Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Concrete's home
You may see Concrete around town today, as he's been released from the hospital. Thanks to everyone for your prayers. Please keep them up, for Concrete and for everyone who wants to be a loving friend and/or family member to him. It's good to have this beloved member of our community back among us.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
The following is a homily preached by JR Rigby at Church of the Holy Family, Chapel Hill, on Wednesday of Easter Week, 2009. Propers: Luke 24:13-35, Acts 3:1-10
In the short passage from Acts 3:1-10 we are immersed in the ordinary and the routine. Peter and John are going up to the temple at the hour of prayer. Indeed, at the end of chapter 2 we are told that the believers “day by day, spent much time at the temple”. Peter and John are just going about the daily routine; it is probably not even the first time they have been to the temple that day.
At the gate of the temple lay a beggar, lame from birth, now in his fortieth year. He is laid there daily. His routine is well known. Luke even notes that the people of Jerusalem recognize him as the beggar at the Beautiful Gate. For this man the routine may have become a source of despair – a lifetime of begging, no longer even looking up at the almsgivers as they pass by.
So, we must imagine that Peter and John have seen this man before, probably many times. Yet this time when the beggar asks Peter and John for alms, Luke tells us that Peter looked at him intently, as did John.
The story continues, almost without missing a beat. It would be easy to pass over this detail. Still, Luke tells us that Peter did not just glance down at the beggar, but that he looked at him intently.
Just what went through Peter’s mind at that moment – Peter, who had been at Jesus’ side through his ministry?
Did Peter perhaps see Lazarus lying at the gate of the rich man’s house? As the beggar asked for alms, did Peter hear Lazarus hungry and pleading for the falling crumbs?
So much has happened since Jesus told that parable: the Passion, the Crucifixion, the Resurrection. It is a new time.
Then perhaps Peter looked up for a moment through the gate toward the temple and saw now the temple as the house of the rich man, and Peter the servant of that rich man, nourished at the sumptuous table of the Lord of that house in the breaking of bread - Peter who has nothing of his own because the church holds all things in common, says with honesty, “I have no silver or gold,” and then with gentleness, “but what I have I give you” – and what crumbs from the table of the Lord can he possibly offer to this beggar at the gate? Nothing less than,
“In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise up and walk.”
Then Peter took the beggar by the right hand and, Luke says, “raised him up” – for this is a story about healing, certainly, but only to point to the Resurrection; Peter “raised him up”. As Paul writes, Christ “will transform the body of our humiliation (the body of a lame beggar lying outside God’s house) that it may be conformed to the body of his glory (the healed man running and jumping into the temple, a figure of the new man in Christ) by the power that also enables him to make all things subject to himself (instantly this man believed and praised God).” Phil 3:21
Peter lives in a community of faithful obedience to ordinary practices, devoted to the prayers, and to the breaking of bread. It is in devotion to these ordinary things that Peter’s eyes are opened to the beggar at the gate – much as Cleopas’ eyes are opened to Jesus in the breaking of bread - and it is through faithfulness to holding all things in common that we find Peter with no silver and gold.
Let us not miss the irony: Through faithfulness Peter’s eyes are opened to notice the beggar, but through faithfulness he also has no silver or gold to give. From the beggar’s vantage it’s a bit of a Catch 22!
But it is a new time - a time not of defeat, nor of despair, but of victory. For, Christ is risen!
Thus in Peter’s faithfulness to the risen Christ, we find that having nothing he yet possesses everything, being poor he yet makes this man rich, and this beggar, whom everyone recognized but no one knew, is yet well-known as he is raised up with Christ.
Peter’s faithfulness turns an ordinary, and potentially awkward, encounter into a mirror of the Resurrection.
We must be faithful in small things, if we are to participate in the glory of God that is the resurrection of his Son. Let us go therefore and devote ourselves to Christ in every small act. Let our daily routines be set by the worship of God. Let our eyes be opened in the breaking of bread.
And may every mundane encounter be transformed by the resurrection of our Lord.
O God, whose blessed Son made himself known to his
disciples in the breaking of bread: Open the eyes of our faith,
that we may behold him in all his redeeming work; who lives
and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God,
now and for ever. Amen.
In the short passage from Acts 3:1-10 we are immersed in the ordinary and the routine. Peter and John are going up to the temple at the hour of prayer. Indeed, at the end of chapter 2 we are told that the believers “day by day, spent much time at the temple”. Peter and John are just going about the daily routine; it is probably not even the first time they have been to the temple that day.
At the gate of the temple lay a beggar, lame from birth, now in his fortieth year. He is laid there daily. His routine is well known. Luke even notes that the people of Jerusalem recognize him as the beggar at the Beautiful Gate. For this man the routine may have become a source of despair – a lifetime of begging, no longer even looking up at the almsgivers as they pass by.
So, we must imagine that Peter and John have seen this man before, probably many times. Yet this time when the beggar asks Peter and John for alms, Luke tells us that Peter looked at him intently, as did John.
The story continues, almost without missing a beat. It would be easy to pass over this detail. Still, Luke tells us that Peter did not just glance down at the beggar, but that he looked at him intently.
Just what went through Peter’s mind at that moment – Peter, who had been at Jesus’ side through his ministry?
Did Peter perhaps see Lazarus lying at the gate of the rich man’s house? As the beggar asked for alms, did Peter hear Lazarus hungry and pleading for the falling crumbs?
So much has happened since Jesus told that parable: the Passion, the Crucifixion, the Resurrection. It is a new time.
Then perhaps Peter looked up for a moment through the gate toward the temple and saw now the temple as the house of the rich man, and Peter the servant of that rich man, nourished at the sumptuous table of the Lord of that house in the breaking of bread - Peter who has nothing of his own because the church holds all things in common, says with honesty, “I have no silver or gold,” and then with gentleness, “but what I have I give you” – and what crumbs from the table of the Lord can he possibly offer to this beggar at the gate? Nothing less than,
“In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise up and walk.”
Then Peter took the beggar by the right hand and, Luke says, “raised him up” – for this is a story about healing, certainly, but only to point to the Resurrection; Peter “raised him up”. As Paul writes, Christ “will transform the body of our humiliation (the body of a lame beggar lying outside God’s house) that it may be conformed to the body of his glory (the healed man running and jumping into the temple, a figure of the new man in Christ) by the power that also enables him to make all things subject to himself (instantly this man believed and praised God).” Phil 3:21
Peter lives in a community of faithful obedience to ordinary practices, devoted to the prayers, and to the breaking of bread. It is in devotion to these ordinary things that Peter’s eyes are opened to the beggar at the gate – much as Cleopas’ eyes are opened to Jesus in the breaking of bread - and it is through faithfulness to holding all things in common that we find Peter with no silver and gold.
Let us not miss the irony: Through faithfulness Peter’s eyes are opened to notice the beggar, but through faithfulness he also has no silver or gold to give. From the beggar’s vantage it’s a bit of a Catch 22!
But it is a new time - a time not of defeat, nor of despair, but of victory. For, Christ is risen!
Thus in Peter’s faithfulness to the risen Christ, we find that having nothing he yet possesses everything, being poor he yet makes this man rich, and this beggar, whom everyone recognized but no one knew, is yet well-known as he is raised up with Christ.
Peter’s faithfulness turns an ordinary, and potentially awkward, encounter into a mirror of the Resurrection.
We must be faithful in small things, if we are to participate in the glory of God that is the resurrection of his Son. Let us go therefore and devote ourselves to Christ in every small act. Let our daily routines be set by the worship of God. Let our eyes be opened in the breaking of bread.
And may every mundane encounter be transformed by the resurrection of our Lord.
O God, whose blessed Son made himself known to his
disciples in the breaking of bread: Open the eyes of our faith,
that we may behold him in all his redeeming work; who lives
and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God,
now and for ever. Amen.
Concrete at Central Regional Psychiatric Hospital
After spending seven days in the Duke ER, Crete was transferred to Central Regional Psychiatric Hospital in Butner yesterday morning.
Sent to the loonie bin - that's the bad news. The good news is that now we can visit him. So Lisa and I went up last night after supper.
The facility is brand new, replacing the older one in that same town. This probably helped to relieve a bit of the awkward nervousness I felt approaching my first mental health ward. They led us through a series of four electrically locking doors. The hallways were white and sterile but bigger than your average hospital types. This would have been comforting, but medical hospitals are usually bustling with doctors, nurses and patients, carts and machinery here and there. Here there was nothing. No other people, bare, slightly curving, medium-light corridors smelling of antiseptic soap.
They led us into an austere little room with two chairs, a table and a bench. "Shut the door behind you," the nurse said. She then opened the other door into the common area of Crete's wing. "Mr. Graham?!" she yelled.
Sent to the loonie bin - that's the bad news. The good news is that now we can visit him. So Lisa and I went up last night after supper.
The facility is brand new, replacing the older one in that same town. This probably helped to relieve a bit of the awkward nervousness I felt approaching my first mental health ward. They led us through a series of four electrically locking doors. The hallways were white and sterile but bigger than your average hospital types. This would have been comforting, but medical hospitals are usually bustling with doctors, nurses and patients, carts and machinery here and there. Here there was nothing. No other people, bare, slightly curving, medium-light corridors smelling of antiseptic soap.
They led us into an austere little room with two chairs, a table and a bench. "Shut the door behind you," the nurse said. She then opened the other door into the common area of Crete's wing. "Mr. Graham?!" she yelled.
Crete walked in, staring at the floor. He was dressed in his normal street clothes, which had clearly had a recent run through the wash. He looked good.
We all sat down and Crete started talking. He said that he had just been transferred there today and that they hadn't given him any drugs yet. He said he didn't know what had set "that lady they call my sister" to commit him at that time. He ran through various things that had happened in the few days before the police nabbed him, and wasn't sure what it had been. "They just kept telling me that it was because I'm not showering...but that doesn't seem right." To that charge was later added, he said, that he was a danger to himself and others. The former might, by an almost infinite stretch of the imagination, in the state's definition, be entailed in long periods without a shower (which, by the way, is itself highly questionable). The latter is simply laughable.
Crete talked a lot about how his present predicament is caused by the state's inability to put up with or even comprehend his chosen way of life. "They got all their people out on this one...police, FBI, CIA, Army, Navy, Marines, ROTC. They are killing each other all day trying to kill me because I love God. But they really are destroying themselves...they say they are helping me but I know that they gotta do this to function a profit [benefit] for the rest of the world. So they' really just blessin' themselves."
As always, though, he takes this with patience and understanding and never blames anyone personally. Quite in the New Testament sense, he blames "the world." "I talk to folks all day who are trying to help me, and I'm trying to help them, cause I know they're not even intending to do what they are doin'. But whatever I say they just make me look stupid."
He refuses even to speak badly of his sister, who had him committed and whom he has not seen or heard from through this whole process. Responding to something I said hinting of a negative vibe toward his sister he said, "People are gonna think I should make war against her, but I'm not gonna do that."
Lisa and I told him that the Guys were worried about him and that JR and Adam would be up to visit soon. I said that we've been able to talk to his social worker and doctors and that hopefully our testimonies of our normal life with him, along with Adam's ability to speak intelligently about things psychiatric would convince them that the facilities' over-crowed beds need not be taken up by Crete. He looked intently and hopefully when I told him we'd do everything we can.
Probably the biggest obstacle to his release right now is the way he talks. His speach sounds strange, incomprehensible and, well, crazy - to someone who doesn't know him. But it is eminently intelligible and rational - it is simply a different idiom, laden with metaphors and rather apocalyptic in tone, spoken from the underbelly of the world. The problem is that psychiatrists don't know him or live with him, so when he says that he's "gettin' hit" or that "the world is trying to kill him" or that he's "not getting any women" he can only be classed as delusional, paranoid, or perverted.
The ER psychiatrist told us the other day that three weeks is a long stay at Central Regional. Let's pray its shorter than that.
--Colin Miller
We all sat down and Crete started talking. He said that he had just been transferred there today and that they hadn't given him any drugs yet. He said he didn't know what had set "that lady they call my sister" to commit him at that time. He ran through various things that had happened in the few days before the police nabbed him, and wasn't sure what it had been. "They just kept telling me that it was because I'm not showering...but that doesn't seem right." To that charge was later added, he said, that he was a danger to himself and others. The former might, by an almost infinite stretch of the imagination, in the state's definition, be entailed in long periods without a shower (which, by the way, is itself highly questionable). The latter is simply laughable.
Crete talked a lot about how his present predicament is caused by the state's inability to put up with or even comprehend his chosen way of life. "They got all their people out on this one...police, FBI, CIA, Army, Navy, Marines, ROTC. They are killing each other all day trying to kill me because I love God. But they really are destroying themselves...they say they are helping me but I know that they gotta do this to function a profit [benefit] for the rest of the world. So they' really just blessin' themselves."
As always, though, he takes this with patience and understanding and never blames anyone personally. Quite in the New Testament sense, he blames "the world." "I talk to folks all day who are trying to help me, and I'm trying to help them, cause I know they're not even intending to do what they are doin'. But whatever I say they just make me look stupid."
He refuses even to speak badly of his sister, who had him committed and whom he has not seen or heard from through this whole process. Responding to something I said hinting of a negative vibe toward his sister he said, "People are gonna think I should make war against her, but I'm not gonna do that."
Lisa and I told him that the Guys were worried about him and that JR and Adam would be up to visit soon. I said that we've been able to talk to his social worker and doctors and that hopefully our testimonies of our normal life with him, along with Adam's ability to speak intelligently about things psychiatric would convince them that the facilities' over-crowed beds need not be taken up by Crete. He looked intently and hopefully when I told him we'd do everything we can.
Probably the biggest obstacle to his release right now is the way he talks. His speach sounds strange, incomprehensible and, well, crazy - to someone who doesn't know him. But it is eminently intelligible and rational - it is simply a different idiom, laden with metaphors and rather apocalyptic in tone, spoken from the underbelly of the world. The problem is that psychiatrists don't know him or live with him, so when he says that he's "gettin' hit" or that "the world is trying to kill him" or that he's "not getting any women" he can only be classed as delusional, paranoid, or perverted.
The ER psychiatrist told us the other day that three weeks is a long stay at Central Regional. Let's pray its shorter than that.
--Colin Miller
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
This is the sermon preached by Vicar Rhonda Lee at the Great Vigil at St. Joseph's on Easter Eve 2009. The text is Isaiah 55: 1-11.
“Everyone who thirsts,
come to the waters,
and you that have no money,
come, buy and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk
without money and without
price.”
By human standards, this passage from Isaiah is a very strange invitation.
It’s addressed to “everyone,” answering the ubiquitous questions about who else will be there, and whether children are included. And not just “everyone” is invited, but, more specifically, “everyone who thirsts,” and those “that have no money.” An open bar and all-you-can-eat buffet for people who don’t eat out: the host is either extremely wealthy, unusually generous, or both.
There are a couple of things the invitation doesn’t mention. There’s nothing about gifts: no indication of where the host is registered. Not even a discreet line of small type stating “no gifts please,” or suggesting a donation to your favorite charity instead. Perhaps because those who can’t afford food and drink are specifically invited, this invitation doesn’t specify the type of attire guests are expected to wear.
This really is a very strange invitation.
It sounds strange to us, and it would have sounded strange twenty-five hundred years ago when God issued it through the prophet Isaiah. Back then, God said, “My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways,” and that’s still true.
The invitation to God’s banquet isn’t just strange. It’s threatening to anyone who would rather keep their guest lists exclusive—and all of us, if we’re honest, fall into that category at some time or another. If everyone’s invited, that includes not only Democrats and Republicans, but ex-wives and former lovers too. Debutantes and street people. Foreigners and fellow citizens: God specifically says that the heralds of the banquet “shall call nations that you do not know, and nations that do not know you…” Notorious sinners, and those who have simply offended us. Everyone’s invited. All our host asks is that guests heed this call, “let the wicked forsake their way, and the unrighteous their thoughts,” and trust in God’s generous promise that, as Isaiah says, “he will abundantly pardon.” That pardon is good news to everyone who knows herself to be a sinner, but it feels like bad news at those moments when we can’t imagine sharing a table with him—whoever he may be.
If the breadth of the invitation to this banquet challenges us personally, it’s also a political threat. Crowds of people gathering in one place for no commercial purpose, without a permit? That’s called loitering in most places, and sedition in many; depending on how the offense is defined, it may be punishable by a fine, jail term, or death. Giving away wine, milk, and food to any and all who show up? Add public drunkenness, contributing to the delinquency of minors, and undermining the moral fiber of the poor to the list of charges. Call the Health Department while you’re at it, because that banquet’s a hazard. And by the way, who’s going to do the dishes afterward?
It’s true: God’s thoughts are not our thoughts, and our ways are not God’s ways.
That’s the lesson of the resurrection. That’s the lesson of baptism. By the standards of the world, God’s ways don’t make sense; they’re not rational, reasonable, or profitable. But for us as a Christian community, those paradoxical ways are the wellspring of joy and compassionate love.
That’s why we believe that our sister Kenetta was drowned in water and the Holy Spirit tonight, even though most of her body stayed dry. That’s why we’ve been looking forward to her death for months, and why we now proclaim that this adult woman has just been born.
Our ways are not God’s ways. But, by divine grace God’s thoughts have been revealed to us in Scripture; God’s love has been shown to us in the law and the prophets, and made incarnate in Jesus Christ. God’s ways can become our ways, when we accept the mysterious invitation to his banquet.
Tonight Kenetta has accepted that invitation. She has been baptized, and she will take Communion. Kenetta has already participated in, and even hosted, fellowship meals here at St. Joseph’s. Tonight, she has said she wants to be a part of all the Holy Spirit’s banquets. She has said yes, she wants to feast at the table where seats are never sold, and where’s there’s always room for everyone. She wants to share in the meal hosted by the man who never raised a hand to hurt, only to heal, and yet was executed by a brutal empire whose governors believed, accurately, that he posed a threat to their way of doing business.
Kenetta is proclaiming with all the baptized, here at St. Joseph’s, around the world, and through the ages, that death can be the gateway to life, that bread and wine can become the very body and blood of God, and that by sharing holy food and drink, we can become holy people. She knows that together, we can turn away from empty foods—in Isaiah’s words, from “that which is not bread…that which does not satisfy”—and accept the nourishment God offers, as hungrily as a baby accepts the milk that is the only food it has ever known. We can resist the temptation to measure our worth by whether or not we appear on some exclusive guest list, and instead relax into the joy of knowing we’re loved, and we’re free to love others.
“Everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and you that have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price.” That’s God’s simple, profound recipe for transformation: accept the invitation to his banquets. If you’re baptized, feast often. Take a seat at the Lord’s table wherever you find it, and make room there for everyone who hungers and thirsts. If you’re wondering whether the Holy Spirit might be calling you to baptism, know that the sacraments and fellowship are God’s gifts to everyone who will accept them, and that his invitation has your name on it. As we share food and drink—bread and wine here at the altar, and rice and beans, sausage and eggs in the parish hall—we will become God’s people. We will be one body in Jesus Christ, and he will teach us to walk in his ways together. Amen.
“Everyone who thirsts,
come to the waters,
and you that have no money,
come, buy and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk
without money and without
price.”
By human standards, this passage from Isaiah is a very strange invitation.
It’s addressed to “everyone,” answering the ubiquitous questions about who else will be there, and whether children are included. And not just “everyone” is invited, but, more specifically, “everyone who thirsts,” and those “that have no money.” An open bar and all-you-can-eat buffet for people who don’t eat out: the host is either extremely wealthy, unusually generous, or both.
There are a couple of things the invitation doesn’t mention. There’s nothing about gifts: no indication of where the host is registered. Not even a discreet line of small type stating “no gifts please,” or suggesting a donation to your favorite charity instead. Perhaps because those who can’t afford food and drink are specifically invited, this invitation doesn’t specify the type of attire guests are expected to wear.
This really is a very strange invitation.
It sounds strange to us, and it would have sounded strange twenty-five hundred years ago when God issued it through the prophet Isaiah. Back then, God said, “My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways,” and that’s still true.
The invitation to God’s banquet isn’t just strange. It’s threatening to anyone who would rather keep their guest lists exclusive—and all of us, if we’re honest, fall into that category at some time or another. If everyone’s invited, that includes not only Democrats and Republicans, but ex-wives and former lovers too. Debutantes and street people. Foreigners and fellow citizens: God specifically says that the heralds of the banquet “shall call nations that you do not know, and nations that do not know you…” Notorious sinners, and those who have simply offended us. Everyone’s invited. All our host asks is that guests heed this call, “let the wicked forsake their way, and the unrighteous their thoughts,” and trust in God’s generous promise that, as Isaiah says, “he will abundantly pardon.” That pardon is good news to everyone who knows herself to be a sinner, but it feels like bad news at those moments when we can’t imagine sharing a table with him—whoever he may be.
If the breadth of the invitation to this banquet challenges us personally, it’s also a political threat. Crowds of people gathering in one place for no commercial purpose, without a permit? That’s called loitering in most places, and sedition in many; depending on how the offense is defined, it may be punishable by a fine, jail term, or death. Giving away wine, milk, and food to any and all who show up? Add public drunkenness, contributing to the delinquency of minors, and undermining the moral fiber of the poor to the list of charges. Call the Health Department while you’re at it, because that banquet’s a hazard. And by the way, who’s going to do the dishes afterward?
It’s true: God’s thoughts are not our thoughts, and our ways are not God’s ways.
That’s the lesson of the resurrection. That’s the lesson of baptism. By the standards of the world, God’s ways don’t make sense; they’re not rational, reasonable, or profitable. But for us as a Christian community, those paradoxical ways are the wellspring of joy and compassionate love.
That’s why we believe that our sister Kenetta was drowned in water and the Holy Spirit tonight, even though most of her body stayed dry. That’s why we’ve been looking forward to her death for months, and why we now proclaim that this adult woman has just been born.
Our ways are not God’s ways. But, by divine grace God’s thoughts have been revealed to us in Scripture; God’s love has been shown to us in the law and the prophets, and made incarnate in Jesus Christ. God’s ways can become our ways, when we accept the mysterious invitation to his banquet.
Tonight Kenetta has accepted that invitation. She has been baptized, and she will take Communion. Kenetta has already participated in, and even hosted, fellowship meals here at St. Joseph’s. Tonight, she has said she wants to be a part of all the Holy Spirit’s banquets. She has said yes, she wants to feast at the table where seats are never sold, and where’s there’s always room for everyone. She wants to share in the meal hosted by the man who never raised a hand to hurt, only to heal, and yet was executed by a brutal empire whose governors believed, accurately, that he posed a threat to their way of doing business.
Kenetta is proclaiming with all the baptized, here at St. Joseph’s, around the world, and through the ages, that death can be the gateway to life, that bread and wine can become the very body and blood of God, and that by sharing holy food and drink, we can become holy people. She knows that together, we can turn away from empty foods—in Isaiah’s words, from “that which is not bread…that which does not satisfy”—and accept the nourishment God offers, as hungrily as a baby accepts the milk that is the only food it has ever known. We can resist the temptation to measure our worth by whether or not we appear on some exclusive guest list, and instead relax into the joy of knowing we’re loved, and we’re free to love others.
“Everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and you that have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price.” That’s God’s simple, profound recipe for transformation: accept the invitation to his banquets. If you’re baptized, feast often. Take a seat at the Lord’s table wherever you find it, and make room there for everyone who hungers and thirsts. If you’re wondering whether the Holy Spirit might be calling you to baptism, know that the sacraments and fellowship are God’s gifts to everyone who will accept them, and that his invitation has your name on it. As we share food and drink—bread and wine here at the altar, and rice and beans, sausage and eggs in the parish hall—we will become God’s people. We will be one body in Jesus Christ, and he will teach us to walk in his ways together. Amen.
The following is the sermon preached by Deacon Maggie Silton at St. Joseph's on Maundy Thursday 2009. The text is John 13: 1-17, 31b-35.
Jesus said to Peter, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” As usual, Peter just doesn’t get it. At first he refuses Jesus’ offer to wash his feet. When Jesus tells Peter he must wash his feet, Peter wants his head and hands washed as well. Peter is so like the rest of us. When he realizes he’s said the wrong thing, he proceeds to put his foot even further into his mouth.
I suppose we shouldn’t be too hard on Peter. Even in a cultural context where foot-washing was a common practice of hospitality, it would have been downright weird to do what Jesus does and start washing feet in the middle of dinner. We can be pretty sure that it isn’t concern for hygiene or even comfort that’s motivating Jesus. I think we can also be sure it’s not ritual cleanliness that’s on Jesus’ mind. Jesus presents a model of servanthood, to be sure. But the lesson Jesus teaches by washing the feet of his disciples reaches beyond even servanthood.
By washing the feet of his disciples, Jesus teaches them what it’s like to be in loving relationship with one another. By washing his disciples’ feet, Jesus teaches them about mutuality in love. Jesus turns the whole notion of the master-servant hierarchy upside down. He offers service to the very people who think it’s their job to serve him instead. By performing the service of foot-washing for his disciples, Jesus teaches them how to receive service. By this point in Jesus’ ministry, the disciples know what service looks like. They’ve seen Jesus touch lepers and minister to outcasts. They’ve seen him eat with people whom others consider beyond the pale. Now, as their own feet are washed by Jesus, they learn what it’s like to be the ones who are served.
The lesson that Jesus teaches in the foot-washing is one that we too would do well to learn. Most of us have internalized the idea that it’s more blessed to give than to receive. I’d venture to guess that most Christians believe that it’s better to serve than be served. Most of us like to think of ourselves as givers and helpers. It certainly is good to give and it’s certainly good to help. But if we are givers and helpers only, and are never receivers, we perpetuate a hierarchy in which some people are defined as being better than others. If we refuse what others offer, if we refuse the service of others, we may—without meaning to—deprive someone else of the chance to give and serve.
We may want to keep Jesus’ lesson in mind as we think about our relationships with our homeless neighbors. In our eagerness to consider how we may serve them, it may be easy to forget what it is that they may offer us. Yes, we want to emulate Jesus and be washers of feet. But Jesus, too, had his feet washed with ointment by Mary, who dried Jesus’ feet with her hair. Sometimes it is as blessed to give as to receive. Sometimes it is as blessed to be served as to serve. Mutuality is essential to truly loving relationships, like the one Jesus has with the disciples and like the one Jesus has with his Father. “Unless I wash you,” says Jesus, “you have no share with me.” Amen.
Jesus said to Peter, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” As usual, Peter just doesn’t get it. At first he refuses Jesus’ offer to wash his feet. When Jesus tells Peter he must wash his feet, Peter wants his head and hands washed as well. Peter is so like the rest of us. When he realizes he’s said the wrong thing, he proceeds to put his foot even further into his mouth.
I suppose we shouldn’t be too hard on Peter. Even in a cultural context where foot-washing was a common practice of hospitality, it would have been downright weird to do what Jesus does and start washing feet in the middle of dinner. We can be pretty sure that it isn’t concern for hygiene or even comfort that’s motivating Jesus. I think we can also be sure it’s not ritual cleanliness that’s on Jesus’ mind. Jesus presents a model of servanthood, to be sure. But the lesson Jesus teaches by washing the feet of his disciples reaches beyond even servanthood.
By washing the feet of his disciples, Jesus teaches them what it’s like to be in loving relationship with one another. By washing his disciples’ feet, Jesus teaches them about mutuality in love. Jesus turns the whole notion of the master-servant hierarchy upside down. He offers service to the very people who think it’s their job to serve him instead. By performing the service of foot-washing for his disciples, Jesus teaches them how to receive service. By this point in Jesus’ ministry, the disciples know what service looks like. They’ve seen Jesus touch lepers and minister to outcasts. They’ve seen him eat with people whom others consider beyond the pale. Now, as their own feet are washed by Jesus, they learn what it’s like to be the ones who are served.
The lesson that Jesus teaches in the foot-washing is one that we too would do well to learn. Most of us have internalized the idea that it’s more blessed to give than to receive. I’d venture to guess that most Christians believe that it’s better to serve than be served. Most of us like to think of ourselves as givers and helpers. It certainly is good to give and it’s certainly good to help. But if we are givers and helpers only, and are never receivers, we perpetuate a hierarchy in which some people are defined as being better than others. If we refuse what others offer, if we refuse the service of others, we may—without meaning to—deprive someone else of the chance to give and serve.
We may want to keep Jesus’ lesson in mind as we think about our relationships with our homeless neighbors. In our eagerness to consider how we may serve them, it may be easy to forget what it is that they may offer us. Yes, we want to emulate Jesus and be washers of feet. But Jesus, too, had his feet washed with ointment by Mary, who dried Jesus’ feet with her hair. Sometimes it is as blessed to give as to receive. Sometimes it is as blessed to be served as to serve. Mutuality is essential to truly loving relationships, like the one Jesus has with the disciples and like the one Jesus has with his Father. “Unless I wash you,” says Jesus, “you have no share with me.” Amen.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Love and the Poor: A Personal Reflection
I have said elsewhere that the only positive thing that we do at St. Joseph's is decline the temptation to exclude the homeless from fellowship. In that sense we have only made the most basic step toward community, which is not to preclude its possibility. Now we have, in a way, moved on. We have long since invited the poor among us, or perhaps we have responded to their invitations - after all, they have been there longer than most of us. But having avoided the first temptation to undermine community, moving ever toward the eucharistic ideal, we are faced with new challenges.The challenges, I have thought at times, are those of discerning the deserving from the undeserving, or perhaps of convincing my new friends that I am not to be conned, or to establish a level of understanding with them concerning what I can and cannot give, or will and will not. These challenges, it turns out, are all the challenges of maintaining control. The first is to control the reception of my charity, that it not be taken for granted or squandered when others could use it more. The second is control of my dignity. The third is control over the claims that the poor might make of me, as if to say, "I'll give you anything as long as you don't ask for this, or that."
The fear of losing control is at once a fear of "enabling" or perpetuating sin (by giving money to an alcoholic in search of a drink), of being made a fool in a con, or of the slippery slope that one seems to occupy when one starts giving freely to those who ask (because so few exercise proper restraint in asking!). It is clear that these are fears that I face. And yet the fear of enabling rests on a conviction that I am a more responsible steward than the alcoholic, perhaps that spending that money on my own dining-out habits, on coffee for a meeting with a colleague, is somehow more faithful than this man's indulgence in a destructive habit born of who knows what hardship. The fear of being made a fool is a fear of losing the esteem of others, and ultimately a fear of being made lowly, even if it be for the sake of Christ. The fear of the slippery slope is ultimately a fear of becoming poor. And the fear of becoming poor is the fear that God will not provide what I need. The belief that through charity one might be left with too little is fundamentally a failure of faith.
Once I realize that what I thought were the challenges are really no more than my own habits to distance myself from the poor, or even from others generally, I begin to have some idea of greater challenges. The greater challenge as I see it is to see Christ in the undeserving, the needy, the down-trodden. To see a man or woman who is so battered to the point of self-loathing is to see an immensely unattractive person. But Isaiah gave a foretaste of this:
He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him,
nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.
He was despised and rejected by men,
a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering.
Like one from whom men hide their faces
he was despised, and we esteemed him not…
He was despised, and we esteemed him not. Christ lives among us, as the least of these, the despised, those of little esteem, perhaps as those who have not even their own esteem. Not only is it hard to see Christ in this suffering person - for it is hard, really, to fathom that He went not up to joy but first He suffered pain - but we turn our heads from this pitiful creature perhaps because it makes a fool of us just to see it: the image of God found self-loathing and alone. It is repulsive to see the pearls cast before swine, the beloved of Christ trodden by sin, and we turn our heads in shame and disgust, and distance ourselves from the sacrilege.
But is this not the view of God from the beginning of time, to see sin mingled with his image, the goodness of creation soiled by sin? His response was not to lift himself higher, distancing himself from that which conceived in love and goodness had become tainted, but instead he lowered himself to come among us, to sit in fellowship with sinners, to have himself lifted high on a cross. The perfect image of God became incarnate, first as salvation from the power of death, but also as an example to man of the perfection of the very image in which he was created.
So then in these encounters we recognize that Christ is on both sides. We find him in the least of these, and we find him as our victory over the threats of sin and death. We no longer have anything to fear by encountering Christ in this person, and love of God demands that we raise this Christ-like figure to his proper glory, out of the muck and offal of anonymity and scorn, and into the love of Christ.
The challenges, I have decided, are not challenges intrinsic to the poor. The challenge is no more particular than learning to love another person as Christ loved us. Perhaps he gave us the poor to love in part to convince us how much deeper could be our love even for those to whom we acknowledge our closeness, our spouses and family. This is the sacramental presence of the poor, a vehicle of grace and instrument of Divine Love.
It is a challenge to love the poor not because of their poverty or their faults - not because of smells or impropriety or disease - but because we know so little of how to love in the first place, poor or otherwise.
JR Rigby
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