“…do everything for the glory of God…”

“…whatever you do, do everything for the glory of God.”

--1 Corinthians 10:31

“My son, give glory to the Lord, God of Israel,

and confess…” –Joshua 7:19

This past Sunday we heard the story of the leper who said to Jesus, “If you are willing, you can make me clean.” (Mk 1:40b) After the Lord heals him, this man goes about telling everyone about the miracle and the man who “made him clean.” He is understandably excited, but it is interesting –and always troubled me that as soon as this man leaves Jesus, he does exactly what the Lord has told him not to do. Jesus tells him:

See that you tell no one anything, but go, show yourself to the priest and offer for your cleansing what Moses prescribed… (Mk 1:44)

So, why isn’t the leper called on the carpet? He received a miracle, was given a pretty simple directive (basically for a leper to be declared clean required a priest to sign off that the sores were gone) but instead of obeying it, he does the opposite. You’d think that if this was a fable or morality tale or something like that, there would be some kind of consequences for this vociferous leper; even if it just meant Jesus wagging a miraculous finger at him.        But, instead we get only the lovely detail that this man sang the Lord’s glory so successfully that Jesus couldn’t make it into the towns because people kept streaming out to Him. All because of this “disobedient” leper. That’s interesting to me.  He does explicitly what the Lord tells him not to do, but clearly he does it for the glory of the Lord, and thus becomes an early and highly successful evangelist.  Whatever you do, do it for the glory of the Lord!

Another twist on this might be found in the Old Testament reading from Leviticus which shows how a leper was supposed to behave:

“The one who bears the sore of leprosy shall keep his garments rent, his head bare… and shall cry out: unclean, unclean… He shall dwell apart, making his abode outside the camp.”  (Leviticus 13:44-46)

To submit to this treatment must have been devastating to a person and to a family. But, to endure it with anything more than resignation and growing despair or resentment requires a deep, a profound trust in God. But how?

Reading Joshua the other morning, I came across the idea of giving Glory to the Lord in a very different context.  It is in the story of Achan who is to be put to death for stealing loot that had been put under the ban. When Joshua discovers what Achan has done and how it has brought a curse upon the Israelites, he goes to him and says:

My son, give glory to the Lord, God of Israel, and

confess what you have done, hide it not…

And Achan does confess. Directly he takes Joshua and shows him the items. And immediately Joshua has him (and his family and livestock) lead out of the village and stoned to death.  That’s pretty brutal, that swift shift from the tender sounding, “My son, give glory to God, confess what you have done…” to:  Take him out of the camp and kill him. And his family! And while you’re at it, let’s kill and burn his livestock, too![1]

            That is a hard shift and a hard bit of glory to be asked to give to the Lord.  But if we take Paul seriously (and please tell me if this sounds too Calvinistic), we must do everything for the glory of God. When we are healed let it be for the glory of God, and when we feel cursed, let that too be for the glory of God. St. Therese reminds us that even our tiniest acts --to stoop and pick up a dropped pin—we should do for love of God. 

Do everything for the glory of God!  That in itself is the greatest witness we can offer. And, like Bernanos’ Country Priest said:  All is grace… Yes, even the stones they throw at us.

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[1] (Of course there is a lot more to be said for the story of Achan. And there is some scholarly debate about whether the original words mean the family is stoned or merely forced to witness his stoning. Read Joshua. I dare you.)

Fall into the hands of a loving God (reading Deuteronomy)

“And when all these words have come true

for you –the blessing and the curse…if you

return to the Lord your God, if with all your

heart and with all your soul you obey His

voice, you and your children…then the Lord

your God…will have pity on you and gather

you back from all the peoples among whom

the Lord your God has scattered you.”

--Deuteronomy 30:1-3

            People of faith (especially Catholics) often joke about not reading the Bible, particularly books like Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy, books that include long lists of laws, statutes and regulations instead of stories and heroes and pizzazz. We imagine the writing of these books will be incredibly dry and we fear the God we imagine it presents: a God who is all rules and obedience (all stick and no carrot, one might say).  But what has amazed me again and again as I read through the Pentateuch is: 1. how fascinating these ancient books are, & 2. how tender and loving the Lord God appears; already an image that will find its perfect reflection (and embodiment) in His Son.

            Scholars speculate that Deuteronomy was written during the reign of King Hezekiah (c 715-686 BCE), possibly 800 years after the events described.  Because Hezekiah was concerned with correct worship, ridding Jerusalem of idols and idolatrous practices, and renewing the commitment to the one true God, it would make sense that he would want these stories and prohibitions and traditions written down in a text to support his efforts. A king engaging a scholar to gather and transcribe the words of Moses as a means of putting those laws together in one book, that seems a reasonable theory of how Deuteronomy may have come to be written down.  The Hebrew tradition even refers to what the Christian Bible call Deuteronomy (Greek for Second Law) as the Words (i.e. the words of Moses –from the opening line of the book). It is made up of three discourses attributed to Moses. They are lengthy exhortations to the people that first remind them of where they have come from and what they have gone through, then exhort them to keep faith with God and to observe His laws that they may always find favor with the Lord.  But the book has another note, an undertone of woe. Moses seems pretty certain that the people will not stay true to God. Reflecting on his impending death, Moses bluntly declares: “I know that after my death you are certain to grow corrupt; you will leave the way I have marked out for you; disaster will befall you for doing what is evil in the eyes of the Lord…” 31:29

            So, yes. There is a lot of talk of rules, fascinating and confusing and sometimes arcane rules, but then there is the strangely, profoundly, sorrowfully painful sense that the author (whether Moses or some 8^th century priestly scribe) understood the frailty of man, and the allure of sin. But, lingering behind all of this is a tenderness on the part of God (as depicted by either Moses or said 8^th century scribe) that inspires me, and comforts me, and demands of me renewal and commitment, mercy and hope.

            Clearly the God depicted here is not some cold distant angry vengeful God, it is a glimpse of the God who would become enfleshed in 1^st century Bethlehem, who would grow up in 1^st century Nazareth, and who would die on a cross for our sins in 1^st century Jerusalem.

            And what do I offer to support this thesis? The pity God has on His people. Here at the end, after all the rules and all the laws and all the threats, what does Moses tell the people? He tells this: Even after you sin, even after you reject God, even after you are scattered across the face of the earth, the Lord your God “will have pity on you and gather you back…”  That is a hopeful promise, a hopeful assurance. Though the people turn from God, Moses concludes his final discourse by holding out an offer of redemption.

           

God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son, that we might live (cf. Jn 3:16).

And that promise found in the midst of all that law and regulation, that assurance, is strikingly familiar for those who know the Gospels.  It resonates with the promise of the one who came not to destroy the law, but to fulfill it (cf. Mt. 5:17). Moses doesn’t ever let the people off the hook. He tells them: this is the way to live as God’s people, but when you fail (and you will) don’t lose hope. Return to God who longs to gather you as a mother hen gathers her chicks (cf. Mt. 23:37).  

Think of God’s love like gravity; it draws us to Him. If we deny it, if we ignore it, if we pretend we don’t have to accept it we are doomed. There was a wonderful Louis Malle movie in 1980 called: Atlantic City. In it a young woman on an airplane is reminded by the stewardess to put on her seatbelt. To which the young woman responds, “Oh, I don’t believe in gravity.” Think about that. If the airplane hits turbulence or suddenly loses altitude, will her feelings about gravity really matter?  God’s love draws us to Him, and sin is simply turning away from that love; pretending it doesn’t exist; living like we don’t believe in it.  Moses warns the people: don’t turn away from God’s love; don’t pretend it isn’t real. You won’t like the consequences.

I think what I have learned from reading Dante, and now Deuteronomy is this: God’s judgment (whatever that means and however it looks) is just one more sign of his eternal and endless love. God’s judgment is always and everywhere simply His outstretched hand; if we accept it, it is a blessing; but when we reject it, for whatever reason, we make it a curse. And we make of ourselves something less than who (or what) we were meant to be. 

As it says in Deuteronomy: God has set before us this day a blessing and curse (cf. 11:26).

To misquote Hebrews (and Jonathan Edwards): It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of a loving God (cf. Hebrews 10:31).

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.