So are you ready to barf yet?
I’m writing this post on the eve of the
third and—mercifully—final candidates’
debate of the 2016 presidential election. This entire political season has been
a bilious glut of vitriolic rhetoric spewed at the electorate through a
nauseatingly endless stream of hateful advertisements and media coverage. I’d
call it a giant clown show, but I have too much respect for clowns.
Now, I’m not about to take sides since to
do so would violate church policy and threaten the 501(c)(3) status of my
congregation (and I think it’s pretty obvious to my readers which side I’m on,
anyway!). I will, however, simply point out that this season doesn’t seem to have
brought out the best in any of us. There’s been sin on both sides, and the
greatest sin of all might just be the way we relish taking sides. Don’t get me wrong: I’m all for democracy, and I know
we have to have debate and honest comparison of ideas if we ever want to get
anything done right as a society. Even Saint Paul reminded the Corinthian
church, “Indeed, there have to be factions among you, for only so will it
become clear who among you are genuine.” (1 Corinthians 11:19). Yet public
debate always carries with it the risk that we will end up like the Pharisee in the parable from our Gospel
lesson for Pentecost 23, Year C (Luke 18:9-14). I mean, haven’t you caught yourself
saying something like “God, I thank you that I am not like those other people
who are voting for that loathsome candidate! Thank you for putting me on the
side of righteousness, unlike those sub-human, deluded nincompoops!”
Isn’t that the problem with believing
earnestly in a cause? Our passion always seems to suck up a healthy dose of
arrogance for our own superior position and contempt for those who disagree
with us. Can somebody please tell me the secret of being a passionate advocate
while maintaining humility in myself and respect and compassion for those on
the other side of the argument? It ain’t easy.
The tricky thing about the parable Jesus
tells in this lesson is that the Pharisee (Boo! Hiss!) is actually a pretty
good guy if we take him at his word. He really does try to observe religious
piety, and he’s a conscientiously generous person (v. 12). In fact, I’ve always
thought that Pharisees get a rough shake in our Gospels. Historically, they
were folks who honestly tried to do the right thing all the time based on their
interpretation of Jewish law. They were the fathers of modern rabbinic Judaism,
and they might make darn good neighbors.
The trouble with the guy in this parable
is that he seems to think that his
actions have made him beloved in God’s eyes, and he’s really quick to look
down on someone like the tax collector who doesn’t measure up to his standard
of righteousness. Basically, he’s like all the rest of us.
Dr. David Lose wrote a great commentary on
this parable for the Working Preacher
website. He points out that it’s real easy to reduce this parable to an
exhortation to humility. Unfortunately, as soon as we concentrate on being
humble, pride in our own humility sneaks in and makes us just as arrogant as we’d
been before. When I think of humility, I always think of Uriah Heap, the
cringing clerk in Charles Dickens’ David
Copperfield. Uriah always references his own humility while secretly
despising his “betters” and plotting their downfall. But, if Uriah Heap is a
literary example of false humility, the tax collector in our parable is the
expression of the broken spirit which is acceptable to God. This poor guy knows
he is wholly dependent on God’s mercy, and can claim no merit of his own. This,
I think, is what God is asking of us. Such a broken spirit is the gateway to
both gratitude to God and love and compassion for others.
I got a little lesson in humility a while
ago when I was officiating the funeral service of a man whose wife had been member
of my parish. The deceased gentlemen had been on hospice care for a
considerable period before his death, and the hospice chaplain had been an
amiable rabbi named Brian. Brian asked if he could say a few words at the
funeral and I, in the spirit of collegiality and ecumenism, encouraged him to
do so.
As Rabbi Brian spoke, I was struck by his
calm, thoughtful, and very humble
demeanor. The man possessed an almost overwhelming subtlety which shamed me as
I thought of my own self-conscious theatricality. He seemed like just the guy I’d
want to minister to me in my final days. After the burial, I told him that I
thought he had a gift.
“So do you,” he said. And then I got it. I
have a gift. If it’s a gift, I didn’t
come up with it myself. God gave it to me, and I have no call to boast about God’s
actions. I can only be grateful and acknowledge my dependence on God’s grace.
Of course, I’m still stuck with the
question of how I can righteously pursue political advocacy. I guess all I can
say is that my desire to promote what I believe to be best for society will
always carry with it the temptation to sin against my brothers and sisters, and
that I must always struggle with this—acknowledging my own weakness and
dependence on God. There is, I would hope, something holy in the struggle with
sin, if only in that it saves me from being complacent with it.
Thanks for checking in, friends.
No comments:
Post a Comment