“When they came to Jesus, they appealed to
him earnestly, saying ‘He is worthy of having you do this for him…’” (Luke 7:4a)
My wife is a big fan of ABC-TV’s The Bachelorette. Shamefully, I admit to
watching the reality dating series with her. I can only defend this by saying
that I enjoy the travelogue aspects of the program, and I’m less offended by it
than I am by the male protagonist version, The
Bachelor. At least when the beautiful bachelorette sends some hapless
suitor packing I don’t have to watch the guy cry. Of course, if he does cry, I have the luxury of
condemning him as a pathetic wuss, whereas watching a rejected girl cry seems
like cruelty to me.
On the recent season premier, one of the
twenty-six well-dressed and unshaven male suitors (Don’t any of these guys own
a razor? They all look like villains in a B western!) approached the charming
JoJo Fletcher and—I’m certain in an attempt at compliment—blurted out, “You’re
so out of my league!”
Do you know that expression “out of my league?”
It’s what some fellow says about a woman who just seems to be too good for him.
He’s not handsome, rich, athletic, successful, or otherwise accomplished enough
to be worthy of the attention of such a goddess.
Poor slob. Nothing in the world stings
like the feeling of being unworthy. In fact, I’ve heard it said (and I pretty much
agree) that the source of all interpersonal conflict comes when our sense of
self-worth comes into question. We turn chicken-head-eating psycho angry when
we feel someone hasn’t taken proper note of our dignity or undervalued our
contributions. We feel even worse when we secretly suspect the slights and
insults actually reflect our own, true unworthiness. And maybe that’s why we
are constantly in the useless act of comparing ourselves to others, constantly
ready to nurse the assaults to our overly sensitive egos.
In the Gospel lesson appointed in the
Revised Common Lectionary for Pentecost 2 (Luke 7:1-10) a group of influential
Jewish guys ask Jesus to do a work of healing for the slave of a Roman centurion.
They tell Jesus that the centurion is “worthy” of having his request granted.
Why? It seems that the guy has written out a fat check to the Building Fund of
the local synagogue. Even though the centurion is a gentile and an officer in
the army of the hated occupying oppressor, his act of largesse makes him pretty
okay with the locals.
To be honest, I suspect that this is really
quite a big, hairy deal in the world of this text. The Jewish leaders qualify
their approval of the centurion by saying, “he loves our people.” (v. 5) Love
for an unruly people one has been sent to conquer and rule looks to me like a pretty
rare thing, and it certainly speaks well for our centurion. But what is implied
here is that, had the man not shown any sympathy for the people his government
had subjugated, he would not be considered a worthy candidate for Jesus’
compassion. And this leads us to the question over which good church folks
still bicker: Who is worthy of Christ’s—or our—compassion?
I often argue with a certain church
official about whether or not I should visit home-bound people who don’t donate
to the congregation. Or, should I give a hand-out to someone who shows up at
the church door with a sob story, even though they might spend the money on
cigarettes and drugs? Should we accept people into our fellowship who have
committed crimes? Should we baptize the babies of couples who aren’t legally
married? (The Catholic priests in my neighborhood don’t think so!) Are LGBT
people welcome here? Can children receive their sacraments in our church if
their parents aren’t members of the parish? Just what makes a person worthy of
the church’s consideration?
The really interesting feature of this
Gospel story is the fact that the centurion does not consider himself worthy of Jesus’ regard. He’s
probably showing some amazing sensitivity to Jewish ritual practice by not requesting
that the Holy Man defile himself by entering the house of a gentile. He is,
however, displaying an impressive amount of respect and belief in who Jesus is
and what Jesus can do. And Jesus points out—probably with much relish—that this
enemy foreigner, this outsider, has
displayed more faith and respect than God’s chosen people often do.
Who is worthy? Our faith teaches us that
none of us are. We’ve all messed up, and we’ve all been judgmental of other
peoples’ screw-ups. We’ve tried to use honesty as an excuse for our hypocrisy.
When I hear someone in church say, “I know I shouldn’t feel this way about
so-and-so, but I do,” I want to respond “You’re right! You shouldn’t feel that way! So why aren’t you trying to change your
attitude..??!!” But then I have to recognize that I’m just as guilty as anyone
else.
And yet, I am beloved of God. In God’s
incomprehensible way, I have been found worthy. It’s like being in love with a
woman who is out of my league but who finds me adorable anyway. I can’t do
anything but gratefully worship the One who has shown me such divine favor, continually
praising such incomparable magnificence, and continually trying to improve my
pitiful, unworthy self for the sake of my Beloved.
Our Roman Catholic brothers and sisters
have paraphrased a portion of this Gospel story and used it liturgically. Just before
the Eucharist is received, in preparation for the loving sacrifice of our
Beloved, these words are spoken:
“Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but
only speak the word and I shall be healed.”
How beautiful, true, and comforting is
that?
Thanks for reading.
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