The Crown of Christ the King

“Come you who are blessed by my Father…

For I was hungry and you gave me food…”

--Matthew 25:31-46

“I was hungry…” This reading from Matthew has always spoken to me –as (I am certain) it does to so many.  It leaves me pondering the many times I have met and turned away from Christ.  He was standing right before me and I turned away or I drove right past him standing at a corner or I rolled up my window as he approached to ask for change.

How often have I turned from Christ and hardly given it a thought?

When we look at that man standing on the corner holding his sign or holding out his hand many times we don’t see Christ; we see a wreck of a person or we see a possible threat, or we see someone we suspect is trying to take advantage of us (a scam?), but rarely –I imagine-- do any of us look at that person and immediately see Jesus.  And yet, that seems to be what He is saying here.  Jesus doesn’t say to us: When you do this, it’s like you were doing it for Me. Consider it a form of spiritual simile, if you will. The poor are symbolically my presence and therefore if you do something for them, then metaphorically you are doing something for Me –at least on a spiritual plain.  Jesus seems to be saying that when we care for the poor, the hungry, the prisoner, the sick, the stranger we are in fact caring for, visiting, feeding, helping him.  It seems to me, that He is being pretty clear about this. That when we care for those in need, we are caring for Jesus. And yet, knowing that –in my heart of hearts—how many times has God come to me, literally walked up to my car window and presented Himself to me, prepared to touch my life with His presence –His grace—and I turned away because I was too busy or too scared. Because he looked too grimy or too tattered or too smelly or too desperate.  And, of course, there were times when I thought the guy standing there with his hand out wasn’t tattered looking enough; he was probably just some guy pretending to be poor.  Some cheat who will just take my money and waste it on beer or drugs!

               

But, what if I rethought that; what if I just retyped it:  what if I simply changed “he” to “He?”  Would that capital H make any difference in how I treated him/Him: the poor woman or man, the sick, the half-naked hungry stranger?  I think it would.  If I started looking at that destitute person at the stoplight not as some “thing” to be avoided, but as “someone” to be welcomed (a King, perhaps), I think it would make all the difference in the world.

What if I really heard these words and believed them?  What if –instead of letting this oh so familiar reading wash over me and fill me with a sentimental feeling, what if really listened and let it change my life.  Hearing these words, really hearing them, what if I went forth filled with a desire and a commitment to meet Christ in the poor and the sick and the prisoners?  What if I went out filled with a desire to reflect God’s generosity back to Him by giving freely to the poor, the sick, the naked, the stranger. What if I opened my heart to the blessing of God’s special presence in His poor? What if every time I went out, I was prepared to meet Him face to face in His people?

Instead, too often, on hearing it I am momentarily filled with a sentimental love of the poor that fades almost as I get up from the pew (or close my Bible), and dissipates too quickly into worries about myself, my family and my “poverty.”  And then, instead of looking for Christ, I avert my eyes, roll up my windows and keep my wallet safely in my pocket when He approaches.  Too often, instead of looking for God in the poor and the hungry, I find I am looking only at myself, and seeing there (in my reflection) my real god. 

All of this reminds me of Dostoevsky’s Fr. Zosima (from The Brothers Karamazov). Zosima is an elder in a monastery who presents Dostoevsky’s simple and faith-filled response to Ivan Karamazov’s Grand Inquisitor allegory.  In a relatively early scene in the novel a “woman of little faith” comes before Zosima asking for help. She claims she just wants to know for certain that there is a God, and that the soul is immortal.  Zosima tells her that there is no proof for the existence of God, but one can be “…convinced of it… by the experience of active love.  Strive [he says] to love your neighbor actively and indefatigably. Insofar as you advance in love you will grow surer of the reality of God and of the immortality of your soul.  If you attain to perfect self-forgetfulness in the love of your neighbor, then you will believe without doubt.  This has been tried.  This is certain.”

That doubtless certainty is perhaps what Christ means when He calls speaks of those "blessed by My Father..." They are blessed with a faith that sees Jesus in the poor and doesn't look away.  

If I want to know for certain that God exists, if I want to know without doubt, if I want that blessing, then I must love my neighbor (and that includes my wife and kids and mother-in-law) actively and indefatigably.  I must treat them,the hungry, the homeless, the stranger, the sick, the prisoner (and the mother-in-law) with love and compassion. Then, and only then, I will know without doubt that there is a God. Because then (and there) I will meet Him face to face.  

“When did we see you hungry or a stranger or sick and feed
you or welcome you or visit and care for you?”

This Sunday is the Feast of Christ the King.  How is it we recognize a king? Most of the time, we recognize a king by his crown.  Ask yourself, where do you find your king? Where do you see His crown?

Stay awake --some more thoughts on the wise & the foolish & the oil that lights the lamp

“Therefore, console one another with these words.” 

--1 Thessalonians 4:18

“Whoever watches for her at dawn shall not

be disappointed, for he shall find her sitting by his gate.”

--Wisdom 6:12-16

The readings that go with the parable of the wise and foolish virgins are not particularly helful or consoling to someone who is stuck on or struck by the vision of scarcity our Lord chose to use when depicting the Kingdom of Heaven in that parable from Matthew 25:1-13.

For a man who has turned water into wine and made a handful of loaves and fishes so abundant they are sufficient to feed thousands of people and still have leftovers that overflow and fill extra baskets, why would He depict the Kingdom of Heaven as a place where there may not be enough to share, and so you have to worry about filling your own jar while I hold onto my oil in case I need it later –that’s troubling to me. Not in a way that makes me doubt God or scripture, but troubling in the way that makes me wonder: why this vision of the Kingdom of Heaven? Why compare Heaven to a place or situation wherein I can’t risk sharing my oil, my good deeds, my faith, my love, my hope, etc, because there may not be enough to go around.  If we assume these really are the words of Christ, and we assume that Christ was free to depict the Kingdom of Heaven however He wanted, AND that He actually has firsthand knowledge of the Kingdom of Heaven, then we can trust that this particular depiction was intentional.  And I still wonder: why was that particular detail so important to the story Jesus wanted to tell? Why, if He could have told us any story He wanted, did He tell us one in which the wise virgins worried that their oil might not suffice?

Many people have told me that I was looking at the story wrong.  I assent that is probably true.  But the Church, in all her wisdom, has chosen readings to go along with this that focus our attention on the message Christ has called our attention to: Be prepared!  Await the dawn. Stand at the gate and watch through the night. Stay awake.

Perhaps there is a message there –in that message—about how we fill our oil jars.  But it isn’t consoling. If we stay awake, watch at dawn, stand at the gate, will God fill our jars? Will that earn us enough oil? Faith? Hope? Love? Grace?  OR is that how we fill our jars?  Is the act of being vigilant and staying awake (in a spiritual and faith-filled way) the way our jars become filled? Is filling our jar kind of like growing our stomach? Think of the first time you went to an all-you-can-eat buffet. You probably couldn’t really eat that much. You may have filled your plate, and you may have emptied most of it and then gone back to fill it a second time, but in reality –you couldn’t eat it all. Your stomach wasn’t sufficient to your appetite…so to speak.  But, if you keep going to that same all-you-can-eat buffet every Wednesday for seven-teen weeks in a row by week 15,16 or 17 you are going to be plowing through the shrimp, the crab rolls and the sweet and sour tofu like nobody’s business!  And pretty soon the manager is going to be watching for your car in the parking-lot and when she sees it, she’ll be turning the “open” sign around and pulling trays off the steam table! You will not be welcome. But your belly will definitely be sufficient! It takes time, and it takes effort and most of all it takes commitment. But it is achievable. That, I promise. Just ask the lady at Mai Que about the skinny college kid with glasses who used to… Never mind.  I’m off topic.

Those readings: Paul’s letter to the Thessalonians, the Book of Wisdom, Psalm 63, they aren't exceptionally helpful with this issue. Paul simply encourages us to know God is in control and not to worry about those who have died in the faith (i.e. at the steam table).  On some level, he seems to be saying that God's supply of oil is sufficient for all who fill their jars from it.  But Paul's vision is much more concerned with an eschatological vision of entering into the eternal all-you-can-eat buffet line. A place where the tandoori chicken is always abundant and the naan is always fresh and hot. And the plates have really big lips so that nothing spills...
Psalm 63 depicts the love of someone who watches for God constantly –even on his bed at night. That is one of my favorite psalms to share with people in the hospital, because hospital patients know what it is to be miserably awake in the middle of the night when nothing good is on TV and all you dare hope for is sleep or dawn.  And yet it speaks of yearning for God, like a dry weary land that yearns for water.  That is certainly the feeling I remember when I was stuck in the hospital for four nights.  And it speaks of being sated as with choice food --i.e. the sweet and sour pork.

The Old Testament reading (Wisdom) shows us a vision of a “wise virgin” who is prepared, who watches for God, who will not be disappointed. She stands at the door to the buffet waiting to hear the key turn in the lock so she can be first in line!  The church (during last week's mass) paired this uncomfortable parable with these readings to help us focus our attention on what would seem to be the key message: Be prepared. Watch. Stay awake.

But, in the end, I am still left to wonder: why this vision of Heaven? Why this story? Why these virgins? And why this oil, and why it couldn’t be enough?

The only answer I have is: our oil is non-transferable. My lamp cannot be lit by your good deeds, and vice versa.  But that doesn’t seem to be exactly what the Lord was saying.  And maybe the church is right: maybe He was just offering us a simple warning: stay awake. Because we know the hour or the day, but we do know it will come –like a thief in the night --just when we sit down with our second plate of pot stickers, and some of that great cashew curry stuff.

The wise & the foolish (and the lamp of grace)

“…the wise ones replied: No, for there may

not be enough for us and you. Go 

instead...and buy some for yourselves.”

 –Matthew 25: 1-13

The “no” of the wise virgins has always troubled me.  There are (of course) allegorical readings to justify the seeming coldness of their response, to make theological sense out of its apparent heartlessness, but despite all that, it still feels painfully discomforting. In the end, we are still left asking: why?  Why can’t they share their stinking oil? And even more importantly, why would Jesus present us with such an uncomfortable vision of the Kingdom of Heaven? 

A standard way of looking at this parable is this:

 God is the bridegroom and we don’t know when He will come, and like the wise bridesmaids, we are called to be ready when He comes. The oil is read as some element of that preparation: grace, good works, love, faith, etc. The wise virgins have stored up enough of this element, while the foolish have not. And then when the Bridegroom (God) comes those who are prepared enter into the feast (the Kingdom of Heaven?) while those who were not, are left behind, knocking at the door but unrecognized by the Bridegroom.   

                And yet, even in such a reading, that image of the oil that cannot be shared is woefully troubling.  Why can’t the oil be shared?  Why doesn’t the story involve a miraculous abundance of oil? Something like a Hanukah miracle or the story of the widow and Elijah (cf. 1 Kings 17:12-16).  I want to hear that God’s grace is overflowing and inexhaustible. Like the loaves and the fishes.  A kind of multiplication of the oil miracle would have made this a parable of God’s generosity, His overflowing grace that inspires and overflows into acts of grace and faith in all whom it touches.  It overflows from my lamp to yours. And if I give you some, I won’t have to worry “that there may not be enough” for me, because in the economy of grace, there is always enough –pressed down, shaken together and running over (cf. Luke 6:38). But that isn’t the vision Jesus gives us here.  Why?

                One answer could be that the lesson He offers here isn’t about grace or faith, it’s about commitment and preparedness.  And though I can accept that, it feels insufficient to address the discomfort of the wise virgin’s “no.”  Why, then, would Jesus include this detail?  In the end I am still troubled by why the Lord chose to depict the Kingdom of Heaven in this way.  So, what if we try that famous “four-fold” method (literal, allegorical, moral, anagogical), and see where that gets us.

                First, the literal level: based on the story, and on the little historical research I have done, it is highly unlikely that the virgins would have been able to share their oil. The need of the bridesmaid to make sure she had enough oil for what might amount to a long walk with lengthy stops to greet neighbors, receive greetings, and pick-up tacos at the Jack-in-the-Box, would have required that these lamp-carrying virgins come prepared. One scholar pointed out that bringing a lamp without oil would be like us bringing a flashlight with no batteries.

                But allegorically and morally, I still want to ponder: can we share “our” grace?  Can we share with another person the grace we have received?  Or, can a person touched by grace simply light her own lamp and let it shine for all to see?  Is that do-able? Is it grace-ful? And anagogically I wonder: what does this mean about the efficacy of grace.

                Pondering this passage, I am struck by the existential question at the core of it: the foolish virgins ask the wise to share their oil (their grace, their faith, their love, etc) and the wise say they can’t (or won’t).  Which is the most puzzling thing about this story told by a man who could literally turn a handful of fish and a small basket of bread into more than enough food for over 5000 men (not counting women and children).  Why isn’t the point of this story something about the wonders of sharing? Why is it instead a story about not having enough to share?  For me, that question seems to knock at the door that Jesus opens here.  And yet, stepping inside, I must say, I don’t know where it leads. 

Some might say my confusion comes from paying too much attention to a small (unimportant) detail. The story is really just about being ready. Don’t get so distracted by the oil!  But, isn’t this Jesus guy the same guy who said: His Father knows when a sparrow falls to the ground; and even the very hairs of your head are numbered. Clearly, the God He preaches cares about even the littlest details.

 So –what does this little detail mean?  Is it something about our individual existential problem: As Delmore Schwartz wrote: no one can take your bath for you. In other words: perhaps no one can fill my lamp for me.  And that could be the anagogical lesson addressed in this seemingly eschatologically aimed story. Both existentially and eschatologically we have to have our own faith? When I stand before God to be judged, to be recognized as one of His children, God won’t be asking me who my parents were or what schools I attended or how often I went to mass.  Perhaps the eschatological reading of this parable has something to do with how God knows we are His –does our lamp burn? Does it shine its light so that He can see our face and know we are His?  

And yet, why can’t the virgins share their oil? Is it because, I can’t burn your oil in my lamp? I have to have my own. Not because you don’t want to share with me, but because your oil won’t light my lamp. Because your grace won’t illuminate my faith. And your faith won’t shine in my soul.  I have to have my own.  Is that weirdly existential lesson part of the beautiful paradoxical perplexity of this quite troubling parable?   Maybe.

But something else I’ve been wondering lately is this: maybe sometimes the point of the parable isn’t to offer us an easy (or hard) answer. Maybe sometimes the point of the parable is to offer us a question. Something to get us thinking… Food for prayer and contemplation.

God Bless you. If you read this, I am heartily grateful, and know that I pray the Lord’s grace fill your jar and light your lamp.