Br. Rober James Magliula, OHC
Seventh Sunday after Pentecost - Proper 11 A - July 19,.2020
There was a growing concern within the young Christian community after the destruction of Jerusalem. The focus was on the contradictory forces at work within the Church at the end of the first century. The church at Antioch began as a church of Diaspora Jewish Christians following the initial Jerusalem persecution. As an urban church it reflected the ethnic diversity common to large cities.
They were concerned with how to deal with those who initially seem identical to them but over time were revealed as different in their expression of faith and their actions. The Church on earth has always been a mixed body. Matthew may have been clear that there are only two kinds of people in the world---the wheat and the weeds---but it’s a clarity that escapes most of us today. We have encountered both kinds---in ourselves, in our neighbors, and in the world.
Matthew’s version of the parable is told to the crowds, and another annotated version is told to the disciples. Some scholars have said that Jesus never explained his parables. Those who recorded them couldn’t stand their ambiguity. They felt that they had to interpret them clearly so that no one who heard them later would misunderstand. In this we see Matthew’s discrimination between insiders and outsiders, between those with ears to hear and those without. To the insiders the message is clear: never mind that there seems to be a lot of weeds in the world. When the last day comes, the wheat will be vindicated while the weeds will go up in smoke.
Parables are mysterious and their mystery has everything to do with their longevity. Explanations are so much easier than mysteries. An explanation lets you know where you stand. Parables behave more like dreams or poems. They speak in images which talk more to our hearts than to our heads. They teach us something different every time we hear them.
Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference between good and bad. Appearances can be deceiving. The weeds referred to are bearded darnel. It’s a plant that’s related to wheat. It looks like wheat, but it’s poisonous. If enough of its small black seeds get into the bread dough it can cause hallucinations, blindness, or even death. Its roots surround the roots of good plants making it difficult to separate it out without damaging the crop. Palestinian farmers learn to deal with it early. They uproot it once or twice before harvest so that they don’t have to separate the seeds by hand. To let the wheat and darnel grow together posed an unnecessary risk that this farmer is willing to take. He’s eccentric, even by ancient standards, by refusing to allow his servants to uproot the weeds because it might uproot the wheat. “Leave the weeds and wheat alone. Let them grow together” he says. He does not share our appetite for a pure crop. He lets us know that growth interests him more than perfection.
I don’t know what makes us think that we are any smarter about ourselves or about the other people in our lives. We are so quick to judge, as if we were so sure that we knew the difference between wheat and weeds. Often our lives resemble the farmer’s infested field, with weeds and wheat intertwined in our souls, hearts, and minds. Each of us is some mixture of wheat and weed, of holy and unholy, of potentially fruitful and potentially destructive. In the concern to sort out evil from good, we have only to be reminded of our own fickleness and betrayal, to be aware of how easy it is to rush to judgement. He tells his servants to be patient and wait until the harvest when they can see the difference in the fruit.
A lack of patience defines our day. In our polarized society, we too question who we can afford to let in and who must remain out, who is accepted by God and who is not. In the very act of asking such questions, we assume that it is our job to draw up the specifications regarding the wideness of God’s or the Church’s welcome. God’s wisdom is to let all grow together. God makes room for a holy and purposeful ambiguity. The God who is glimpsed in this parable models for us an infinite patience that frees us to get on with the crucial business of loving, or at least living with each other. Often in the space created by such patience, it is not just others but we ourselves who are welcomed into a larger reality. It is toward this very God that we are forever moving, individually and collectively. On such a journey, it’s not our job to determine who is within and who is beyond this God’s attention. Our job to imagine everyone as belonging to this God and to endeavor to embrace God’s holy and purposeful ambiguity.
Patience is required in order to hope. Patience is not the same as acquiescence. It’s not satisfied with the present but lives toward a future promised by God. In the Epistle, Paul says hope is rooted in an ability to see what one does not yet see. It creates a contrast between what is hoped for and the present state of affairs. To hope is to have a restless heart and not to escape the suffering of the present time. In fact, the one who hopes may be the only one with the courage to endure the suffering of the present. Like a woman in labor, suffering and hope are not contradictory, but inseparably interwoven. Hope fuels the imagination for the way things ought to be and empowers the one who hopes to confront evil knowing that it’s not final.
Most Americans are optimistic but not hopeful, clinging not to truth, but to the myth of progress, despite unceasing wars, violence, and injustice. This pandemic invites us to reevaluate our priorities and offers us an opportunity to become aware of the social and spiritual viruses of racism and white supremacy. Based on prejudice and fear, they have remained unnamed and unacknowledged by many, from generation to generation. No doubt, sin is evident in our world. It’s easy to become discouraged. Given our current circumstances, we can identify with the Israelites addressed by Isaiah in our first reading in their exile in Babylon. They endured the loss of everything but life itself. They were strangers in a strange land, seemingly abandoned by their God. They learned to harden themselves against hope.
The prophet to that marginalized community sang them a new song designed to comfort, liberate, dispel fear, and instill hope. As he reminded them of who they are and whose they are, so he reminds us. The true witness of one’s faith comes alive in the dark moments when it’s difficult to see the blessings of God. Isaiah reminds us that the witnesses that God seeks are those who are faithful regardless of their situation. God’s word through the prophet, “You are my witnesses”, is a clear indication of divine dependency on the voices and actions of God’s people, as an alternative community to the destructive ways of life embraced by the larger culture.
Under stress we are nostalgic for the old normal. There’s nothing wrong with many of those desires for the old, but if we have learned anything, we will not go back unthinkingly. Looking at it from today’s perspective, the old normal was not so great, not something to be nostalgic about, without also being deeply critical of it. Just as grace is a sheer gift of God, so also is the gift of being open to the possibilities of an unexpected future, trusting that all will be well even when events are out of our control. Isaiah reminds us that God’s mercy is as steady as a heartbeat. God’s faithfulness is as solid as rock. Even as we experience the discomfort of this time, let’s begin to dream of a new normal that addresses the weaknesses and problems that were unaddressed. If we’ve learned anything, we won’t go back; we’ll go forward.
+Amen.
