Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Political Arrogance (Reflections on Pentecost 23 Year C)


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“…for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.” (Luke 18:14b)

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.

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