[Pentecost+15] invite those who cannot repay you

On one occasion when Jesus was going to the house of a leader of the Pharisees to eat a meal on the sabbath, they were watching [Jesus] closely.

When [Jesus] noticed how the guests chose the places of honor, [Jesus] told them a parable.

"When you are invited by someone to a wedding banquet, do not sit down at the place of honor, in case someone more distinguished than you has been invited by your host; and the host who invited both of you may come and say to you, 'Give this person your place,' and then in disgrace you would start to take the lowest place.

But when you are invited, go and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, [the host] may say to you, 'Friend, move up higher'; then you will be honored in the presence of all who sit at the table with you. For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted."

Jesus said also to the one who had invited [Jesus], "When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your [siblings] or your relatives or rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous."

Luke 14:1, 7-14 (NRSV, alt.)

Beloved, what spoke to you in this passage?

When Reebee preached on Sunday, she said that in the Kin(g)dom of God, there are no pecking orders, no hierarchy -- "all of us have general admission seating at this banquet -- we are all here on grace."

This seems to me a bit of an ironic message to take from this passage, the first half of which seems to be Jesus saying, "Here's how to game the system so you look the best in front of everyone." I know it's supposed to be about cultivating humility (and certainly the people who put together the Sunday lectionary seemed to have as their themes: nay on pride, yay on hospitality), but that's not how it feels to me.

Someone at Bible study pointed out that Jesus is eating at the house of a Pharisee -- and is being watched closely. The Pharisees were religious authorities, experts in the law, and Jesus is frequently criticizing them for their sense of self-importance (things I learned in prooftexting for this blogpost: the Woes of the Pharisees is a thing).

Jesus knows the Pharisees want to look good in front of everyone -- and that they think they deserve the places of honor. (See also the parable of the Pharisee and the publican in Luke 18:9-14.) So perhaps Jesus is starting with something they value, a system they understand, and using it as a way in to the radical re-ordering of God's Way. (We wondered at Bible study whether there's a contemporary equivalent to this tiered seating with status implications -- all the examples I could think of were ones where people pay extra money for better seats -- so if people have ideas, please let me know.)

Even if the Pharisees only fake humility, is there value to checking one's ego at least visibly? Does behaving as if something is true eventually lead to it actually being true? And I hasten to add that I know some of us have been conditioned to lower ourselves to an unhealthy degree, and that's not what God's asking for either. Our former Minister of Outreach and Evangelism, Laura Ruth, used to talk about being right-sized with God -- we are called to be neither greater nor lesser than the particular, unique, bright, brilliant, beloved, children God created each one of us to be.

Jesus is frequently talking about how intentions matter, not just actions (e.g., lusting in one's heart -- Matthew 5:27-28) and explicitly critiques the Pharisees for this -- in the evocative language: "You are like whitewashed tombs, which look beautiful on the outside but on the inside are full of the bones of the dead and everything unclean" (Matthew 23:27). So for all that this "advice" feels to me like an exhortation to gaming the system, I think that when read within the context of Jesus' teachings, the statement here that "all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted" includes the way we exalt and humble ourselves in our hearts.

In our discussion, someone mentioned the story of Jesus washing the disciple's feet. I also thought of the story in which Jesus asks, "who is greater, the one who is at the table or the one who serves?" (Luke 22:27a). Hearing that question, I, primed with certain ideas about Jesus, always expect the answer to be "the one who serves" -- but Jesus says, "Is it not the one who is at the table? But I am among you as one who serves" (Luke 22:27b).

Jesus rejects the ways that the world orders and values things -- and reminds us of God's alternative Way.

Someone mentioned that this story of moving people's seats around feels much like the (uncomfortable) reward/punishment model of Hell from last week, and I think that's a fair critique. However, as someone committed to wrenching Good News even out of really difficult passages, I'm sympathetic to the reading that Jesus is using our context to reach us, to point to something different by using the framework of the familiar.

Jesus said also to the one who had invited [Jesus], "When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your [siblings] or your relatives or rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous."

Luke 14:12-14

Sunday afternoon, I posted to facebook: "I understand that the poor and the disabled are disempowered by society in many ways, but I still wince every time we fail to trouble the assertion (Luke 14:13-14) that they are incapable of repaying hospitality."

At Bible study on Tuesday, someone shared the comment that Jesus' statement assumes that the disabled etc. aren't already your e.g. relatives. This Othering points to a problem inherent in the Welcome model -- it assumes that those we desire (perhaps somewhat self-congratulatorily) to welcome aren't already present among us, that there is a clear Us and Them. And, of course, as the previous critique brings up, it places Us as hosts of the banquet, as those who have something to give/share. (Reebee's encouragement to hear this story as both the host and the unexpected guest may be helpful here -- to remind us that we are all guests by grace at Christ's table, that all the good gifts we have ultimately originate from God's generosity and not from our own merits.)

That said... For all that Jesus is often concerned for the most vulnerable, I don't think that this piece of advice is aimed at the aid of particular populations so much as it is an exhortation to be generous, to not give with expectation of return.

In talking about the practice of inviting those who can't repay, someone mentioned the Monday night suppers that are hosted here in this building. I commented that yes we practice this in various ways as organizations/institutions, but how often do we do it as individuals? To which someone brought up the obvious counter that it isn't necessarily safe for us to just invite strangers into our homes. I recalled one of our previous Bible study conversations about how to respond to people on the street who ask us for money, and I mentioned the practice that some people have of offering to buy that person some food -- and to sit with them for a meal. No, not everyone's going to take us up on that offer (and some introverts like me might experience it more as a burdensome condition of the gift than a generous expansion of the gift), but it is one way to live out our call to genuine relationship, to not be detached dispensers of "charity" but to truly encounter Christ in the Other.

On The Hardest Question this week, Lauren Winner said:

For many of us in the grocery store, it is relatives—non-cooking spouses, and most especially children—who do not invite us back. Perhaps our children and spouses are not in the category of the poor or the sick (though of course they might be), but there is a still a reality that day-in, day-out one is cooking for them – cooking for people who may well never host you, for people who may never thank you. You are cooking for them night after night, these relatives who are in fact your nearest neighbors, and who sometimes feel like your most intrusive guests. Those people who are at your table most often, but who are also – maddeningly? blessedly?—exempt from the normal guest-host code that would imply a return invitation.

Perhaps one way we can obey Jesus' commandment doesn't even require opening up our tables but merely our hearts -- to let go of some of our expectations of reciprocity, to let go of the mental scorecard of who "owes" us what.

And as someone pointed out in Bible study, this calculus isn't limited to a desire for repayment -- how many times have any of us aimed to ingratiate ourselves with someone with the primary goal of benefiting ourselves in some way beyond enjoyment of that particular person's companionship?

So, Beloved, what speaks to you in this passage?

In what ways do you feel Jesus pushing you out of your comfort zone?

Is the reminder that God's abundant banquet is open to all, even those who cannot repay it (who, if God is the host, are all of us), comforting?

Do the attempts to make these passages Good News satisfy you?

(As always, you're invited to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.)

[Pentecost+14] let's talk about Hell

Then She will turn to the "goats," the ones on her left, and say, "Get out, worthless goats! You're good for nothing but the fires of hell. And why? Because—

I was hungry and you gave me no meal,
I was thirsty and you gave me no drink,
I was homeless and you gave me no bed,
I was shivering and you gave me no clothes,
Sick and in prison, and you never visited."

Then those "goats" are going to say, "Master, what are you talking about? When did we ever see you hungry or thirsty or homeless or shivering or sick or in prison and didn't help?"

She will answer them, "I'm telling the solemn truth: Whenever you failed to do one of these things to someone who was being overlooked or ignored, that was me—you failed to do it to me."

Then those "goats" will be herded to their eternal doom, but the "sheep" to their eternal reward.

Matthew 25:41-46 (The Message, alt.)

Last week, Jamie and I talked about our discomfort (as universalists) with sending ANYONE to Hell. We talked about the possibility of interpreting this story metaphorically -- while also recognizing that harshness that will jolt us out of complacency is important.

This week, we talked about how "consequences" might be more accurate than "hell" -- though less compelling.

We talked about the fact that doing the right thing isn't always easy, even when we know what the right thing to do is (which itself isn't always clear).

Riffing on last week's theme about recognizing the face of Christ, I commented that when we turn away from those in need, we are turning our backs on God Godself.

If we understand Heaven to be (comm)union with God, more perfect than anything we have experienced here on earth (Paul says, "For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known." -1 Corinthians 13:12), then of course if we turn away from God then we can't enter Heaven -- turning away from someone precludes being in relationship with them.

***

In Love Wins: A Book About Heaven, Hell, and the Fate of Every Person Who Ever Lived, Rob Bell talks about how God uses punishment as corrective -- but that the period of correction is always finite; Hell would never be "forever" in the way that we think of "forever."

In talking about the Matthew 25 passage we've spent the last couple weeks on, Bell says:

The goats are sent, in the Greek language, to an aion of kolazo. Aion, we know, has several meanings. One is "age" or "period of time"; another refers to intensity of experience. The word kolazo is a term from horticulture. It refers to the pruning and trimming of the branches of a plant so it can flourish.

An aion of kolazo. Depending on how you translate aion and kolazo, then, the phrase can mean "a period of pruning" or "a time of trimming," or an intense experience of correction.

In a good number of English translations of the Bible, the phrase "aion of kolazo" gets translated as "eternal punishment," which many read to mean "punishment forever," as in never going to end.

(page 91)

In her sermon on Sunday, Molly suggested that there is no room for selfishness in Heaven. In The Great Divorce, C. S. Lewis illustrates various examples of what it might mean to have to give up our selfish, controlling, self-seeking, self-serving desires in order to be truly *in* Love, to experience real joy.

Perhaps what Jesus is saying in this parable is that those who failed to care for the vulnerable, have failed to recognize Jesus, and so they need to learn to recognize Jesus in order to truly be in relationship with Jesus.

But learning to recognize and be in relationship with the God who is Love and who became incarnate in the person of Jesus Christ doesn't seem to fit with being sent away to an intense period of pruning. How can time in Hell (however we understand Hell) be corrective and lead to reconciliation?

Rob Bell explains some of the strange passages in the New Testament (e.g., "certain persons have suffered shipwreck in the faith; among them are Hymenaeus and Alexander, whom I have turned over to Satan, so that they may learn not blaspheme" -- 1 Timothy 1:19-20) by arguing that:

His assumption is that giving this man over to "Satan" will bring an end to the man's "sinful nature." It's as if Paul's saying, "We've tried everything to get his attention, and it isn't working, so let's turn him loose to experience the full consequences of his actions."

(page 90)

I'm often uncomfortable with the idea of God's corrective punishment, but the idea of letting people experience the consequences of their actions is very in line with my ideals on e.g. parenting.

We know from narratives of addiction that often people need to hit rock bottom before they are willing to do the long and difficult work of dying to the death-dealing forces which have taken over their lives in order to be reborn to abundant life. And certainly many of us can think of experiences in our own lives where people warned us about something but it wasn't until we experienced the negative consequences ourselves that we were willing to cut out of our lives something that had seemed like such a good idea at the time.

Bell talks about how the story of Sodom and Gomorrah is often used "as a warning, an ominous sign of just what happens when God decides to judge swiftly and decisively" (83) but the prophet Ezekiel has a vision that God will "restore [...] the fortunes of Sodom and her daughters" (16:53).

Bell cites (on pages 86-87) verse after verse of assurances throughout the Tanakh that punishment is only finite, that God's ultimate desire is for reconciliation.

Does it always work out this way? Does God always get what God wants?

Bell says:

When we choose to reject our God-given humanity, we can easily find ourselves in a rut, wearing grooves in a familiar path that is easier and easier to take. One lie leads to another, one act of violence demands another, and on and on it goes, gaining momentum all the while, This is how addiction works: something gets its claws into us, and as it becomes more and more dominant in our lives, it becomes harder and harder to imagine living without it.

What makes us think that after a lifetime, let alone hundreds or even thousands of years, somebody who has consciously chosen a particular path away from God suddenly wakes up one day and decides to head in the completely opposite direction?

[...]

We can nurture and cultivate the divine image, or we can ignore, deny, and stifle it. If we can do this, becoming less and less human in our treatment of ourselves and others. what would happen if this went on unchecked for years and years? Would a person's humanity just ebb away eventually? Could a person reach the point of no longer bearing the image of God? Could the divine image be extinguished in a person, given enough time and neglect? Is there a possibility that, given enough time, some people could eventually move into a new state, one in which they were in essence "formerly human" or "posthuman" or even "ex-human"?

(104-106)

If you read The Great Divorce, you will note that C. S. Lewis seems to hold this position -- that people can become less and less human, until there is nothing left of them to be saved.

Probably my primary theological commitment is that God Is Love. And I cannot imagine that a being who loves more strongly and deeply and perfectly than any of us humans one this side of the veil can love, would not mourn even one of Zir children making choices that lead to less than perfect happiness -- our God is the God who seeks the one lost sheep out of a flock of 100, who runs out the door to embrace in welcome the child who had said, "I wish you were dead so I could get my inheritance and blow it on vices" ... how can this God possibly not mourn even one of us saying, "No, I do not want to live in the beautiful place you have prepared just for me since the beginning of time. In fact, I don't want anything to do with you."

In C. S. Lewis' The Last Battle (the finale of the Narnia books), the end of time comes, and a door is opened. The Dwarves, who are always for themselves, experience the light as darkness, experience the bountiful feast as being the kind of food one would find in a stable. And so they refuse to go through the door, to enter what everyone else is experiencing as more real and more beautiful than the best things in any world they have previously known. I have often invoked this story when conceding that perhaps it is possible that people could turn from God over and over again such that eventually God is truly not what they desire. And if that happened, God would not interfere with their free will -- ultimately God let's us have what we want.

But while I do believe that honoring consent is deeply important, to to believe that our human failings are more powerful than God's love is rather depressing to me.

Evangelists are literally messengers of good news, and that doesn't sound like Good News to me. That doesn't sound like The Greatest Story Ever Told.

Rob Bell talks about "the belief that, given enough time, everybody will turn to God and find themselves in the joy and peace of God's presence" (107) -- a belief shared at least to some extent by early church fathers Clement of Alexandria, Origen, Gregory of Nyssa, Eusebius, Jerome, Basil, and Augustine.

Central to their trust that all would be reconciled was the belief that untold masses of people suffering forever doesn't bring God glory. Restoration brings God glory; eternal torment doesn't. Reconciliation brings God glory; eternal anguish doesn't. Renewal and return causes God's greatness to shine through the universe; never-ending punishment doesn't.

[...]

As John reminds his church in his first letter, "The one who is in you is greater than the one who is in the world" [1 John 4:4] and Paul declares in 1 Corinthians 13, "Love never fails" [verse 8].

At the center of the Christian tradition since the first church have been a number who insist that history is not tragic, hell is not forever, and love, in the end, wins and all will be reconciled to God.

(pages 108-109)

***

So, Beloved, what do you think?

Has any of this helped you make peace with some of the more difficult Biblical passages in which God's justice seems to trump God's mercy? Have these ideas about turning away from God versus dying to our sinful impulses helped you in striving to follow in the way of Christ? Maybe you'd like to push back on the narrative that Love Wins?

As always, you're invited to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.