To serve is divine--A Meditation on John 13

 “Jesus knew that the Father had put

everything into His hands, and that

He had come from God and was

returning to God…”  --John 13:3

 

 

Just before the last supper, the night before He was to die, according to John’s Gospel, Jesus seems to have a deeper or more profound knowledge, special insight, into His mission, His role, His person.  He knew that God had delivered everything into His hands—implying a kind of completeness—and John seems to recognize that Jesus understood in a new or special way where He had come from, and where He was going.  Some theologians have interpreted this as depicting or expressing a moment when the human consciousness of Jesus is receding into (or reuniting with) the wholeness of the Divine; as if to say that whatever limits may have been upon His human understanding are fading as He prepares to re-unite completely with the Father. 

 

Okay, but my first reaction is: I guess.  But, if He’s God, didn’t He really know this all along[1]?  

 

My second reaction, is to ponder. And this morning, reading this chapter of John’s Gospel on the front porch with the blue jays pecking at the peanuts and a flock of thrushes peppering the sky, darting in and out of neighboring trees, hopping about in the grass, I found myself pondering this idea: Jesus suddenly knew these things and knowing them, what does He do?  He overturns all religious and cultural conventions: He acts like a servant and begins washing His disciples’ feet. (cf13:5).

 

And when Peter complains about Him doing this, Jesus doesn’t explain. He just says: You’ll understand this later.  And to make sure, He sits the disciples down and tells them point blank: Pay attention! This was more than just a hygiene lesson. If you want to follow me, I just showed you the way. (cf 13:15)

 

It is easy to be sentimental and say to ourselves, I want to be like Jesus. But, living it is something else.  For instance: last night I came home from work tired, neck tight from slouching over a computer. All I wanted was to change clothes, go for a walk and read a little Agatha Christie. But I could see that Lynne was working very hard, and there were still chores that needed doing, litter boxes that needed cleaning, etc. So, I changed clothes and started to help.

 

At some point I realized there were no dinner plans.  So, I got out tortillas, eggs, salsa and cheese and started making tacos.  And seeing that my wife was just as tired as I was, I brought her a couple of tacos on a plate and gave her a kiss. I told Sophie and Lucy there were taco fixings and warmed up some more tortillas and sat down to eat. A Hallmark movie was on the TV, and I felt like I finally had a moment to myself, so I opened up the I-pad and started looking at the NY Times. But, sometimes Paul Krugman isn’t as fun as Facebook, so I started flipping through pictures and silly videos. Just as I was beginning to wonder why I was watching another TCM commercial, Lynne asked me if I would be willing to rub her neck. For an instant I felt like Peter. Resentment welled up inside me. I had just done everything, cooked, served, even protected the leftovers from a cat. Inside me a voice cried out: What about me? Don’t I deserve to be massaged, or comforted, or even just left alone?

 

But living like Jesus isn’t just about sentiment, and humility, and it certainly isn’t about fairness.  It’s about divinity. Knowing who He is and what He was made for, Jesus empties Himself and becomes a servant—a slave.

 

Pondering these verses, I realize that every moment, every choice, it is all in my hands. I can choose to follow the example of Jesus, or I act like Peter and complain. I can choose to pursue my own desires and ego.  Or I can lay down my life (or my I-pad) in service to my wife, and to God: the one who made me and to whom I will return.

 

And, like Jesus, I can know: This is what I was made for.

 

Lord,

Open my eyes, that I read Your word more clearly,

Open my ears, that I hear Your message more fully,

And open my heart, and let me be filled

with the love that is found there.

---

[1] My instinct, too often, is to look for a loophole or point of debate.  Which may just be part of growing up as the middle child in a largish family. Always watching for a way to score points, make an impression, make myself stand apart from the crowd…   But it probably also comes from studying theology and philosophy at the University of St. Thomas with those delightfully odd Basilians and their Thomistic Center.  We were taught to ask questions, to be curious, to explore ideas and push against the envelope—but always with humility and always in service of the truth. 

 

The Parable of the Talents & the recycle bins

“Master, I knew you to be a hard man, reaping

where you did not sow, and gathering where

you scattered no seed…” –Matthew 25:24

This morning was beautiful in Houston: crisp, cold, --the air was clear –the sky was brilliant and a peaceful blue.   I got out for my morning walk a little late –I tend to get out a little later these days—but when I woke and found the house was cold I knew I couldn’t stay in bed; I had to get outside. I had gone to bed still thinking about those virgins and their oil jars and their lamps, but I woke up to the thrill of a cold house; I had to be up. And I was eager to get outside.

The cold weather (for Houston) came with a bit of a breeze (I guess) because a few of my neighbors’ recycle bins were blown open. (Several of us had put our bins out Friday, hoping that the recycling pick-up would start again, but apparently not yet. There hasn’t been a pick up since before Harvey; so, many bins in our neighborhood are almost overflowing with broken down boxes and beer cans and plastic bottles.)  When I got halfway down the street to Helen’s house –she’s the friendly neighbor lady with the three floor mop dogs who talks to me about the weather and her grandchildren and our friend Molly.

Anyway, when I got to Helen’s house (p.s. her husband’s name is Anthony) (I mean, just so you know)… Anyway, and … Anyway, when I got to Helen’s house I noticed that their recycle bin had blown open and  there was a couple of flattened boxes near their driveway and a couple of plastic water bottles, and another sheet of cardboard up against the curb across the street.  My immediate reaction was to pick them up, but I didn’t. I started to walk past them. Looking at their open bin which was still pretty full, I figured trash had blown out of it sometime in the night, and thought of closing it for them so more trash wouldn’t blow out. But, I started to talk myself out of it. I began to convince myself that this wasn’t my mess to clean up, and that –in fact—it would be good for the person responsible to find it and clean it up.

I rationalized that they needed to learn to put their recycle bin away and not to overstuff it –and to make sure they secured the lid.  If –I reasoned—I cleaned up their mess –which, now I was noticing was also scattered across their driveway and decorating their front lawn (Boy! They must be good at this whole recycling thing!) –anyway, if I cleaned up their mess for them they wouldn’t find it and learn to take proper care next time.  Heck, it would be a disservice to them and the community at large if I… It was at that point that I found myself stooping down to pick up a flattened box and a couple of plastic bottles….

Anyway (again), this is how I came to stop thinking about the poor foolish virgins and their lack of oil and began to understand more clearly the parable of the talents. Coming upon the mess at Helen’s house (and Anthony) my initial reaction was to help. There was a mess, and I didn’t want to just leave it for someone else. That would be wrong. Yet, when I hesitated, and began to rationalize, I pushed that initial urge down; in a way, I buried it, and as I did, I noticed a growing tension and anxiety rising inside of me –taking its place.  And with this growing tension came resentment. Why can’t people take care of their own trash? Why can’t THEY be responsible for their own recycling? Who do THEY think they are? Why should I be taking care of their messes?  They won’t learn or change unless I let them suffer the natural consequences of not securing their trash. In fact, for their own good, I should probably grab some more recycling and throw it around the yard as well and those beer cans in the neighbor's recycle bin –maybe I should throw some of those around, too!

In that moment I was becoming a “hard man,” a man “who reaps where has not sewn,” a man who “gathers where he has not scattered,” and a man who scatters where he has not recycled! (when no one is looking…)

But the reason I was becoming that man was because I was burying my talent.  I was (to use a psychological term) sublimating my gifts.  Yet, after picking up Helen’s yard and pushing what I could back down into her bin and then putting the excess into the bin of those nursing students who live next door, I continued on my walk and –with another stop or two to pick up stray cardboard and plastic-- I realized:

This is the parable. I was living it. Right here. Right now.  God has given me certain gifts (my talents), one of which is the urge to help.  And when I bury that talent not only do I hide my gift, but I also begin to grow resentful, just like that “one talent” servant in the parable.  And like that servant I begin to project my resentment onto others –including the Master (i.e. God).  Burying my talent, I begin to grow hard and bitter and I project that bitterness and growing hardness, onto the world. I see others as fools and irresponsible and selfish and…

But, in fact, at 6:08 am, Helen and Anthony were probably still snuggled warmly in their bed under extra blankets and completely unaware of what the beautiful cold morning had wrought on their recycling. (And, in fact, they are actually very kind, very generous and very loving neighbors, who always invite us to their post-Thanksgiving Crab-fast!)

Back to the parable. When Mr. 1-talent Servant accuses the master of being a “hard man who reaps where he does not sow,” I wonder if that servant isn’t actually projecting his own hardening heart onto a master who, it seems at the beginning of the parable, is actually very generous and trusting.  According to scholars, a “talent” was actually a huge sum of money –worth about 15+ years labor. So, this master handed that first servant the equivalent of about 75 years salary and asked the servant to take care of it for him.  (My first thought wouldn’t have been to invest it, it would possibly have been to get on the next camel caravan headed to Switzerland!)  So, the master wasn’t acting hard or selfish when he handed out the talents to his servants.  He entrusts huge sums of money to his servants, and then he shares with them the profits.  So, why does the 1-talent servant call him hard?  Because the servant himself has become hard.

If we share the gifts God gives us, we find that they are returned to us doubled, and our vision of God will (I imagine) expand as well; but if we bury our gifts we lose them and as we do we will find our spirit shrinking, our hardening hearts blaming God and our vision of God embittered and growing resentful and scrupulous.

Be your gift! Become the gift God made you to be, and no amount of oil or lamps will matter because you will set the world on fire (St. Catherine of Siena); you will light the world!  But bury your gift and the world seems to grow dark and cold and hard –and in that darkness, you can too easily lose your way, and then where will you be? Somewhere sad, bitter and lonely, haunted by the sound of much “weeping and the gnashing of teeth.”

Postscript: As I was coming back to the house, I saw a largish opened box in the middle of my next door neighbor’s lawn. My first thought wasn’t about recycling or bins, but of Christmas.  I looked at that simple, empty, open brown box and thought –What an interesting Christmas lawn-decoration. Way to go, Anna! I like it. Simple. Subtle. And much easier to maintain than her wobbly giant  inflatable Santa on a train.  Sometimes what you see depends less on what it is, than the way you look at it.