Loopholes and Compassion

I once preached what I thought was a really good sermon about marriage.  My basic point was that that commitment had ceased to be a value in our culture. 

 

So the very next Sunday I was again standing at the church door greeting my congregation.  I woman I thought a lot of came up to me, shook my hand as she always did, and said, “Father, I want you to know that I’ve been thinking a lot about your sermon last week.  And I’ve decided to divorce my husband.”  Now her husband may very well have needed divorcing.  I don’t really know.  Still, it was not exactly the result I was going for.

Divorce, to be sure, is sometimes a necessary evil.  It is sometimes something simply unavoidable.  It is sometimes something that is actually in the best interests of the people involved, particularly when there is abuse of some kind.  Over my years as a priest, I have found myself on occasion encouraging someone to take the necessary steps to protect herself and her children.  I have, on occasion, asked people to stop and both think and pray carefully about what they were doing, although I’ve never tried to tell someone what they should do when it comes to marriage and divorce. 

This week’s gospel reading is Jesus’ teaching about marriage and divorce.  It is often misunderstood, particularly in two ways.  For one thing, even Jesus does not say divorce is never permissible.  He characterizes it as regrettable and a concession to human hardness of heart.  What Jesus said is that remarriage after divorce is impermissible.  Nor did Jesus say that remarriage after divorce was permissible if one acknowledged fault in the failure of the first marriage.  He just said it was impermissible.  Period. 

Southerners have an expression for this.  This is the point at which Jesus has done gone from preachin’ and gone to meddlin’.   

Given how clearly Jesus spoke, it is amazing, is it not, that I have never heard a sermon preached evil of remarriage.  I’ve heard sermons preached about the evils of a lot of things and about a lot of sexual practices but not once about remarriage.  Remarriage is something we not only allow; we celebrate it. 

Generally speaking, we look at second marriages as a second chance at life and a second chance at love.  Second chances are generally something we think people ought to have.  People do stupid things sometimes.  They ought to have another chance.  People make mistakes.  They ought to have another chance.  People even sometimes end up divorced through no fault of their own.  They ought to have a second chance.  People get hurt by our human tendency to hardness of heart.  They ought to have a second chance.

And doesn’t this have something to do with why I’ve never heard a sermon against remarriage?  The explicit words of Jesus notwithstanding, followers of Jesus, precisely because they are trying to be followers of Jesus, have an immense capacity to seek compassion.  They have an immense capacity to seek mercy.  They have an immense capacity to seek forgiveness.   They have an immense capacity to seek love.  They take seriously that Jesus said, not to give just a second chance, but to give seventy times seven chances.  That is one of the things that makes me want to be a Christian.

The only thing that worries me is when our capacity to seek compassion, mercy, forgiveness, and love tends to be greater with respect to our own situations in life than with respect to someone else’s.  We have made an enormous exception to the words of Scripture that have a tendency to benefit ourselves.  I have a hard time seeing Jesus as having a problem with that.  The problem comes when we make an enormous exception to the words of Scripture to benefit ourselves, to give ourselves a loophole in the law, but refuse to do that for others.  And that, my friends, is something I do think Jesus has a problem with—a big problem.

Peace,

Praying for Parking Places

I once attended a conference on prayer.  I was invited by a very devout person, whom I have no doubt prayed a lot.  Mostly I think she prayed for me to fall off the Earth.  I often have that effect on the devout.  Still, it was an expectation of the job so I went.  I couldn’t have the bishop not appearing to be interested in prayer, and in fact, I actually am. 

I was surprised, though, to hear praying for parking places being extolled as an example of faithfulness.  I had never thought of praying for a parking place, although I have come to see the utility of it since moving to New York.  It seemed too trivial for God in the moment.

Now this part is wrong and it goes to something I learned as I reflected on that conference on prayer.  I think my spiritual director had to point out my error.  Nothing, of course,  is too trivial for God.  If God has counted the hairs of our heads (Mt. 10:30), nothing is beyond God’s caring.  But that doesn’t mean nothing is beyond God’s acting.

The problem with praying for parking places is not that it is beneath God’s dignity or not worth God’s time, even if it isn’t.  The problem is that it is selfish.  After all, the reason parking places are scarce is that there are a lot of people who need them.  Whereas I might want a convenient place at the grocery store, someone else might need a space close to the Urgent Care to take a sick child.  The person I’m praying against (that says it all, doesn’t it?) might need the space closer to the grocery story because she just had hip surgery.  Or someone else might need the space closer to the grocery story because he’s just had some devastating news and needs to get home to deal with it.  My prayer is trivial in the extreme by comparison, but the real problem is that it is selfish, that my wants are more important that someone’s else needs or even someone else’s wants. 

The Epistle of James speaks of the prayer of faith and the prayer of the righteous.  What distinguishes that sort of prayer from praying for parking places?

I think there are two things.  One is that the faithful prayer of the righteous is more often than not for others rather than for oneself.  “Therefore confess your sins to one another, and pray for one another, so that you may be healed.  The prayer of the righteous is powerful and effective” (James 5:16).  The prayer of the righteous is prayer for the well-being of others.

Not all faithful prayer is for others, though.  Faithful prayer can be for oneself.  James mentions both those who suffer and those who are joyous.  The faithful prayer of those who suffer is about a need.  The faithful prayer for the cheerful is a song of praise.  (James 5:13)  That is also a need of a different kind.   Faithful prayer, at a minimum, is about what one needs and not what one wants. 

The difference between wants and needs is something many of us have a hard time getting, to be sure.  A lot of my time as a parent has been about trying to teach my children the difference between wants and needs.  I’m sure the same was true with my parents with respect to me.  I am quite inclined to get them mixed up to this day.  When it comes to prayer, though, praying for parking places is almost always about want.  There just isn’t much faith in it.  And if I happen to get the parking place of my dreams, I’m pretty sure that’s a matter of luck and not the sort of prayer James calls powerful and effective.

Peace,

Stumbling Block

I was walking back to the office from a lunch meeting.  The meeting had been productive as well as interesting.  It was a beautiful spring day, the kind that makes you grateful to be able to breathe in the air.  I was somewhere along Lexington Avenue, I think, at about 39th or 40th street.  I waited for the light to cross and as I got to the other side, I somehow missed the curb.  I wasn’t looking at my phone, just not paying attention that carefully; distracted, I think, by the beauty and satisfaction of the day.

I tried to catch my balance for three or four awkward steps as I must have done when a toddler.  Curiously, I remember the heaviness of each unbalanced step, my foot hitting the pavement hardly and my arms flailing in unknown directions, indeed just as I’ve seen toddlers do.  I’m not sure if my effort finally succumbed to gravity or I just gave up, but down I went, and found myself sprawled out on the sidewalk.  Fortunately, I was not hurt beyond a slightly scraped-up hand, bruised knee, and very bruised ego.  Even more fortunately, I did not take anyone down with me.

My instinct, indeed my most fervent desire, was to get up and act as if it hadn’t happened, avoid eye contact (this is New York after all), and continue on my way.  It was not to be.  Instead, I was immediately surrounded by several people asking if I were alright.  One was insistent on helping me up.

With great embarrassment I replied that I was fine and declined assistance.  The young man offering to help me up, however, was insistent.  He would not take no for answer despite several attempts on my part.  Providentially, sanity and humility returned, and I extended my hand up to his outstretched in my direction.  He pulled me up advising me to keep weight off the knee.  He and several of the others asked again if I were sure I was alright.  Did I want them to call anyone?  No, thank you, I replied.  Soon enough, but not as soon as I might have liked, they went on their way and I went on mine. 

St. Paul wrote, “[W]e proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles” (1 Cor. 1:23).  Stumbling blocks are now more than a figure of speech to me.  Mine was not so much the curb at 39th and Lex as it was my illusion of self-sufficiency and pride.  That goes in part to what the proclamation of Christ crucified is about.  Paul’s words that “the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God” (v. 18) make more sense. 

In my very slight encounter with perishing, the idea of having to be helped to my feet was utter foolishness.  In the reality of my awkward vulnerability, though, it was actually a mild salvation by the power of God.  Even though I could have put myself back on my feet, admittedly with some effort, reaching for an outstretched hand allowed the love of God to be made real to me along with my need for it.  It allowed passersby to express concern and the concern to be received, whether I wanted to receive it or not.  It allowed me to appreciate what interdependence means, which is something that is a challenge for me and a concept I prefer to avoid.

Our need for each other has an awful lot to do with how God is experienced, even when we don’t want it to.

Peace,

Speaking with an Accent

On Saturday I had the privilege of attending the funeral of my friend Bishop Onell Soto.  Onell was born in Cuba and left after the revolution as a young man.  He was once a staff member of the Domestic and Foreign Missionary Society working in world mission, and he was most certainly a missionary at heart.  He went on to serve as Bishop of Venezuela.  From there he became the Assistant Bishop of Atlanta, which is where he entered my life as a great blessing.  Then he was the Assistant Bishop of Alabama.  He was a dear man, a devoted husband and father, and a faithful pastor to his people as both priest and bishop.

When he visited my parish in Atlanta, he almost always compared himself to Ricky Ricardo.  He began virtually every sermon by reminding people of his Cuban heritage and saying, with great delight, “Lucy, I’m home” in a thick, Cuban accent. 

But his joking around was not without a point.  There are few sermons I remember from my life, either ones I’ve heard or ones I’ve preached.  But one I do was preached by Onell Soto.  In it he went on from his “I Love Lucy” routine to make a profound missionary point.  “The Gospel,” he preached, “has always been proclaimed with an accent.”  The Gospel has always been proclaimed with an accent.

The Gospel’s hometown is Jerusalem.  Its original accent and ethos are Jewish.  Its original proclaimers, first the women at the tomb and then the apostles sent to the ends of the earth and chiefly Paul, spoke with an accent everywhere they went.  The Gospel has always been proclaimed with an accent.

The first missionaries to Britain, whose names are now lost to us, spoke with an accent.  St. Augustine, who led a second wave of missionaries in the sixth century, spoke with an Italian accent.  Later missionaries to Britain spoke with an Irish accent. 

British missionaries, too, spoke with an accent in the Americas and elsewhere.  American missionaries, in turn, took the Gospel to new places. They spoke with an American accent, sometimes, I hope, maybe a Southern one.  The Gospel has always been proclaimed with an accent.

We are living in a time when lands to which missionaries were once sent are now sending missionaries of their own.  Desmond Tutu is South Africa’s missionary to the world.  He speaks with a delightful accent. We will be visited this month by Pope Francis.  He speaks with an Argentinian accent.  Malala Yousafzai, while not a Christian, is Pakistan’s missionary of peace, and she speaks with a beautifully soft accent.  The Gospel, however known, has always been proclaimed with an accent.

The Gospel has always been proclaimed with an accent because it is inherently foreign, not just to a particular time or place, but to humanity.  The Gospel entered the world from outside the world.  It was, from the very beginning, proclaimed with an accent because God necessarily speaks with an accent.  The Word become flesh was spoken with a heavenly accent very difficult for human beings to understand. 

I am grateful to Onell for teaching me that.  He has taught me, when I hear an accent, to listen up for the Gospel.

And finally, it is true.  “Lucy, he’s home.”

Peace,