What will you do? A reflection on Psalm 98 and the Parable of the Laborers in the Vineyard (for 25th Sunday in Ordinary Time)

 

“Let the sea thunder, and all that it holds,

the world and all who live in it.

Let the rivers clap their hands,

and the mountains shout for joy

at the Lord’s approach, for He is coming

to judge the earth…”  --Psalm 98:7-9

 

What fascinates and delights me about this psalm is the excitement of the earth at the approach of God’s judgment.  This feel counter-intuitive. So often we are reminded, even exhorted to fear God’s wrath and beware His judgment which will –we are assured-- fall upon us like a thief in the night.

 

Recently I have been reading Jeremiah and the early chapters are all about the corruption of Israel and the coming of God’s justice; it is all warnings and woe with no hint of joy at His approach. And the key question, it occurs to me is this:

 

“But when the end comes,

what will you do?” –Jeremiah 5:31b

 

Will you clap your hands and shout for joy, or will you flee to the hills, grind your teeth, wail in fear and curse the very earth in dread and desperation. It seems to me a question of the utmost importance. For how we respond will reflect our heart and our hope—our true desire—perhaps even our fate.

 

If I clap for joy it doesn’t mean I have lived a blameless life or that I have ben faultless in my choices or actions, not even that I am not one of those corrupt officials the prophet cries out against.  But, it will reveal that even in the midst of my corruption what I really long for is the glory of God, that I am so glad that His justice is coming to put an end to even my own sin. The frustration and horrors of my own weakness and my own choices, my own selfishness and the frailty of my own flesh have overwhelmed me, but now God is coming to judge the earth and put an end to the nightmare I have made of my own life—the nightmare I could not escape on my own—and so I will clap with joy and sing out in gladness at the coming of the Lord –even from the depths of my sin—for I knew what I did was wrong, but could not stop myself on my own.

 

Is that a possible outcome, Oh Lord?

 

I hope so.

 

It seems to me, in some sense, that I see a glimpse of this in the fate of the “good thief.”

 

Now, how would you—Mr. Sutter—connect this to today’s Gospel: the parable of the laborers in the vineyard?

 

Is it possible that how they received their pay was the actual lesson of today’s Gospel?  The first laborers, who worked the longest, receive their just pay (God’s justice) with resentment, focusing not on what they themselves deserve but on what others have received. Is that not itself a kind of Hell?  To see only what others have received and see only in that an unfairness, a cause of misery regardless of what you yourself have been given? It is Hell to always be looking with envy and bitterness at the blessings of another, and never see the grace given us, blinded by resentment to the blessing (and mercy) that has been generously bestowed upon us.  That ingratitude, not God's wrath, is the true spark of Hell's miserable, endless flame.

 Sometimes it still surprises me, how much more than dreams my life can be.

 Note:

It seems undeniably true that writing is how I think and that I don’t really know what I think until I write it.

 

Thank You, Lord

let Your grace

rain over me

              keep me safe

              from temptation

and far from the quiet sin

              of envy.

 

Condemned already: Making our own Hell

“Whoever believes in Him is not condemned,

but whoever does not believe is condemned already …”

--John 3: 16-18

I’ve been think about Dante again.  The Divine Comedy is always on my mind, it seems. The wisdom and the beauty of that great poem do feel truly “divine” sometimes, and the lessons I have learned by reading and rereading it have scarred my life. I say that only half-jokingly, because my experience of Dante now colors almost everything I read or do or learn. His poem seems to be (for me) a kind of guide or spiritual master that teaches me not only about the beauty of language and poetry and reason, but also how to read and finally how to live.

In the poem, Dante travels through the three zones or stages of the afterlife: Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise.  Guided for most of his journey by the poet Virgil, Dante is given the chance to see the eternal state of souls (damned and blessed) as a way of saving his own. While he is travelling through Hell, one of the many souls Dante meets is Bertran de Born, a man who carries his own head before him as if it were a lantern.  Like many of the souls Dante meets, Bertran de Born is based on an actual person; in life he was a warrior and poet who advised the son of a king to go to war against his father. For that reason (dividing things that should be united) the poet depicts him walking through Hell with his head divided from his body.  This sounds like “poetic justice,” and in Dante it receives the name “contrapasso.”  But the key to Dante isn’t found in the words of a damned soul.  It isn’t even found coming from the mouth of Virgil, the poem’s seemingly timeless voice of reason who guides Dante down through the levels of Hell and then up the mountain of Purgatory. Virgil is the voice of God's justice. He explains to Dante the legalese of eternal damnation. And for so many readers of Dante there is a willingness to trust Virgil's explanation of everything. Because Virgil makes Hell seem so reasonable.  However, the problem with Virgil as Dante's guide to God's eternal judgment is that Virgil doesn't understand God's love, God's grace.  Because God's grace is beyond reason.  So, we look again at this passage from John's Gospel and we pay careful attention to not just what it seems to say, but what it actually says:

“…whoever does not believe is condemned already …”

Whoever does not believe is already condemned already.  Harsh words, it seems.  We don’t like to hear of condemnation –it sounds judgmental and merciless to our modern ear.  But, consider for a moment what it might mean that the non believer might be condemned already.  What could that mean? Does that mean they are beyond God's mercy? But what if that person started believing next month or next week or tomorrow morning? Would they still be condemned?  That doesn't make sense? And it doesn't fit with what we see of Jesus in the gospels. Jesus calls people to conversion and change and redemption.  And no one seems beyond His mercy and love. Think about the tax collectors and sinners Jesus has dinner with, or the centurion with the sick slave, or the woman caught in adultery... Jesus tells us Himself that He didn't come to call the righteous, but the sinners (Mark 2: 17).  So what does He mean when He says those who don't believe are condemned already?

I think we can see a powerful depiction of this condemnation in Dante's vision of Hell.  The souls in Dante’s Hell (his Inferno) are not depicted as simply suffering some horrible --yet poetically apt-- punishment for their sins, but as still (and eternally) pursuing them.  The lustful are seen eternally caught in the wild winds of desire, the gluttons are eternally wallowing in the excess of their appetite, the wrathful eternally enraged, the thieves continue to steal, gossips to gossip, traitors to betray, etc etc.  I think what Dante is depicting for us is the fact that sin is Hell; sin doesn’t just bring condemnation, it is its own condemnation. Looking at Dante in this light, I begin to understand that quite possibly Hell isn’t a place; it is a state of being.  It is a choice we make.  It is found in who we become. When we choose selfishness over generosity, when we choose cruelty over kindness, when we choose coldness and isolation over vulnerability and a willingness to reach out to others we choose sin; and when we choose sin we choose unbelief; and when we do that we condemn ourselves to a Hell of our own making. Because despite what Mr. Sartre said, Hell isn’t found in "other people," it’s found in how we respond to them. Every time we turn away from someone who needs us, our hearts grow a little bit harder, a little bit colder.  And if you happen to read Dante, you will understand that a cold cold hard heart corresponds exactly with what the poet finds at the very core of Hell.  Despite what reason might tell us, our condemnation isn’t a punishment imposed upon us to satisfy some eternal justice; our condemnation (or not) is a choice we make every day. We can open our hearts, go forth, share the gifts God has given us and become a blessing, or we can... cling to our safety and security and treasures and make our own private Hell.  That’s what I find depicted in that beautiful strange poem written by that oddly prescient Italian poet from the 13^th century.  And that’s what I hear Christ telling us today.