Thoughts on the Gospel for the 25th Sunday of Ordinary Time: The fairness of Love

 

And on receiving it they grumbled against the landowner, saying,

'These last ones worked only one hour,

and you have made them equal to us,

who bore the day's burden and the heat.'

 

--Matthew 20: 1-16

 

 

There is something quite comforting in the argument for fairness.  It asserts an equilibrium in the world that often doesn’t appear to be there, but that we think should.  The argument for fairness in any situation implies that there is a minimum to what we deserve: at least what is fair.  And what we see in this week’s parable from Matthew 20, is a story of fairness turned on its head.  It is exactly the ones who are demanding it, who have already received fairness.  They received a fair day’s wages, mutually agreed upon before they went to work. And yet, when they see that others have received the same amount for less work, they feel cheated.  They –in a sense—regret their agreement, regret the terms of their contract—so to speak-- and allow themselves to hope for more; then, in their disappointment, they complain about “fairness.”

 

Why? Because none of us truly wants what is fair.  We want something more, we want abundance, we want something like grace.  Perhaps even charity.  But we hide behind a word like “fair,” because it seems safe.  It announces that we are only asking for what we think we deserve, what we feel we have earned—what is fair.

 

But the thing is, life isn’t fair.  And—my thought is: we should be grateful.  I remember a night back in 1981-82, when I was driving home from work late at night.  I think it was when I worked backstage at the Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.  (I like writing that.  Actually, I was working backstage at the Tower Theater, but that was the show they were putting on when I worked there.) Anyway, I was driving home about midnight on a Friday night after a long day at UST, and then a long night guarding the stage door at the Best Little Whorehouse… And as I drove down Memorial Drive in my old white Honda Civic (a stick shift, no AC, and only an AM radio), I remember stopping at the light at Memorial and Westcott.  I pulled up right next to a police car with 2 policemen already waiting at the light.  I looked over and nodded to them. One of them nodded back. I sat there for a bit, and then something happened, maybe I was changing the radio. KILT used to broadcast a concert from Gilley’s on the radio and maybe I had been listening to it and when it went off I probably started to change the channel, looking for something else. Anyway, clearly I got distracted and for some reason put the car in gear, let off the clutch and slowly and brainlessly drove right through the still red light --with a police car sitting right next to me. Very quickly I realized what I had done and slowed down as I expected the police car to flip on its lights and pull up beside me. But, instead after about 20-30 yards, the cruiser pulled beside me and one of the officers rolled down his window and gave me a tsk tsk gesture and a silly grin. Then, shaking their heads and laughing they drove on. Fair?  I should have been pulled over and given a ticket.  But, out of kindness, out of compassion, out of grace, the officers simply let me off with a very gentle warning.

 

None of us really wants what is fair. We want grace, we want compassion, we want love. We want to know that we were noticed and that we mattered.  We want to be appreciated so much that someone would give their life for us, if it came to that. We want the love of God to overwhelm us, because—and I think this might secretly be true of a great many of us—we don’t feel like we deserve it.

 

And so, in our insecurity, too many of us resent it when another person receives abundance and seemingly undeserved blessings. We resent the new employee who receives kudos and honors their first month on the job when we have done our job for years and never felt praised or even particularly noticed.

 

And yet, there is another element to this parable that might too easily be overlooked.  Like many parable, it begins with these words: The kingdom of Heaven is like…

 

The Kingdom of Heaven is like this… It’s not a place of fairness.  It is a place of blessing.  It is a place wherein the first will be last and the last will be first. What we must learn to realize is this: if that is what the Kingdom of Heaven is like—then that is a good thing, and we must learn to see the world, through that lens, we must learn to see our own life through that lens.  We must learn from the parable to refocus our attention on the truth.  Grace isn’t about fairness, grace isn’t about getting what we deserve, our fair share; grace is about love and if we just look at the Cross, we will get a beautiful reminder of how much fairness matters to God. 

 

The Kingdom of Heaven is like… a place where everyone is welcome, no matter when or how they come, and all will receive the same thing, in the same amount: the Love of God, overflowing, more than we could have ever imagined, or even hoped for.  Because God isn’t fair, God is love.

Denying yourself and taking up your cross: The 22nd Sunday in Ordinary Times

 

 

“…but whoever wishes to save his life, will lose it…”

--Matthew 16: 21-27

 

The readings for this Sunday are in such strange and perfect harmony that I—for one—feel grateful to whomever it was that arranged the schedule of readings so many years ago.  I believe the plan for mass readings and the revision of lectionary happened quite a long time ago—perhaps the 1970s—but please correct me, or inform me if you know the who and the when of it. But, thank you to whomever did this, and set in motion today’s cycle of readings. They sowed the seed, never knowing what soil would receive it.

 

What caught my attention in these readings was the theme of giving your life to God. And I think the most efficient way for me to address this theme is backwards: starting with the final reading—the Gospel, because I believe that the key to the series is found in the Gospel and that the other 2 readings (and the psalm) are –in some sense—clarifying texts.  One might consider these other 2 readings as forming a pair of lenses through which we more clearly glimpse the truth of the teaching in the Gospel—despite the fact that if our ophthalmologist were to hand us our new glasses with 2 such lenses we might find ourselves mistaking display cases for patients, and bathroom doors for exits, as we stumbled about trying to find our balance.  Hence, even trying on such lenses we must be cautious how we see and how we go.

 

The Gospel for today is Matthew 16: 21-27, and in it we have 2 important lessons. First, Peter’s clumsy attempt to either comfort or correct Our Lord. Immediately after Jesus hints at the fate awaiting Him in Jerusalem, Peter takes Him aside and seems to be trying to place a hand over His mouth, “God forbid, Lord! No such thing will ever happen to you.” (cf. MT 16: 22) To which Jesus responds, “Get behind me, Satan. You are an obstacle to me. You are not thinking as God does, but as human beings do.”

 

And breaking this down, we may find ourselves somewhat sympathetic to Peter’s position. Just a few verses before he was named top dog disciple.  He was renamed “the Rock” upon which Jesus would build His church (cf. Mt. 16:18).  And here –again, just a couple of verses later—he is being referred to as “Satan.” What could this mean? Well, I wonder if it has something to do with the detail of “taking Him aside”? Drawing Jesus to the side and trying to do a little damage control, Peter becomes a tempter. Regardless of any good intentions, Peter is tempting Jesus to soften or even veer away from the difficulties of doing God’s work. And by drawing Jesus aside, he is creating a situation of further temptation—a moment of secrecy, wherein temptation might grow (like mold growing in a dark corner of a damp closet).  This is a vision of how Satan works. Satan draws us into secrecy and hidden opportunities to turn away from the life that God has given us. To soften our commitments or renounce our decisions. Think of the alcoholic or the pornography addict, the gambler or the drug addict. How often does a moment of solitude become a moment of temptation? Or—more likely-- how often does temptation itself lead them to seek a moment of solitude wherein they might surrender to whatever demons is driving their desires.

But Peter is not dispensed with.  He remains the key disciples, despite what has just transpired. In fact, his failing here, prompts one of the most important teachings in all the gospel:

 

Then Jesus said to his disciples,

"Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself,

take up his cross, and follow me.

For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it,

but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it. (Mt. 16: 24-25)

 

In other words, thinking like human beings means playing it safe: clinging to security, valuing comfort, earthly success, pleasures, or even just security (cf. Peter’s aside).  But thinking like God means giving ourselves completely, holding nothing back —regardless of what comes next.

 

That seems pretty clear, but then we remember our glasses and try them on, blinking and squinting through first one lens and then the other. Squinting through lens #2—Paul’s letter to the Romans—we see something interesting taking shape.  It looks like prayer, and yet it isn’t simply someone kneeling in a pew. It’s a figure working at a job, or taking time to help a neighbor, or perhaps turning off the TV, putting down their phone, or shutting off their opera records and getting up to empty the dishwasher. Perhaps even folding the laundry and putting it away. An amorous husband, putting aside his own desires to rub his wife’s feet and sing her a lullaby:

“Goodnight, Irene, goodnight, Irene… I’ll see you in my dreams…”

Through this lens we see that denying ourselves and taking up our cross, isn’t just a “spiritual practice” or a form of self-sacrifice, it becomes our worship—our prayer even.  And this reminds us that our prayer isn’t meant to be just words whispered over a meal or at bedtime, not just ritual for ritual’s sake—not even just a way of forming mental habits, but our prayer is a practice that –in fullness—should change our way of life. See through this lens, I realize: our prayer is our life, and our life is our true prayer.

Okay, so far so good.  But then we have that other lens; what I am calling lens #1. This lens is the reading from Jeremiah. In this bitter, tirade against God, we see the lesson of Christ as if through a prism (to use an ophthalmological image)—the prism of Jeremiah’s experience; his life lived for God.  And what we see is a kind of frightening clarity to the outlines of such a vague and sweetly sounding life.

“You duped me Oh, Lord, and I let myself be duped…
All the day I am an object of laughter, everyone mocks me...”

 

The prophet has denied himself, his own plans, his own choices, his own life and he has taken up his cross, his mission, the mission of proclaiming God’s message to Israel.  And, even though this was a mission from God, given by God to Jeremiah, it has been an utter failure; nothing good has come of it, only derision and reproach. And rejection by God’s people and their leaders. Things are so bad, that Jeremiah considers giving up, turning away, abandoning his mission (and perhaps God as well).   

 

“Even when I say to myself, I will not mention Him;

I will speak in His name no more,

then it becomes like fire burning in my heart,

imprisoned in my bones;

I grow weary holding it in;

I cannot endure it…” (cf. Jeremiah 20:8-9)

 

 One lesson we can pretty clearly derive through this lens is this: Giving your life to God does not assure you of comfort, security, honor or praise. In fact, as Jesus reminds us again and again in the Gospels: it often leads straight toward Calvary and the cross.

 

Which leads me to my last thought:

Today at mass, listening to the readings, I looked up at the wall and saw that I was sitting right under the image of Station VII: Jesus falls a second time. And for some reason, I kept gazing at that image even thought the mass went on—the 1^st reading, the psalm, the 2^nd reading; I stood up as everyone else did for the gospel, but I was still gazing at that image above me: Jesus falling a second time. And I realized: that is the entire message summed up in one image, right there!  Jesus falls a second time.  He is denying Himself and has literally taken up His cross, and the path he trods isn’t easy. He stumbles once and is ridiculed and abused, but He doesn’t give up. He rises, takes up His cross and continues the journey, knowing that He will stumble again (even a third time), but every time He gets back up and takes up the cross again. Never quitting, never turning away from the call to deny Himself, take up His cross and follow God’s call, to walk ever more closely with God. His will to serve His Father, our will to be like Him, to follow Him –that is the worship Paul is describing; that is the way to fulfillment, to becoming like our Lord, our God. When we are hungering for our addictions, we are seeking momentary pleasure or respite; it is ephemeral and passes away. It is, in the end, a moment’s satisfaction that leaves us even hungrier; as if we had drunk saltwater in an effort to slake our thirst. As if sin stirred in our souls an appetite for hunger itself.  And no matter how often we feel sated by a moment’s pleasure, the desperate need returns, the satisfaction fades, the pleasure disappears, that life is like foam from a wave, melting in the sand; there for a moment, then gone. No matter how desperately we try, it is a life we cannot cling to, because it is already lost even before it is gone.

 

Like the psalmist says: my flesh pines, my soul thirsts… for God, for you Oh Lord, my God whom I seek. (cf. Psalm 63).

 

Our flesh, our soul, our very being thirsts for God and only one thing will satisfy that longing. Let go of your safety net, your ego, your broken dreams; lay down the life you hoped for, the life you planned, the life that society keeps telling you will bring honor and success and power, and look around you for the cross that is waiting just for you.  It is there, waiting for you to take it up and find –for the first time, perhaps—you are finally alive.  Yes, you will stumble. Yes, you will fall. Like Peter, like Jeremiah, like Jesus Himself… But that’s okay. Get just get back up and remember one thing: Don’t be afraid. This is what it means to truly be alive! You, me, all of us… Quite literally, we were made for this.

 

 

 

Not trusting too much in our own understanding: The imagination and the mind of a reader

“And I only am escaped alone to tell thee.”

(--Job, by way of MOBY DICK)

 

I’m wondering about the way inspiration and the imagination work. Sitting on my front porch this morning, listening to the Sons of the Pioneers and drinking my morning coffee, eating my morning muffin (w/ peanut butter), I watch the squirrels and the doves and w/out reason my mind wanders and begins to wonder. Without any reason, I suddenly find myself thinking about Thomas DeQuincey and Macbeth, and Agatha Christie and Jane Marple, and the act of reading—and the importance of paying attention.  These topics have been on my min for a while of late—so the fact that they are what come to mind isn’t surprising, but I do wonder: why? And why is this my morning?

 

I sit here with my coffee and muffin and Bob Nolan and Tim and Roy singing “The River of No Return,” or “Home in Old San Antone,” and part of my mind wanders into a little Diner w/ checkered table cloths and booths and a waitress w/ bright red cheeks and an order pad in one hand and a pot of coffee in the other. She asks if I want more. I’m a regular. She knows to bring me a muffin without even asking.  On the jukebox the Sons are singing “Tumbleweed Trails,” and the clatter of dishes and the aroma of sizzling bacon is bright in the air. 

 

Then a squirrel pauses before me in search of a peanut and without a thought I am back here on my porch watching a doodle-bug travelling across the concrete—careful of the pine needles I have neglected to sweep and avoiding the fluttering threadlike legs of a tiny dead thing that flips and turns in the breeze of the porch fans. The legs are long thin spindly things—spidery or maybe the desiccated remains of a mosquito hawk withered in the heat and now waiting only to be swept away with the dust and dirt. The movement, the flipping and turning is only partial—as if something anchors the remains and keeps drawing them back to the pavement.  Watching it, I begin to wonder what that anchor is. Why doesn’t this nearly weightless shriveled shell become caught in the fan’s breeze and simply blow away--off into the dirt?

 

And then I am wondering if it is because something is holding onto it. Perhaps an ant, trying to bring home its treasure to share with the other ants. Watching it, I wonder at this bold creature who has got hold of something beyond its control. Unwilling to let go, it—the ant—is being turned and tossed with its treasure –back and forth—buffeted by the unfathomable waves of the wind, the whipping of the air, the fan’s turning.

 

And suddenly I am reminded of Ahab unable to let go of the whale and how that unwillingness is his undoing. Seeming like courage, like boldness—seeming even enviable and admirable—yet to what end? Ahab is destroyed and his ship and crew lost (all but one).  And what of this ant? Will it refuse to let go of its capture? Like Ahab caught by his own harpoon’s rope and dragged to a watery grave, will this ant’s courage and boldness and refusal to let go become its own end? Will it keep stirring with its treasure, stirring against the endless breeze, amidst the pine-needles and the seeming endless expanse and whiteness of the concrete? Or will it finally let go, release the giant wingless knot of legs, release the hope of some great memory—a tale of epic struggle and unwavering dedication? Release the dream of victorious hero hailed for bringing home—against all odds—the mighty mosquito hawk?  And yet the fraying knot of legs continues to twist and turn and ever to drag with it whatever clings, whether for glory or out of fear of letting go, pulling it always away and then back; a victorless struggle, a futile battle, until…  I rise from my chair to get a closer look glimpse this miniature Ahab at his Herculean labor and find—no ant, no bug, no legs even, just a small cluster of threadlike roots turning and twisting, rolling aside and then back again, anchored by nothing at all, merely an act of happenstance, the result of the crashing waves of the breeze from the fan’s turning.

 

But there I was, for a moment, mis-reading the actual finding myself carried away by my own mis-reading, whisked off to another world; bursting waves and breathless foam filling the air as my battered boat rolls and turns and twists on the roiling sea, rising, sinking, in the seething waves, every eye scanning the ever shifting horizon for the whiteness of the whale, dragged away by my own refusal to let go of the dream I had found, the commitment to that fearsome imagining, and the treasure it became.

 

And what does any of this have to do with DeQuincey or Macbeth or Agatha Christie and Miss Marple? Well, it may be tenuous, but allow me an attempt. For years I have heard mention of some brief essay by Thomas DeQuincey about Shakespeare’s Macbeth. On the surface, the essay deals with the strange comic interlude that falls right after the murder of Duncan: a drunken porter is awakened from his stupor by someone knocking at the gate, and he complains in a comic drunken manner about the hour, and the knocking and the bother of it all. DeQuincey found this odd little scene quite memorable and curious and ponders not so much what Shakespeare meant, or the structural importance of it, but mainly—why did it mean so much to him? And why had others seemingly not found it as memorable or troubling? And in this short essay (2-3 pages) he digresses to the topic of the imagination and understanding. It seems that part of what he is proposing is that people come to understand (and label) what Shakespeare is doing.  He is providing comic relief from the horrors of the previous action, he is transitioning the action back from the nightmare of murder to the common place and every day—creating a kind of mood-tension. But, DeQuincey feels that labelling, and understanding in a kind of intellectual way, is rash and too simplistic.  it misses out on the more profound reading that comes with confusion and curiosity.  His conclusion is that we should not trust so quickly our understanding. Asking the question: why? and the pondering that comes with it—even the discomfort of dwelling in the not knowing-- seems to him a richer kind of reading than simply looking for the “right answer” and moving on. In other words: Don’t jump to conclusions! Let yourself be curious and uncomfortable and let yourself wonder. Let your imagination and experience be stirred by the question. Instead of jumping to conclusions or turning to the answers in the back of the book, let yourself contemplate the question and see where it takes you.  

 

It seems to me, that the real problem with rushing to understand something, is that we can rush ourselves into a rudimentary understanding, a too simplistic understanding, and that we might stop there.  Understanding something (like a book) is highly over-rated. It is a kind of achievement, a conquest of sorts. We understand it… and we might even be able to ace a multiple choice test on it.  But, something is missing: an encounter…

 

It's like reading the SparkNotes of Moby Dick, instead of Melville’s novel.  We will have a very basic knowledge, an understanding of a sort; we might know what it is “about” on a particular level (plot/theme).  But we will have missed the opportunity to have of a personal relationship with Ahab and Ishmael and Queequeg and the unfathomable whiteness of Melville’s wondrous whale.

 

When we “understand” something, we tend to stick a pin in it and say: Done. And after that we don’t have to think about it or wonder about it anymore. We can stuff that piece of knowledge in a pigeonhole and never question it. And in time, whether it is true or not, it solidifies into something we believe is fact.  That kind of thinking, understanding, is very dangerous.  Especially when it becomes the way we understand “real life” and other people. That kind of understanding doesn’t allow for complexity and paradox and contradictions.  It tends toward generalities, and cliches. All librarians act a certain way: hair in a bun, glasses on a chain, finger raised to their lips to hush any sound. Athletes are immature, rash and aggressive.  Mechanics drink beer and never listen to opera. People from Texas like big trucks and bigger guns. New Yorkers are angry all the time.  Everybody from California likes white wine and granola. All Democrats are... All Republicans...  All politicians…  All Catholics… Understanding the world, in this way, can blind us to the complexities of people, places, events—blind us to the facts and the wonder and the contradictions of life.  This kind of understanding is like skimming a book instead of reading it.  Reading deeply and slowly and intentionally teaches us to slow down and not rush to judgment. It teaches us to dwell in the discomfort of not knowing… of wondering: what’s going to happen next? it teaches us to wait and see and then to ask questions about motivation and meaning. Slow and deep reading teaches us to contemplate and to question the text, and ourselves.  When you skim, when you rush to “understand,” you miss something… You miss the encounter and the wonder.

 

DeQuincey’s willingness to ponder and rest (for years even) in his wonder and curiosity about that one troubling scene in Macbeth, and his curiosity about it, and about why it seemed to matter so much to him, reminds me of Miss Marple (Agatha Christie’s most inspired and inspiring creation).  Jane Marple is a perfect model of DeQuincey’s artful reader. She is a model of attentiveness, curiosity, and a willingness to dwell in the unknowing.  She never rushes to conclusions, but always ponders what she has seen, heard, learned and allows her imagination to steep or stew in it until she arrives at the truth that is being revealed by those facts and clues.

 

I just finished reading The Body in the Library, one of Christie’s Miss Marple novels. I picked it up because I thought it would be a fun little vacation.  Last summer I read a Poirot mystery set at a seaside resort and felt like I was there in the heat and sand and sea. This summer I would travel to rural England and a quaint little village where I could enjoy some hot tea and some cold-blooded murder. And yet, as I read, I found myself strangely stirred by Christie’s detective and her unwillingness to jump to conclusions.  On the surface, the book is just a clever mystery peopled with charming characters, skillfully crafted with enough clues and plot twists to keep the reader guessing and eager to read on.  In that sense, as a popular novelist, Christie is near the top. She writes what is called a “real page-turner.” But, beneath that skill and art, there is something else happening in her books.  Jane Marple—the spinster detective, who sits with her tea and her knitting, unnoticed by the world—is a woman of profound psychological depth and imagining. She ponders the actualities of life, contemplates the world and the souls that dwell in it, and –in time, and with patience—fearlessly discerns and faces the truth of it all.  She is the reader par excellence.  Never settling for half-truths, never satisfied with appearances.  She wonders about what she has seen, what she has heard, what she knows and what she doesn’t.  In a sense, she is the perfect example of how we all should read, whether reading books, blogs, or life itself.  She asks more questions than she tries to answer, she avoids assumptions, and prejudices, allowing herself to learn, to witness, and to be surprised by the truths that are revealed through her contemplation.  That patience and curiosity isn’t just an intellectual strength, more importantly it becomes a spiritual strength. It is a courageous and saintly commitment to the truth, to see the truth, to bear witness to it—regardless of where it takes her. And this commitment to the truth, instead of hardening her to the world,  gives her a depth of compassion for the people and the situations around her (even the murderers that she uncovers). Because Jane Marple knows that she doesn’t know the whole story of any single soul on earth (possibly not even her own) that gives her humility and compassion for the trials and struggles of the characters around her; like Jesus, she comes not to judge, but to illuminate.  

 

Miss Marple is the reader I hope to become, the reader DeQuincey encourages us to become, and the reader I want my students to become. A reader for and of life. She reads actively and curiously and always seeking to discern truth.  If we want to know the truth, if we want to understand the mysteries of life, the world and the people around us, then—like Ms. Christie’s detective—we need to be willing to rest in the unknowing and uncertainties and dwell in the wondering; we need to become like Miss Marple.

 

But we must not miss the wonder of imagining either; that is part of the pondering.  We see something and we let ourselves be drawn into the wonder of it; into a kind of sympathy with it, and as we do, we will find that we are contemplating not just the sky, or the ant, the breeze, or the cluster of dried weeds, but the mystery and wonder of it all. When we allow ourselves the seeming luxury to daydream and ponder even if it is just a bit of dried grass. In time, we will discover these hours are not wasted time, but the imagination’s way of renewing itself, and discovering what it knows and what it doesn’t.  Reading, daydreaming, gazing at the clouds or at a doodle-bug or an ant—it is necessary for the survival of the soul, and for the life of love—it is where the seed of inspiration takes root.  Inspiration arises out of that stillness, that wonder, that confusion, even that openness to whatever might come. So yes… I am pondering inspiration, and imagination and the quiet contemplation called reading… Somehow I think it is all connected.  

 

What are you reading these days? Miss Marple, Macbeth, Moby Dick? Or maybe a history of Hollywood’s singing cowboys…  Next up for me… probably a childhood favorite: Doc Savage.