Thieves and Robbers (Reflections on Pentecost 18)

                              

God bless Woody Guthrie! Did you ever hear his “Ballad of Pretty Boy Floyd?” It's a romanticized telling of the legend of the Depression Era bank robber Charles Arthur “Pretty Boy” Floyd. Although Floyd was a known robber and murderer, he reportedly captured the hearts and imaginations of Dust Bowl farmers through gallant acts of charity. It was said of this desperado that, after holding up a bank, he would destroy mortgage records in order to prevent the banks from foreclosing on poor families. Guthrie sang,

But many a starvin' farmer

The same old story told

How the outlaw paid their mortgage

And saved their little homes.

Another verse recounts a reported act of Floyd's gallantry:

It was in Oklahoma City,

It was on a Christmas Day,

There was a whole carload of groceries

Come with a note to say:

“Well you say that I'm an outlaw,

You say that I'm a thief.

Here's a Christmas dinner

For the families on relief.”

True accounts of Floyd's exploits are impossible to find, and fact has congealed into legend in the case of this outlaw. Nevertheless, dear old Woody Guthrie's ballad reminds us that a man who breaks the law may not be completely without redeeming qualities. We are, all of us, at the same time saint and sinner. Simul Justus et Peccator.

That's the lesson I take away from this week's gospel lesson from the Revised Common Lectionary (Luke 16:1-13). Unfortunately, the hero of Jesus' parable of the dishonest steward is nowhere near as romantic as the machine-gun wielding Charlie Floyd. He's actually something of a pencil-neck geek, too wimpy to do real labor and too stuck up to ask for a handout. He's a sneak who covers his thieving butt by cooking the books. Oh well. It takes all kinds. As Guthrie sang,

Yes, as through the world I've wandered

I've seen lots of funny men;

Some will rob you with a six-gun,

And some with a fountain pen.

So, you may ask, why does Jesus seem to be holding this guy up as a good example?

Perhaps because the dishonest steward of the parable is just like us—and Jesus wants to strip our outlaw nature of any of the romanticism with which we cloak our own thievery.

If we take an honest look at ourselves, we're all dishonest stewards, squandering the goods which have been entrusted to us. All that we have is “dishonest wealth,” as the parable says. None of it belongs to us. All is a blessing form God. It doesn't matter how much or how little has been entrusted to our care. What matters is how we choose to use it. And how we relate to this wealth has to have roots in the knowledge that we will one day be dismissed from its stewardship.

Like Pretty Boy Floyd, the white collar crook of the parable aids the poor by easing their debt. In so doing, he creates (as Lois Malcolm explains in Working Preacher) a more lateral, reciprocal relationship. A lateral, reciprocal relationship where wealth is concerned was once known as sharing.

And didn't our mothers always tell us that sharing is a good thing?

Yup. Even outlaws can do generous things from time to time, but I think it takes real courage to cultivate a spirit of honest generosity. I didn't preach tithing when I started my ministry because I was too scared to tithe myself. Gradually, however, I learned to let loose a little more of my “dishonest wealth.” In so doing, I learned two things:

First, Luther was right when he taught that “God daily and abundantly provides...all the necessities and nourishment for this body and life (Explanation to First Article of the Apostles' Creed in The Small Catechism).” Once my offering is in the plate, I never miss it. I can trust in God and I haven't starved or been left homeless.

Second, there is satisfaction in knowing that I have been part of something that has mattered. My poor financial gift has participated in some tiny way in educating children, healing addicts, comforting the aged, aiding the displaced, and feeding the hungry. I may not be Mother Teresa, but I know I did something. I'd rather have my tombstone read, “He did what he could,” than “He got all he wanted.” Wouldn't you?

Do some good with your "dishonest wealth" this week, won't you? And thanks for reading, fellow outlaw.

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Again, I'm asking all my Lutheran and Roman Catholic friends to ask Pope Francis to invite Lutherans back to the communion table. He seems like a pretty cool guy, and it can't hurt to ask. Just click here.