Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, New York
This morning's
reading from Mathew begins with Jesus' teaching in
the Temple. The chief priests and elders come to challenge him. By what
authority are you teaching? They demand. Who gave you this authority? The chief
priests and elders assume, reasonably enough, that they are the authorities...
Jesus’
answer is audacious, to say the least... Jesus says: I will ask you a question
first, and if you answer then I’ll answer your questions... Jesus is putting
himself on equal footing with the chief priests and elders...
They asked Jesus about authority, and he is telling them his authority is equal
to theirs... I can’t imagine that the chief priests and elders are greatly
impressed... but it's too late because Jesus asks a question about the
authority of John the Baptist. This is a question that the chief priests and
elders, the authorities, dare not answer.
These
questions seem to make perfect sense today – but they may not mean exactly what
we think they mean. Our modern understanding of authority unusually has to do
with the right to apply power and control. But that is not the only form of the
word. Authority also has to do with expertise and mastery of knowledge. This is
the form of authority we seem to be dealing with – not power, but knowledge.
In
any case, it seems that Jesus is done with the challenge to his authority and
moves on with a parable...
“What
do you think:” Jesus asks, “a father had two sons...” I think that makes me
nervous... I have one brother. My father had two sons... So right away this
parable feels a little too close to home for comfort. But part of the power of
Jesus’ parables is that we can locate ourselves in them.
A
father had two sons – one who pleasantly agreed to do what he was asked, the
other who disagreeably refused. But Jesus adds a wrinkle.
The
nice son turns out not to be so very nice. He can pleasantly agree to anything
– because he doesn’t do it. There is no cost to him in being nice and saying
yes.
And
the nasty son turns out to be not so bad – he gets done what needs to be done.
But he seems to pay twice – there is the cost of refusal and the cost of doing
what was asked.
Two
things jump out at me - First: if I were the father in this story, I’m not sure
I’d be the world’s most proud parent. Second: both sons don’t tell the truth -
and I wonder: are they lying to their father or to themselves about what they
will or won’t do?
We
don’t know much about these two sons. It's risky to try to determine their
motives for their behavior. But I do know a thing
or two about my own behavior...
It is
not too uncommon – if I can bare my soul – that
somebody asks me to do something and I cheerfully agree. And yet somehow the
task goes undone. It's not that I really don’t want to do what I’ve been asked,
or that I’m being passive-aggressive, or giving an easy answer just to end a
discussion – though those are all sometimes true. I agree, with all good
intentions, to do something... and still I just don’t get it done.
It is
also true in my life that sometimes somebody asks me to do something that I
know needs to be done but really don’t want to do – clean up my room... file
the stuff piled on my desk... and I just flat out refuse. My inner two-year-old
rears his ugly head and says – no, I don’t want to... but then my more adult
self takes over. Most of the time it's easier just to do whatever needs to be
done, rather than invest the energy in bickering about not doing it.
I’m
willing to bet I’m not the only one here who sometimes doesn’t do what he says
he will – and sometimes does what he says he won’t... I think that is pretty
much part of the human condition.
It's
tempting to say that growth means we grow in the direction of putting the first
son’s words with the second son’s actions. And in fact, I think, as we become
more whole, it is true that our words and actions are more likely to go
together.
But
the beginning of becoming whole is the realization
that each of us is both sons. In this parable, Jesus is talking about us...
about you... about me... We are at the same time obedient and rebellious.
Sometimes our words and actions don’t match.
And it's one of those ironies of human nature that the harder I work to deny that I am like either son, the more I am likely to be like both sons.
When
I pretend that I’m so good that I can’t be bad – that is when I’m most capable
of really wicked behavior. I lose touch with my failings and with my shadow,
and they start to have lives of their own.
What
do you think? A father has two sons... a good-natured slacker and a surly guy
Friday. To the degree I can acknowledge that I am both sons, I can do a better
job of matching my actions to my words. And it is, after all, through my
actions that I live in my baptismal covenant – a covenant made with words and
actions.
For
these two sons, becoming whole doesn’t mean curing them of their failings. It
means becoming aware of them. For the first son, maybe it means learning that
he makes commitments to easily, or perhaps just learning that it is OK
sometimes to say no if that is what he really wants to say. For the second son maybe,
it means learning to keep his mouth shut a few moments longer, realizing that
the first reaction isn’t perhaps his best reaction.
Becoming
whole means knowing who you are – the good and the bad, the strength and the
weakness. God knows us as we are – our greatest virtues and our worst vices.
God loves us whole. It's not that God loves us in spite of our faults. God
loves us. Period.
I
said a while ago that if I were the father of these two sons, I would not be
the world’s most proud parent. That’s because I’m human. One of my weaknesses
is that my love is conditional. I love the things that are easiest to love. I
rationalize it by saying I love the things that deserve my love.
But
God’s love is not conditional. Thank God!
So,
am I saying that it doesn’t matter what we do since God loves us? Of course it
matters. Growing in wholeness does not mean growing lazy,
or wicked, or whatever. It means growing in the knowledge of who you are and in
the knowledge of the love of God. This doesn’t make you free to do anything
that comes to mind. It makes you free walk in the ways of justice and peace; in
the ways God calls us to walk.
Acknowledging
that I lust for money, or for control, or whatever, takes away the power of
that lust. Saying that I don’t lust for money, or power... is simply not
telling the truth... like the son who said “I go.”
It
is, after all, the refusing son who does his father’s will. Ultimately, his
actions tell the story of who he is.
No comments:
Post a Comment