William D. Paine

Today’s gospel reading, Matthew 16:1-12,takes place after Matthew’s version of the miracle of bread and fish. After another in a series of confrontations with Pharisees and Sadducees, Jesus tells his disciples to “Take heed and beware of the leaven of the Pharisees and Sadducees.” This baking allusion confuses the disciples; once again (these guys seem a little short on foresight!) they’ve forgotten to bring any bread with them. But upon fessing up, Jesus tells them:

… Do you not yet perceive? Do you not remember the five loaves of the five thousand, and how many baskets you gathered? Or the seven loaves of the four thousand, and how many baskets you gathered? How is it that you fail to perceive that I did not speak about bread? Beware of the leaven of the Pharisses and Sadducees.

The passage then concludes with:

Then they understood that he did not tell them to beware of the leaven of bread, but of the teaching of the Pharisees and Sadducees.

The “moral” of the story is made pretty obvious by this last sentence, but I think there is a broader message contained here that the Church needs to take to heart: The Holy Spirit’s true voice comes from the Church as a whole, the body of the people, not from narrow theological hair-splitting delivered from above by Bishops and prelates.

Where do I get this moral? Consider what “bread” is and how Jesus uses it as a metaphor. Bread, especially in the time and place of Jesus’ earthly ministry, is more than just a food; it is the absolute staple of sustenance—it is life itself. Thus when a small amount of this life (teachings of the Church) is sent out into the crowds, it returns in such quantity as to feed (teach) thousands. But Jesus tells us to beware of self-appointed authorities who will try to leaven (modify, fluff up, adulterate—pick your metaphor, they all seem apt here) the miracle of God’s people sharing their common experience of the Holy Spirit.

So this is the lesson for the Anglican prelates gathering later this year: Trust what you hear from the body of the Church. Listen for the voice of the Holy Spirit, not from the dubious leaven of narrow theological debate but from the baskets full of genuine faith coming from through out the Anglican Communion.

There’s an old military truism that states that no plan survives contact with the enemy. My enemy is inertia: all too easily, I can find an excuse not to sit down at the computer and compose a post for this project. So, in spite of my plan to post here frequently, if not daily, here I have let an entire month go by without a single entry. Those of you who read my private blog will not be surprised—some of you are fully entitled to an “I told you so” or two.

One of my favorite excuses is that the Daily Office readings for any particular day did not inspire me to write. There is a small kernel of truth in this; the daily readings cover a lot of territory and much of it comes from less well known corners of scripture. Many of them are difficult to integrate into a grand theme, and some simply seem obscure in meaning to me.

Today’s readings fall towards the obscure: Ecclesiastes 7:1-14, Galatians 4:12-20 and Matthew 15:21-28.

I had few hopes for the first reading anyway: Ecclesiastes is tailor-made for confusing its readers. The language is dense and convoluted, written in a style that positively wallows in metaphor and simile, and comes across as somewhat depressing. The over-all theme that “the preacher” repeats over and over through Ecclesiastes is that “all is vanity,” that any control we think we have over our lives and our world is an illusion because God alone determines everything.

In the day of prosperity be joyful, and in the day of adversity consider; God has made the one as well as the other, so that man may not find out anything that will be after him.

Depressing indeed! I quickly moved on to Paul, who usually offers up something inspirational. Alas, this passage from Galatians also left me scratching my head. Obviously, Paul is upset with these particular “little children,” but exactly why is not made very clear.

They make much of you, but for no good purpose; they want to shut you out, that you may make much of them. For a good purpose it is always good to be made much of, and not only when I am present with you.

Uh… what? Say again, Paul? “…I am perplexed about you,” Paul says at the end of this reading—the feeling is mutual on my part.

My last hope for anything meaningful was the gospel reading. Thankfully, the story Matthew relates appears relatively straight forward: because of the woman’s faith, Jesus grants her request and heals her daughter. But, as I dig into it, some disturbing subtexts emerge. The woman is a Canaanite, a non-Jew, and Jesus at first ignores her. Finally, Jesus’ disciples ask him to do something to send her away as she is becoming something of a pest in their eyes. At this juncture I was fully prepared for Jesus to rebuke his disciples for their prejudice against the woman; much to my confusion, Jesus rebukes the woman saying, “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of the Israel … It is not fair to take the children’s bread and throw it to the dogs.” Dogs and Canaanites, stay off the lawn!

In the end, of course, Jesus relents and recognizes the woman’s faith, but I find this a disturbing story nonetheless. Granted, Matthew’s gospel traditionally is considered the “Jewish” gospel, much as Luke is often called the “Greek” gospel, but prejudice like this is hard for me to reconcile with my image of Jesus as the manifestation of a loving, all-embracing God. All of which just proves that no matter how strong my faith, no matter now diligently I study scripture and pray the Daily Office, there will always be questions and moments of uncertainty. I suppose that the ultimate test of faith is to believe, as I do, that God will reconcile these uncertainties in due time.

In the meantime, I mark down a little ? in the margins of my prayer book, and turn the page.

The Daily Office readings since Ascension Day (May 1st this year) have been gearing us up for Pentecost (next Sunday). I’ve always felt a certain sympathy for the Apostles during this period; their great teacher and leader, returned from death to rejoin them, has now once again seemingly deserted them. Jesus, before departing, leaves them with some vague promises and hinted-at glimpses of the future, but the Apostles do not feel very comforted. They are alone, without direction and unsure of what the future holds for them. They are outcasts, regarded with suspicion by the authorities and likely to be arrested as subversives at any moment. Only Jesus’ half-understood instructions to remain together in Jerusalem keeps them from fleeing into the hinterland.

Interestingly, none of the four Gospels address this period. Mark devotes a single short chapter to a hurried account of the Resurrection and ends, in the likely original version of that Gospel, with the Apostles instructed to go to Galilee to meet up with Jesus—the meeting itself is never described in Mark, until attempts were made to add a more satisfactory ending to his Gospel (probably in the early 2nd Century). Matthew also squeezes everything from the Resurrection to Ascension into a single ending chapter, but does incorporate Jesus’ meeting with the Apostles on a mountain in Galilee (more Moses-like imagery). Luke’s ending chapter also covers the same period, but goes on in more detail to describe Jesus meeting two of the Apostles on the road to Emmaus and subsequently appearing to the entire group in Jerusalem. John actually devotes two chapters to the Resurrection and subsequent events, but also ends with Ascension.

Only Acts of the Apostles, traditionally considered Luke’s sequel to his Gospel, addresses what happens after Jesus’ Ascension. There’s a sense of retreat in the Apostles’ actions; they isolate themselves, gathering together for prayer and mutual support. The only pro-active move made is to elect Matthias as a replacement for the traitor Judas, bringing their number back to the magical 12 symbolic of the 12 tribes of Israel.

Retreats serve an important purpose. I use the word not in the militaristic sense of falling back from an enemy, but in the spiritual sense of withdrawing from active engagement with the world. I’ve made retreats on several occasions, to Holy Cross Monastery or to Little Portion Friary, in order to focus my mind on my spiritual journey and reflect on the state of my relationship with God. I believe that this period of retreat for the Apostles is the archetype for retreats in general: a time of isolation and internal organization, but also a time of preparation for what is to come next—Pentecost, the great commissioning of the Church to go forth with Christ’s message to the world. Individual retreats such as mine must serve the same purpose: a time of introspection and quietness, even of solitude and inactivity, but always in preparation for renewing engagement with the world, for following Christ’s path in body, mind and spirit.

So the Apostles are indeed alone, but they are not forgotten. They do not yet understand the purpose of their retreat and isolation, but I see Pentecost looming ahead of them and know for what they, and I, prepare.

All this past week, the Gospel readings in the Daily Office lectionary have followed Jesus’ soliloquy in Matthew 6 through 7:21, all of which is a continuation of the “Sermon on the Mount” which began in Chapter 5. It is interesting reading, because although most of us are somewhat familiar with the opening beatitudes (Blessed are… etc.) many are less aware that the following three chapters are all part of the same speech. That is not to say that the contents are unfamiliar—some of Jesus’ most iconic teachings are to be found in these three chapters—but that few put the entire block into context of Christ’s ministry as interpreted by Matthew.

You’ll recall from an earlier post that I identify Matthew as the “Jewish” evangelist, in that his Gospel is written from a culturally Jewish viewpoint. Chapters 5-7 consciously evokes the imagery of Moses delivering the law to God’s people—note that the sermon is delivered from a mount, not (as in Luke’s version of the same event) from a “level place.” Jesus is thus presented to the Matthean community, culturally Jewish, as the new Moses who establishes a new covenant with God’s people.

The Sermon on the Mount, then, is more than a collection of warm-and-fuzzy sentiments about the meek inheriting the earth. It is a manifesto, a how-to manual for living the Christian life and bringing about God’s kingdom on earth. As I discussed in the last entry, these are not always easy teachings.

Take, for example, Matthew 6:25-34, which contains the admonition to consider the lilies of the field. There’s a temptation here to interpret this as an excuse for a passive doormat-like life. Don’t worry, be happy, God will provide. To an extent, this is indeed what Jesus is preaching, but I know from my own experience that reality does not work this way. It takes a lot of work to clothe oneself, to feed oneself; for some, it takes all their energy from dawn to dusk just to meet these basic needs—they cannot afford the luxury of waiting for God to provide. I think the key to understanding this passage is found in the last verse:

Therefore, do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Let the day’s own trouble be sufficient for the day.

There is nothing inconsistent here with the phrase Carpe Diem, seize the day. Jesus calls on us to live for the day, and not to concern ourselves overly with what we cannot control. Tomorrow will come, regardless of what we do today, so make the most of today.

There’s an element of Franciscan focus in this concept. Franciscan spirituality, in part, seeks to pull me into full appreciation of each moment of time, to see God as a constant progression of now moments. This focus on the now is incredibly liberating and does indeed relieve me of anxiety about the myriad thens, past and future, that can obscure my relationship with God and, to be honest, with myself. Stop and smell the flowers, you often hear people say. Indeed, consider the lilies of the field.

Today’s Gospel reading, Matthew 5:38-48, contains the pacifist manifesto of turning the other cheek, perhaps one of the most difficult of Jesus’ teaching to put into practice.

I struggle with this teaching. In theory, it does not seem so hard: “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you,” says Jesus. It costs nothing to say a prayer for my enemies, although such prayers tend to ask for their enlightenment and not simply for their well-being. Loving them, however, becomes more and more difficult the closer I examine what Christ means when speaking of love. Jesus rejects the tit-for-tat justice of an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, asking me to accept injury and insult with love—and not just love but a full embracing of the one causing the injury or insult. “… if anyone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles.”

Some see this as a way to shame the enemy into becoming your friend, but I think Jesus goes beyond this into a space I have difficulty following him into. He acknowledges that such love is unlikely to be returned, that more abuse will follow. What he asks is that I apply his concept of unconditional love of neighbor to even the most extreme of situations, fully knowing that doing so leaves me more vulnerable and more likely to be injured.

As deeply committed to Christ as I am, I still cannot fully internalize this teaching. Nor, apparently can most Christian denominations—only a few, like the Society of Friends (the Quakers), put this form of extreme pacifism into practice. The rest, like the Episcopal Church, are “against” war as a concept but concede that some wars are justified at some level. Bless you, my son, and pass the ammo.

Herein, I think, can be found one of the essential contradictions of Western culture, one that has not yet and may never be fully reconciled. “Do not resist one who is evil,” says Jesus, yet I find that I cannot do as he commands. To my shame, I also do not know if my reluctance is based on fear of the consequences—the further abuse Jesus admits will follow turning the other cheek—or on a more dangerous prideful desire to “do good” by rescuing myself and the world from evil.

The Gospel reading for today, Matthew 5:17-20, is a difficult passage for me. I’m going to quote it in full because there’s a lot to consider here:

Jesus continued, “Think not that I have come to abolish the law and the prophets; I have come not to abolish them but to fulfill them. For truly, I say to you, till heaven and earth pass away, not an iota, not a dot, will pass from the law until all is accomplished. Whoever then relaxes one of the least of these commandments and teaches men so, shall be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but he who does them and teaches them shall be called great in the kingdom of heaven. For I tell you, unless your righteousness exceed that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”

There’s a host of difficulties here. Foremost among them is trying to determine what, exactly, does Jesus mean by “the law.” Is Jesus demanding that we follow the byzantine complexities of Pentateuch law? Does this mean we should be observing Jewish dietary restrictions, purity laws, etc. etc.? The Church believes not, otherwise it would not have sanctioned all the deviations from first-century Jewish religious practices that have accumulated to date.

There’s some support for this elsewhere in scripture—Jesus is constantly challenging the status quo of religious practice by dining with outcasts, and Peter in Acts receives a vision from God in which he’s told that unclean things are now made clean through God’s grace. So the meaning of this passage is hard to fathom within the larger context of scriptural authority. What’s going on here?

I think the first entry point is to consider the source. Matthew’s Gospel is often thought of as the “Jewish” Gospel (as opposed to Luke’s “Greek” or “Gentile” Gospel). Scholars have theorized that Matthew’s Gospel was either written for or grew out of (depending on your point of view on scriptural authorship) communities of ethnically Jewish followers of Jesus. At the time that the Gospels were being written down, the early Church was beginning to suffer from an identity crisis: were they a sect of Judaism, or something separate? Already, the ethnic Jews who comprised Christ’s early disciples were being outnumbered by Hellenized (culturally Greek) Jews and by Gentile converts. Jewish communities were increasingly skeptical and often downright hostile to these upstart “Nazarenes,” especially after the Jewish religious reforms that followed in the wake of the 79 AD destruction of the Temple. John’s Gospel, chronologically the last to be composed, is redolent with resentment and anger over Christians being expelled from Jewish communion—it is no accident that anti-Semites looking for (misguided) scriptural justification turn to John most often.

So Matthew is written from a Jewish viewpoint, and to first-century Jews the Law was an all-pervasive constant theme in every aspect of daily life. Respect for the law and the prophetic testaments as found in Hebrew scripture was ingrained. Jesus, then, had to be seen as one who respected this cultural heritage; Jesus is a continuation of this heritage, fulfilling it, not breaking away from it. There is an element of reassurance in what Matthew writes here: Do not be afraid, we’re not here to tear down everything you believe in.

This could be seen as very cynical, putting convenient words into Jesus’ mouth. And, it could be seen as contradicting other scriptural accounts of Jesus quite deliberately breaking from traditional socio-religious practice.

So the next entry point has to be considered: what is meant by “the Law.” I am convinced that “the Law” in this context is not the vast body of nit-picking Leviticus commandments. For this I have to look at the rest of Matthew Chapter 5 and into Chapters 6 & 7, where Jesus teaches what he believes the Law to be all about. I also have to keep in mind Jesus’ summary of the Law (the exact citation eludes me at the moment, perhaps I will edit it in later) in which he boils the whole thing down to, essentially, love God with all your heart and mind, and love your neighbor as yourself. Jesus spends the rest of Chapter 5, at least, discoursing on the Ten Commandments and how they are to be interpreted. Significantly, he finds fault with what was then current interpretations, so “the Law” here is clearly being revisited.

Finally, I have to consider the last sentence of the passage. “Righteousness” is a loaded word in scripture, usually denoting a way of life that transcends law as interpreted by mere humans. Jesus frequently contrasts the piety and outwardly “correct” observances of Pharisees and Scribes (the priestly caste) with true righteousness—the latter is not assured by the former and may in fact be far divorced from it. Keeping in mind that Pharisees were considered the most accurate interpreters of Jewish law, having righteousness that exceeds that of the Pharisees is tantamount to saying that keeping “the Law” is radically different than what might be expected.

Ultimately, then, this passage is not about reaffirming the old way of doing things. It is in fact an introduction to a radically new manifesto, a turning of the traditional interpretation of the Law on its head. I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him, Mark Antony says to the crowd—but we’ve read the rest of the play, and know what he really intends to do.

My political orientation is complex. If you have to place a label on it, I’m a fiscal conservative with libertarian/liberal social leanings. I’m deeply suspicious of government interference in the economic and social lives of individuals and buy into the conservative concept of low-taxation and small government coupled with low barriers to capital formation. Yet, I take nuanced liberal positions on such issues as gay marriage, immigration, legalization of drugs and capital punishment.

So, with this in mind, I read today’s epistle, Colossians 3:18-4:18, with some alarm. Paul appears to be at his most socially conservative here, lending his considerable authority to a host of traditional social/gender roles that fundamentalists have latched onto for centuries. Wives are told to be “subject” to their husbands and slaves are told to “obey in everything” their masters. Subjugation of women and slavery? What was Paul thinking?

This is where literal, uncritical readings of scripture become a trap for the unwary. Yes, the men who wrote (and edited) scripture were inspired by the Holy Spirit to do so; this is what elevates scripture beyond mere philosophy. But—and this is a huge but—they did not receive scripture as dictation from God. What we have are ideas and concepts which were inspired and guided by the Holy Spirit but transmitted through the imperfect media of human beings who, like we ourselves today, saw everything through the lens of their own cultural biases and prejudices.

The role of women in Paul’s world was indeed one of abject subjugation. Roman law gave the Pater Familias, the family patriarch, literally life and death authority over everyone in his household, especially women. Slavery was a fact of life in the first Century—no one even remotely questioned its legitimacy. Radical as this new Christian faith was, Paul was incapable of overcoming these very basic, fundamental cultural biases.

Or was he?

I’ve been careful so far not to mention the other half of Paul’s admonitions. Wives are to be subject to their husbands, but husbands are admonished to love their wives and not be harsh to them. Slaves are to obey their masters with “singleness of heart,” but masters are admonished to treat their slaves justly and fairly, “knowing that you also have a Master in heaven.” In the context of Paul’s cultural biases, these are radical statements. Love was not considered a relevant ingredient in marriages; justice and fairness were concepts entirely divorced from master-slave relationships, and that masters should consider themselves slaves to a greater Master was an idea completely out of anyone’s comfort zone.

And so here is what Paul is really saying about all these traditional societal roles: be who you are in and of the world, but be in and of Christ also. Let Christian love inform your relationships with each other, and remember that we answer to God for what we do to and for each other.

This is radical stuff, for the 1st Century, and calls on us to be radical today. Yes, I believe that capitalism is the social model best able to promote the advance of humankind, but I also believe that capitalism must be tempered with Christian charity, with a keen awareness of Jesus’ insistence on washing his disciples feet before going to his death on the cross.

The gospel reading for today is Mark 6:30-44, which recounts the well-known miracle of the loaves and fish. In the story, the apostles have just returned from being off on their own preaching about Christ, healing the sick and other worthy stuff. Jesus decides they all need a rest, so he attempts to take them away to “a lonely place” to get away from the ever-growing crowd of followers. Like modern-day groupies, however, the fans figure out where the object of their adoration is going and get there ahead of time, so when Jesus and the apostles arrive at their remote getaway the place is crawling with five thousand people. Being the compassionate guy he is, Jesus doesn’t tell them to go away but gives them what they want—more teaching.

Now comes the miracle story. The apostles get concerned about the crowd being out there in the middle of nowhere and ask Jesus to send them home for food. Jesus, not wanting to send the crowd away, tells them to share what food they have with the crowd; this turns out to be five loaves of bread and two fish. Jesus blesses the food and has it distributed. Not only does the meager amount suffice, when the left-overs come back they fill twelve baskets. Wow… quite a miracle.

So what is this really all about? On one level, this is a simple miracle story with a straightforward message: God will provide. But is that all there is to this? I think not.

For an agrarian people living under the constant threat of crop-failure and resultant famine, food was (and is for such people today) never far from the mind. The next meal was never guaranteed, so it defies common sense to think that all five thousand of Jesus’ followers set out to this “lonely place” without bringing along something to eat. The apostles themselves brought along food—the five loaves and two fish, enough to share among themselves. When Jesus and his apostles began to share their food, so did those in the crowd. So, multiplying the loaves and fish is not the miracle here; the miracle is that people took care of each other, sharing what they had in an example of Christian charity—charity in its original meaning of unselfish love.

This interpretation does not diminish the miracle; if anything, it makes it more meaningful, because merely saying “God will provide” is not enough in today’s world. You have to ask how God will provide, by what means will God reach out to the poor, the troubled, the unloved. The answer is to be found in the story of the loaves and fish: God will provide through you and me. Faith is not passive, it requires action on the part of the faithful to bring God’s kingdom to fruition on earth.

So go out there and be miraculous.

The readings for today are: Exodus 25:1-22, Colossians 3:1-17 and Matthew 4:18-25.

Daily Office readings do not always tie together thematically, but today’s are one of the exceptions. In this case all three speak about the duties and obligations of being one of God’s people. Duty and obligation are hard words; inevitably they bring up visions of self-sacrifice and imposition of another’s needs ahead of my own. Certainly, many conceptualizations of traditional religious practice seem to emphasize self-denial—monastic celibacy comes to mind—and are profoundly suspicious of pleasure in any corporeal manifestation. But is this, in fact, an accurate picture of what God expects from me?

In the Exodus passage, God dictates to his people (through Moses) the specifications for creating a sacred sanctuary and, within it, the ark of the covenant. Everything is minutely spelled out—even the “voluntary” gifts that are to fund construction of the tabernacle. God’s relationship with the Israelites throughout the Hebrew Testament is highly contractual: in exchange for worship and obedience, in often very specific forms, God gives special protections, land, and good fortune. There is a sense of mutual obligation, of duties owed by both sides to the other. When the Israelites rebel against God’s commandments, he withdraws his protection; when God appears to be breaking his promises to the Israelites, they withdraw their devotion to him. This passage is no different: God tells them to put “the testimony that I shall give you”—the tablets with the Mosaic contract, the Ten Commandments—into the ark, and then states that “from between the two cherubim that are upon the ark of the testimony, I will speak with you of all that I will give you in commandment for the people of Israel.” Do this, and I will do that. Another contract, another covenant.

We often “bargain with God.” Just do this for me, God, and I’ll be good, I promise… I’ll start going to church again… I’ll give to charity… just do this one thing for me. Too often, we then reject God because he didn’t “keep” the bargain. I did everything I was supposed to do, God… I went to church… I put money in the collection plate… I said my bedtime prayers… but my father still got sick, my wife left me, I lost my job—you broke our deal, God, so I don’t trust you anymore, I don’t believe in you anymore. Is my duty, then, contingent on a quid pro quo? Is God’s grace available only to me if I am faithful to the agreement, whatever that agreement is?

Paul, in his letter to the Colossians, also describes what the duties and obligations are of anyone professing to be “raised with Christ.” There’s a laundry list of behaviors that I shouldn’t do and that I should do and on the surface this too seems to be a case of do this and you’ll get rewarded with this.

But there’s something profoundly different going on here. Paul’s point is not to generate a list of proscribed behaviors (at least, not his central point—Paul is a bit of a prude and a nag and can’t resist moralizing), but to describe the effect of accepting God’s grace. Instead of it being a contractual relationship, it is now a causal relationship. “In these [the bad behaviors] you once walked, when you lived in them. But now put them all away…” God, in the person of Christ, is the agent of change and not merely a party to a contract for change. God’s grace becomes something I put on, like spiritual clothing to warm me, protect me, guard me from contamination and dirt. The binding virtue of all those he speaks of is love—love of God, certainly, but also love of and for each other. For Paul, then, my paramount duty and obligation as a Christian is to love.

How, then, do I love? It all sounds so easy, like one big happy hippie-fest of peace, love and flowers—is that all there is to it? The passage from Matthew’s gospel reminds me that following Christ, living the way of Jesus, is far from easy; love itself is far from easy and by its very nature exposes me to all sorts of hurt and injury. Only those I truly love can truly hurt me. What does it take to love God? It takes a total commitment, a willingness to do like Simon Peter and Andrew who “[i]mmediately… left their nets and followed him,” or like James and his brother John who “[i]mmediately… left the boat and their father, and followed him.” No question of putting affairs in order, packing up a change of clothes and a toothbrush, or saying goodbye to mom and the family—this was an immediate, total, complete calling.

So love, Christian love, is not a half-way thing. It cannot be rescinded, it cannot be bargained for. It is what God’s grace, living in me, demands of me. My duty is to love as Christ loved me, an impossible obligation, perhaps, but God’s grace is also forgiving. Thank God for that!