Stay awake: The Theology of Poirot

“Stay awake… watch!”

--Mark 13:33-37

I was reading Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express the other day –in preparation for a student book club I was sponsoring.  The girls chose the book with the hope of going to see the new movie.  However, when it came time to discuss –most of them had not finished it and some had not even started. A couple of girls spoke of how hard it was to read –that Agatha Christie wasn’t a very clear writer. That claim, they supported by saying they couldn’t always tell who was talking. I was sad for them on two accounts. One, because I found the book quite charming and easy to read.  And two, because while reading it, I had came upon a scene that struck me as reflecting a very profound insight into not only the solving of a murder mystery, but also the reading of literature and perhaps the living of a life. And then, later as I contemplated it –in light of Sunday’s gospel reading from Mark—I found in it also a beautiful theology of attention.(Do I imagine that Agatha Christie was intending any theological lessons in this novel? Probably not, and certainly not the kind it inspired in me... but... Here goes.)

            The scene went something like this: Poirot was relating to M. Bouc (and a doctor) something he had seen – a clue—but was not yet ready to speculate what it meant, and yet Bouc states without hesitation exactly what it must mean. Yet Poirot responds only with silence. He is still waiting and watching.  He is still attending to the facts.  He was still alert. His “little gray cells” were still working. He is still (staying) awake. While his friend (Bouc), has fallen asleep.

            A good detective does not rush to create his conclusion; he considers and carefully observes. To rush to a conclusion would be to fall asleep. To not be awake to the evidence, but to drowsily stumble toward a dream of what they might mean, what we would like them to mean. What it would be convenient for them to mean.

            To be a good critical reader of texts one must stay awake and be alert to the words on the page –the text—and not attempt to force a meaning upon the text, not dream of what it should or could or might mean.  But to read precisely and exactly what is on the page.  A good reader reads with eyes open, mind open, awake to what is on the page, always prepared to be caught unprepared; ready (and willing) to be surprised; alert even to our own somnambulism, and ready to discover in the “overly familiar,” that which we have never truly seen before.

            Jesus says: stay awake.  Often this is read as an injunction. Stay awake, or else!  But that isn’t what I hear.  What I hear is something akin to the voice of a friend telling us to watch this! They want us to see something truly amazing –I’m thinking of Willie Mays chasing after a fly ball, or Roberto Clemente throwing a runner out from deep left, or Gene Kelly dancing on a piano, or that breathlessly tender scene in The Best Years of Our Lives when the young girl helps her fiancé take off his artificial arms!

            Could it be that Jesus isn’t warning us, but encouraging us? That He knows the importance of everything we see, everyone we meet; that He knows that every challenge we face is a portal of grace and that every kindness we share is a glimpse of Heaven. What if He is telling us to stay awake, not in case the Lord comes, but because He is coming –every moment of every day—in fact He is among us, even now.

I hear Jesus saying, not –be careful! Stay awake or you’ll get in trouble. I hear Him saying: You don’t want to miss this!  Not a second of it. So, stay awake.

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.

               

A fearful invitation

“My friend, how is it that you came in here

without a wedding garment?”  --Matthew 22:12

One of the most troubling of parables is the story of the King and the wedding feast, and the “dis-invited” guest.  This vision of the Kingdom of Heaven is frightening at least on one level. And that is the vision of God --allegorically-- as a hard and vengeful king.  Jesus begins this parable saying:

The kingdom of heaven is like a king who prepared

a wedding banquet for his son. He sent his servants 
to call those he had invited to the banquet, but 
they refused to come. (--Mt. 22: 2-3)

 The king (who seems to clearly stand for God) is preparing a wedding feast for his son (Jesus seems an appropriate reading there).  He invites the guests exhorting them to come, but his invitation is snubbed and his messengers are finally killed. So, the enraged King sends his army to “destroy those murders and burn their town” (cf. Mt 22: 5).  This vengeful or punishing God doesn’t seem like the God who is love (cf. 1 John 4:16). But isn’t that what Jesus is saying? That His father will be enraged if we reject His invitation and abuse (and/or kill) His messengers, and that we better watch out!?  That is perplexing. Troubling. Worth pondering. But I wonder if that is what this parable is really about?  Or is there something else happening here? A different message about the Kingdom of God. A message about how we receive it.

I’ve been thinking about that first vision of the guests who “refused to come,” and that final vision of the guest who gets dis-invited from the banquet.  It seems to me that there is something important going on in this parable dealing with the way we receive God’s invitation. When the guests are first invited they simply don’t go. Perhaps they don’t really listen to the messenger, or perhaps they are distracted by immediate duties or obligations. They just don’t go.  How often are we like that. We probably have an excuse most of the time, but how often do we simply not bother to respond when God calls?  Then the messengers are sent out again to announce that the food has been prepared and the table is set and the frozen margaritas are melting!  But the guests still don’t go. They turn away from the King’s invitation, “one to his field, and another to his business…” (cf. 22: 5) and others take the messengers, abuse them and kill them. I wonder if this isn’t where Christ is calling us to see a vision of the Kingdom of God. Here we see the difficulty of saying YES to God’s call. Some guests are actually busy –going to their fields and their work—and so it might seem reasonable for them to ignore the King’s invitation, or God’s call? How often do we feel too busy to spend time with God? Too busy to go to mass because of weekend obligations or because of some project at work we need to catch up on –maybe inventory or something like that, or maybe it’s the lawn that we’ve been meaning to mow. Wouldn’t it be easier if we didn’t go to church and just stayed home and washed those dishes and folded that laundry and raked those leaves? It’s not that we don’t want to respond to God –it’s just that we are so very busy! 

And that seems to me the crux of this parable. That busy-ness!  After a while of God calling us and us being too busy to respond, we may get a little resentful. We may get tired of feeling like God has us on speed dial! Just like some of those guests in the parable, we may begin to feel an urge to kill the next messenger God sends our way.  The Kingdom of God is like this King who is throwing this party that he really really really wants you to attend... think about how annoying that might seem, if all you wanted to do was stay home, finish the laundry and binge watch Stranger Things. It’s not that the Kingdom of Heaven is like that king or like that wedding feast… the Kingdom of Heaven is like that call! It’s going to interrupt your regular daily duties and desires and hopes and plans and it is going to demand a response.

And when it comes to the response, I think we see something about that in the final image of that guest who has no response when the king asks him: “Friend, how did you get in here without a wedding robe?” (cf. 22: 12) And when the man has no answer, he is bound and thrown out into the darkness “where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth” (cf. 22:13).  I have always been struck by how unfair that feels. The man may have been caught off guard by the king’s question. And, anyway, the guy was forced to come to the party by the king’s servants. Why should he be punished? He didn’t want to go to this stupid old party anyway??  And that is where I think I find the lesson of this man.  What might the wedding garment symbolize? Of course, baptism or the grace of God… something like that. And so the fact that the man isn’t wearing a wedding garment, means he doesn’t really want to be at this party. And God, a God of Love, isn’t about to force anyone to stay at his party if they don’t want to be there.  So he has the guest bound and tossed out into the darkness. It seems to me that this is a very important part of the parable. The king doesn’t kill the guest. He sends him back out into the darkness where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth.  It’s almost like the king is saying, you don’t want to be at the party, then I won’t force you to stay. Go back where you came from: bound by sin, go back out into the darkness of a life of toil and suffering.  Because if we aren’t ready to say yes to God, to hear His call and respond with joy, then we aren’t ready to be in His presence.  And so –in some way—we are still bound to sin, and we are still walking in the darkness.  But that doesn’t mean we are lost. God is still calling. God is still inviting.  The next time he calls you, I challenge you to put those dishes down, drop that laundry, shut off that mower, forget about work and distractions and Stranger Things, and try saying this: Speak Lord, your servant is listening.