1.
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| Eichenberg's "Pieta" |
Because Jesus turns up the heat.
“Get out of my sight,” he howls at the goats at the end of time. “When I was starving, you moaned about being
overweight. When I was thirsty, you
complained about cheap wine. I was a
loner; you laughed at me. I was freezing
cold; you told me to jump up and down. I
was ill; and you told me to snap out of it” (Rob Lacey's Word on the Street).
See what Annie Dillard means about the crash helmets? Are you out there with the goats—laughing at
the lonely? Or are you on the other side
with the sheep? Jesus ratchets up the
tension, cranks up the heat, and raises the stakes in the here and now. “Truth
is,” he says with a flourish, “the lowest of the low is someone like me! So
whatever you didn’t do for them, you didn’t do for me.”
All the while Jesus trusts that you and I can handle the tension in the
teaching. All the while he trusts that we’ll
be better for the struggle. That’s the
thing with Jesus. Every parable has
purpose. Every story aims to expand the
horizons of our spiritual lives. Matthew
25 is meant to shake us down, to turn the tables perhaps on orthodox
christologies. But Jesus trusts that we
can handle the tension.
Because the thing is, Jesus sees in you and me an astonishing capacity
for generosity and grace. In my mind,
the gospels make sense if (and only if) we begin there. Matthew 25 makes sense if (and only if) we
begin there. Jesus sees in you and me an
astonishing capacity for generosity and grace.
He turns up the heat because he cherishes the lovely image of God in
your heart and mine. He turns up the
heat because the kingdom of heaven is here and now, and only compassion and
mindfulness can open the gates. Jesus is
hungry for companionship on the path of peace.
We’re the friends he needs in the streets of Santa Cruz, in the barrios
of Watsonville, in the corridors of the county jail, our juvenile hall and
Dominican Hospital. So he turns up the
heat.
In just this way, I guess I think of Matthew 25 as a love song: a
strange and sometimes discordant love song—but a love song to a sometimes
beleaguered, but always beloved community.
Because Jesus believes in you, because Jesus believes in me, because Jesus
believes in us—he turns up the proverbial heat, tests our commitments on every
level, and calls just abut everything into question. And again, he trusts that we can handle the
tension, that we can tolerate ambiguity and evolve in the midst of it all. Messy lives in a messy world.
2.
Just this week, I found myself in a doctor’s office with easily a dozen
others, waiting out a long delay and restlessly watching the clock. One among us was slumped in a seat and
snoring. Several others were flipping
anxiously through news magazines. And
behind me, an older woman was carrying on a rather loud and animated
conversation on her cell phone. Now by
chance, just by chance, the woman was wearing the hijab, the full Muslim
headscarf, and she was speaking in Arabic.
I don’t imagine any of us understood more than a word or two; but just
the same (as you can imagine) her lively chitchat attracted a good bit of
attention. And not all good.
Like many of the others, I’d already noticed the sign by the check-in
desk, you know the usual sign that says something like, “Please turn off your
cell phone in the waiting area. Or take
your call outside.” I half-wondered if
the woman behind me had seen the sign, or if she read English at all. She was quite loud, almost disruptive, and
for just a moment, I considered pointing it out to her. Instead I buried my nose in a book and kept
to myself.
As minutes passed (ten, maybe fifteen minutes), others in the area
shifted and bristled a bit, and then bristled some more. One or two even gestured, with a bit of a
flourish, to the sign by the desk, murmuring to a neighbor and wondering if the
woman had seen it.
All of this was a little odd and unsettling in a doctor’s office. But it got even stranger. Across the room, a well-dressed couple
arrived just about the same time I did.
I remember that they seemed affable and joked a bit with one of the
nurses as they checked in at the desk. I
thought they looked a bit like my own parents.
Nice like that.
But their tolerance stretched thin.
Affability morphed into irritability.
The well-manicured wife poked her husband in the shoulder and said (loud
enough for the rest of us to hear): “Can’t she read that sign?” And he laughed and said something like:
“Probably not.” And they giggled in a
way that was more sinister than sweet.
And when the woman on the cell phone finished one call and placed yet
another, the couple across the room groaned loudly. “Hey, honey,” she said, poking him
again. “What do you say we get that gun
out of the car?” I could hardly believe
my ears. I mean it was a doctor’s
office. In Santa Cruz. And she said: “Yeah, let’s call it Shoot a
Muslim Day in Santa Cruz.”
Now, by the grace of God, a nurse arrived, at just that moment, to
escort the Muslim woman to her appointment in the back. Two minutes later, another called out for the
couple across the room—and they headed off for theirs. But I was left with a sad and cowardly
feeling, even something like despair: I wonder even now what I might have done,
what I might have said, how I might have been a witness that morning to my
conscience and faith. I was so sorely
tempted to sit idly and pray only for the nasty storm to pass. But is that enough? Is that the faithful way? Is that the practice I commit to every Sunday
with you? I’m not so sure.
3.
So here’s the thing about Matthew 25.
I want us to read scripture, this scripture, bravely and boldly. I want us to hear what’s at stake, to get
what’s on the line for us in the here and now.
The kingdom of heaven’s at stake.
The kingdom of love’s on the line in the here and now. This is the heart of everything Jesus
teaches, every story Jesus tells. Does
it mean Jesus is out to punish the infidel or mark the lazy for all
eternity? Of course not. Does it mean he’s sending the goats to some
fiery pit for the duration? Doesn’t
sound like Jesus to me.
If the kingdom of heaven’s at stake, however, Jesus means to partner
with us in healing the world of its hatred and ignorance. If the kingdom of heaven’s at stake, he’s
passionate about our daily interactions, our choices, our courage in the face
of despair. Is Jesus serious about the
kingdom of love, the kin-dom of all beings, the cross as a way of life? You bet he is. And that’s why he turns up the heat.
So I have to trust that Jesus believes in me and my capacity for
generosity and grace. He knows I can be
cowardly and passive. He’s seen my moral
weakness, my human frailty and folly, on full display over 51 years. But Jesus believes in me just the same. He cherishes the lovely image of God in my
heart—and invites me into this circle to see it for myself. And to cultivate compassion and courage in my
life. Believe me, this happens for
me. Just about every Sunday in this
place, around this table.
So I will be better prepared, next time, for the bigotry I witnessed
Thursday morning. I’ll be vigilant and
mindful of the divine presence: in the misunderstood stranger who wears an
unusual veil, in the animated woman who speaks another language, in the lonely
soul who’s seeking refuge from another land.
I’ll be mindful as well of the incomprehensible love that stirs even in
the hearts of the bigoted and hateful.
And I’ll trust that it’s no accident that I’m sitting there, in the
midst of it all, when a threat is uttered and violence is in the air.
Maybe I’ll say something to the couple across the way, something about
compassion and restraint, something about decency and human kindness. Or maybe, maybe I’ll pick up the book I’m
reading and choose another seat. A seat
next to the woman everyone’s sneering at.
A seat next to the one they’re threatening with words and whispers and
worse. And if someone asks, if someone
questions why the meek-looking minister is moving toward the animated Muslim on
her cell phone, I’ll say something about Matthew 25. And something about the kingdom of love. And something about the here and now.
Decades ago, the German pastor and defiant resister Dietrich Bonhoeffer
considered his own faith in the context of Nazi ideology and virulent
Anti-Semitism in Europe. Some of
Bonhoeffer’s German colleagues insisted that Christians focus on otherworldly
disciplines and turn sharply from worldly concerns. After all, they counseled
in the 1930s and 40s, salvation is deliverance, out of this broken world, into
a better one. Practice holiness. Look for God in doctrine and liturgy.
But Bonhoeffer wanted nothing of this.
He read Matthew 25 as a stunning call to engagement, courage and life in
the world as it really is. Writing from
prison in 1944, months before his execution at the hands of Nazi warriors, he urged
his friends to practice compassion and take responsibility for human
history. “Salvation,” he wrote then, “comes
by living unreservedly in life’s duties, problems, successes and failures,
experiences and perplexities, throwing ourselves completely into the arms of
God, taking seriously, not our own sufferings, but those of God in the
world.” That’s Bonhoeffer in a
nutshell. And Matthew 25 too. Throwing ourselves completely into the arms
of God. Taking seriously not our own
sufferings, but those of God in the world.
When I was starving, says Jesus, you made me meals. When I was thirsty, says Jesus, you poured me
a drink. When my clothes weren’t up to
the job, you went through your cupboards for me. When my health was bad, you nursed me back to
strength.
For this we walk these city streets.
For this we live and breathe and love.
For this we read our bibles and make our plans and say our prayers. Amen.
