and housewife who became a world-renowned spiritual leader. She came to understand her life’s quest as one of letting go and consenting to be in God’s presence.
One of her prayers, which became particularly well-known, is called “The Welcoming Prayer.” It is a little unorthodox, in that it makes no demands or requests of God, but rather makes commitments on behalf of the self. It is written in the first person, and I will read it this way, inviting you to pray it inwardly for yourself:
Welcome, welcome, welcome.
I welcome everything that comes to me in this moment
because I know it is for my healing.
I welcome all thoughts, feelings, emotions,
persons, situations, and conditions.
I let go of my desire for security.
I let go of my desire for approval.
I let go of my desire for control.
I let go of my desire to change
any situation, condition,
person, or myself.
and the healing action and grace within.
In Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior: Amen.
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