November 11, 2012
How do you and I fit into this liturgy of two widows?
At bottom, the widows symbolize the Christlife, where
the key words are "gift" and "risk."
If Jesus is the perfect human, the prototype of what a
Christian should be, then our lives are Christian in the measure that they are
shaped to his risk-laden self-giving.
Let me make an uncommonly frank confession.
When I look at myself, I find that in my giving I am
very much part of an American syndrome.
We have a long tradition of giving—giving out of our
surplus.
Surplus cheese for the hungry, surplus clothes for
Goodwill, surplus books for the missions, surplus money for United Way, surplus
time for friends, a surplus cup of cold water.
A good thing, mind you; I am not talking it down.
Without it, life would be a jungle, survival of the
fittest, "dog eat dog."
Good indeed, this giving out of our surplus; but it
raises a problem for Christians.
Could not our
Lord at once applaud this and still ask: Do not the pagans do as much (cf. Mt
5:46—47)?
Where, then, is our Christianness?
Only in a different motivation, only because we give
in the name of Christ?
The story of the widow, and even more the deed of
Christ, suggest strongly that the new thing he brought into the world is summed
up in his phrase "out of her poverty" (Mk 12:44).
I mean, we are most Christian, most Christlike, when
our giving affects our existence, when it threatens our security, when it is
ultimately ourselves we are giving away.
How could it be otherwise?
Like it or not, it is the crucified Christ who is the
supreme pattern, the paradigm, the model for Christian living, for Christian
giving.
And the crucified Christ gives...himself.
I dare not suggest how or where or when this touches
any given one of you.
Christ speaks to you not in an e-mail, impersonal,
addressed to "all Christians everywhere."
He speaks to you where you're at.
You—and me—know who we are, where our gifts lie, what
restrains us from risking, why we keep giving out of our surplus.
Christ alone can tell us at what point, and in what
way, we have to surrender what lends us security, and go out to our brothers
and sisters with trust only in the power of a loving God.
Christ alone...Aye, there's the rub.
Has Jesus Christ really gotten under my skin?
How dearly do I love him?
Isn't it
appalling how little he moves most of us, how rarely he excites us?
We watch E.T. and we go bonkers.
A lovably strange character comes to earth from
somewhere out there, shares awhile our human joys and griefs, dies and is
resurrected, returns to wherever he came from—and we cannot forget him (or her,
or it).
E.T. dominates our Halloween, reshapes our pumpkins,
may well displace old Santa.
But the God-man who really came to our earth, really
died and rose again, really returned to his Father "now to appear in the
presence of God on our behalf" (Heb 9:24), why doesn't he turn more of us
on?
Perhaps he will...if we take that little fellow from
outer space seriously.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Add