BOOING AT A MARATHON
We don't believe in the Church in the same way we
believe in Jesus. The truth is, sometimes it's hard to believe in the
Church in the way we should be able to believe in the Church. She's such
a mess; but after a while you get weary of hearing her jeered at and
crowed over, especially when her Lord, who can't be fooled, looks at her
and tells her He isn't ashamed of her. So maybe it's time some of us
shut our mouths.
There’s something sickening about the image of a critic standing
safely on the beach in a storm while someone else is out there battered
by fierce wind and waves, trying to stay alive and at the same time
trying to rescue a drowning man or woman. Hear the critic jeer and
scream how it should be done, saying how pathetic the attempt is and
claiming it’d be better not to try at all as to be that pitifully
inept.
What might be more sickening is the image of a struggler in a
marathon, weary and cramping and dehydrated, being jeered at by the
crowd that lines the route. Worse! In the crowd are his family and
friends and instead of fervently cheering him on and trying to put heart
in him they’re shaking their heads and dismissing him with, “Useless, a
loser, might as well not have bothered.”
Is there anything uglier than the self-righteous and smug who
distance themselves from the weak and who are so insensitive that they
can’t that feel if the other loses they lose too?
The Hebrew writer insisted (2:11) that, "Both the one who makes men
holy and those who are made holy are of the same family. So Jesus is not
ashamed to call them brothers." The NRSV helps when it renders the
passage to say that Jesus who makes people holy and the people he makes
holy "all have one Father. For this reason Jesus is not ashamed to call
them brothers and sisters."
He’s not ashamed to call us brothers and sisters! Claims like that
need to be tasted and savored a while before they’re subjected to deeper
examination. It’s not that the claim will prove false when closely
examined, no, that’s not it. It’s just that sometimes we’re too smart
for our own good, or worse, sometimes (God help us!) we’re a bit on the
cynical side and tend to analyze rather than being moved to embrace
things with a joy-filled heart. It’s a bit like wanting to analyze the
words of a clean, strong ten or twelve year old boy when he says from a
full heart, "I love you dad." We’re supposed to be moved by words like
that. Analysis is no bad thing—unless it’s a bad thing, unless it
diminishes our joy and leads us to feel embarrassed that we feel so
moved and inspired by what we’ve heard.
But some claims are so wonderful that we can hardly help it that we
wonder if they can be true; they seem too good to be true! Is the Hebrew
writer’s claim not a bit like that? "Jesus who makes people holy and
the people he makes holy all have one Father. For this reason Jesus is
not ashamed to call them brothers and sisters."
Who is this that is not ashamed to call us his brothers and sisters?
He is the holy one, sinless in his holy righteousness! That’s him, the
very one! He is the majestic one, Lord over all principalities and
powers, might and dominion, Lord of death and life, sovereign over
everything from your house to the ends of limitless space. And this is
the one who with earnest and eager voice pushes his way through the
crowd, "Let me through please," puts his arms around us and says we’re
his brothers and sisters? That’s him!
There have been times—even when I was alone—when I’ve been so ashamed
of myself that I could hardly bear to identify myself with myself. I’ve
known times when petty little bureaucratic tyrants made me go away and
wouldn’t even let me tell my sad, pain-filled story. (Oh, God, in all my
awful and frequent sinning, have I also done that to people? I would
like to think I haven’t but I suppose I must have. How horrid.) But he
who knows us—truly and fully knows our darkness and shame—tries the door
handle and finding it locked, and knowing why we feel we must be alone,
begins to knock. "Jim...Jim...come on, open the door. I don’t want you
to keep me out, especially at this time." Filled with shame and the
sense of our weakness we murmur through the door that all our
efforts—such as they are—come to nothing and that we find the world too
strong for us. And he who knows that—and knows it full well—leaning his
forehead against the door while he knocks, wants to know, "Are you
forbidding me to love who I choose to love? If you could save yourself
do you think I ever would have come? I alone have and can overcome the
world and it’s only in and through me that you can; never without me,
never apart from me, never the both of us independent of one another;
only me and therefore you in me." And he reminds us that his majesty and
power is for each of us and that he is bringing us to a life of
inexpressible moral glory. This is the one who has become one of us and
never repents of having done so. This is the one who is not ashamed of
us. Is there better news than that?
"But you don’t understand because you don’t know how far and how
often I’ve strayed!" Perhaps, but does He not know? The Christ would
want you, me and this whole big round teeming world to know: "There is
nothing about you that I don’t know! I take your sins more seriously
than you can imagine but I'm not ashamed to call you brothers and
sisters. I will not be told who I cannot love!"
With a Lord like that there's no point to keep on arguing!
If you knew where I’ve been you would be ashamed of me.
"I am not ashamed to call you brothers and sisters!"
If you knew what I’ve done, again and again...
"I am not ashamed to call you brothers and sisters!"
If you knew how cold and uncaring my heart is and has been...
"I am not ashamed to call you brothers and sisters!"
There's something profoundly evil in our sweet piety that we can
combine with contempt for fellow-Christians. There's an awful stench that
fills the air when we're icily cold toward the needy while claiming to
gospel or to show ourselves prayerful and anxious to be in the presence
of the Lord Jesus. Longfellow's poetic story should make us think:
The Legend Beautiful.
In his chamber all alone,
Kneeling on the floor of stone,
Prayed the Monk in deep contrition
For his sins of indecision,
Prayed for greater self-denial
In temptation and in trial;
It was noonday by the dial,
And the Monk was all alone.
Suddenly, as if it lightened,
An unwonted splendor brightened
All within him and without him
In that narrow cell of stone;
And he saw the Blessed Vision
Of our Lord, with light Elysian
Like a vesture wrapped about him,
Like a garment round him thrown.
The little monk, lost
in rapture and adoration, can hardly believe that Jesus would be willing to show
himself to one as unworthy as him. His joy knows no bounds; but in the middle of
it all he heard the bells ringing, calling the poor and needy to come and get
their daily ration of bread. The one they were to get their food from was the
one who at that very moment, his soul filled with rapture, had the Lord himself
as a guest.
Should he go or should
he stay? He told himself it might be an insult to his divine Guest if he left
but the truth was he was so uplifted in his soul he didn’t want to leave.
Afraid that if he left he would discover Jesus gone when he returned he
nevertheless knew in his heart that he needed to go so, reluctantly, he bows
and leaves Jesus there alone in the little cell and went to see the very
familiar faces
At the gate the poor were waiting,
Looking through the iron grating,_
With that terror in the eye
That is only seen in those
Who amid their wants and woes
Hear the sound of doors that close,
And of feet that pass them by;
He served them knowing that the
One whose vision he had rejoiced in earlier had said, “If you do it to them,
you do it to me.” Still, he hurried back hoping against hope that Jesus would
still be there though he wasn’t expecting that to be the case.
But he paused with awe-struck feeling
At the threshold of his door,
For the Vision still was standing
As he left it there before,
When the convent bell appalling,
From its belfry calling, calling,
Summoned him to feed the poor.
Through the long hour intervening
It had waited his return,
And he felt his bosom burn,
Comprehending all the meaning,
When the Blessed Vision said,
“Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!”
If you had stayed I would have
fled. If you had left them standing in need I would have fled.
Scary!
