Beggar's belief

 

Jo and I are just back from a week in Corfu. Last Sunday, we walked the coastal path from Nissaki to the picturesque Kalami Bay. Here the foothills of the Pantokrator tumble into the sea through groves of olive trees too numerous to count, each one, seemingly, the kingdom of a robin, that most territorial of songbirds. The path itself, strewn on both sides with cyclamen, spears of striking pink against the dark green, is rarely level, but rises and falls, falls and rises again.

The biographer Mark records the account of a man by the roadside, as Jesus was leaving Jericho (Mark 10.46-52). We are told that the man has lost sight, literally, of what is most precious. He now finds himself at the lowest point, for Jericho is the lowest inhabited place on the face of the earth, and this man is sitting by the road that leads out and even further down. This is, it turns out, exactly where he needs to be.

But what, or rather, whom, has this man lost sight of? The first answer to this question is, he has lost sight of Jesus. And yet, all is not lost, for, here, at the lowest point, he is aware of what he has lost and needs to regain. Here, he sees with renewed clarity what is at stake. And here, he cries out for mercy, taking upon himself the identity of a beggar.

The man calls Jesus, Son, or descendant, of David, that most renowned king who reigned over the golden age of Israel. And in response, Jesus stood still, stopped in his tracks. What has this man seen, this seemingly blind beggar, who sees what his own apprentices have failed to see, again and again? Call him here, Jesus says, and the crowd understand that this call strengthens the heart. Raises the dead, even.

The man leaps up, throwing off his cloak, throwing overboard the guise of a beggar, and stands before Jesus, who asks, What do you want me to do for you?

What do you want me to do for you? Is it not obvious? No. It is never obvious what someone else wants, or needs. It is not a thing to be assumed, but, rather, to be heard, and Jesus stands still, holds space for this to happen.

Master, let me see again. Go, says Jesus, your faith has made you well.

But the man does not go, not from Jesus. Rather, he goes with him, on the Way, that leads to Jerusalem, up, up, rising out of the rift valley, the road climbing far above, to a rock that looks like a skull, a place of execution.

What insight does the man regain? First, he sees Jesus, sees him for who he really is, sees him in a way that his own closest apprentices have yet to grasp.

But there is more. For in seeing Jesus for who he is, the Son of the Highly Exulted King, the man regains a clarity of sight into his own identity. For he is Bartimaeus, the Son of Timaeus. Bartimaeus means Son of Timaeus, which is to say, Mark names him twice over, to underline the fact. This man truly is the Son of Timaeus, or, as Timaeus means, the Son of the Highly Valued One.

Which is to say that Jesus and Bartimaeus see one another as when one looks in a mirror. The Son of the Highly Valued One sees himself, for the first time in who knows how long, in the eyes of the Son of the Highly Exulted King.

For when we see Jesus for who he truly is, there we also receive the gift of seeing ourselves as who we truly are. Who we are, but have forgotten, somewhere along the way.

The way up must first lead us down. And even the up on the far side of down leads to the cross, to death, and resurrection beyond, in this world as well as the next.

To know yourself you must be willing to take up the outer garment of a beggar, one crying out for mercy at the lowest point of all. And then, though only then, having encountered the living Mercy of God, you must be willing to throw that garment off, to throw that whole identity overboard. For at the most fundamental level of all, you are not a beggar at all, but highly valued, and the son or daughter of the Highly Valued One.

When did you lose sight of this, of the love of God for you and of your very life, your one, precious, unrepeatable, valuable beyond understanding, life?

 

Trauma

 

Further notes on Mark 10.17-31

Having presented us with the account of a man who managed many estates, who was desperate to become one of Jesus’ apprentices but unable to take hold of the thing he desired, the biographer Mark records for us Jesus’ conversation with those who were already his apprentices. Those whose number the man longed to join.

Jesus employs a culturally familiar aphorism to convey how hard it is for those who manage the business concerns of others – many estates – to live under and participate in God's sovereign will. It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle – that is, impossible for humans, but not for God.

For anyone, to enter into this experience is like passing through a small gate, easy to miss. But for those who manage many affairs, it is incomparably harder.

The insurmountable problem preventing the man from embracing the thing he most desires is not greed. Here is a man whose actions show that he loves God wholeheartedly, soul-fully, mindfully, with every fibre of his being; and loved his neighbour as himself.

He is not a camel who is unwilling to pass through the eye of a surgeon’s needle, but a camel who has tried and failed, because it is impossible, for anyone other than God.

The insurmountable problem preventing the man from embracing the thing he wants most of all is that he has taken on an identity that is more than he can continue to bear and has become so traumatised that he is – ironically and tragically – unable to let it go. He has become traumatised by playing the role of redeemer to too many people.

This is often the tragedy of those who manage the affairs of others, whether businessmen or women or politicians, who come to see themselves – and often, themselves alone – as a saviour figure.

The same is true of churchwardens and clergy, along with the patriarchs and matriarchs of family units. Those who believe that if they do not do what needs to be done, the world will fall apart; for no one can do it as well as them.

Jesus saw the man and loved him. This is how Jesus always sees those who are weighed down with many burdens, often self-imposed, burdens that distort our character until we are, increasingly, unlovable. Unlovable, and yet loved. For this is how God sees us, with eyes of love, for Jesus can only do what he sees the Father doing.

Jesus looks on the traumatised man with compassion.

He loves him, and longs for him to be free of his burden. Free to heal, to grow strong again. To be who he was created to be, and not what he had become.

This is how God always beholds us, seeing us in our trauma, loving us, and moving to set us free.

This is why Jesus does not ask the man simply to surrender the estates he manages, but also to surrender the capital he would receive in so doing. Not because he is bound by greed, but because he is bound by the role of redeemer, of patron. Because he needs to be radically cut off from that false self.

This is not to say that we have no responsibility to help meet the needs of our neighbours, of our families, of the poor. We do (Jesus rebukes those who have the means to help but refuse to do so; he does not rebuke this man, or any trauma survivor). But we are not their – or anyone’s – saviour.

It is to say that Jesus is the master surgeon who rightly diagnoses our condition, who understands our trauma – often exacerbated by our own crude attempts to heal ourselves – and who holds out the very quality of life we long for. Whose love is not conditional on our being able to receive it or respond.

It is to say that the God who is one with Jesus can, alone, take that needle’s eye and make it wide enough for a camel to pass through.

The man was not able to become one of Jesus’ apprentices at that time, though this is not to say it was a once-only offer, or that he did not get there in time. We do not know. We do know that at that point of first invitation he experienced both shock and grief, as is often the case when a trauma survivor is offered the path of healing and growth, of integrating a difficult past within a healthier future.

If that is where you are today, that is okay. But you do not need to stay there forever. Nor do I. May you know the love of God which pushes out our fear, until we are able to step out from the roles we hide inside and step into the life that is waiting for us.

 

Redeeming

 

Notes on Mark 10.17-31

The biographer Mark records the account of a man running up to Jesus as he was going on his Way (this is a play on words for journey and way of life), falling on his knees and imploring to apprentice to this Master in living life with a sense of permanence.

Jesus asks the man some questions, to gain a sense of what he has already learnt and put into practice. Seeing the man’s heart for others, and wanting the best for him too, Jesus instructs the man to exchange all he holds, give the money to the poor, and join Jesus as his apprentice. The man is shocked and departed with a sense of bereavement at an opportunity he felt unable to take hold of, because he held the tenancy of many estates.

According to the Torah, the land belonged to God. God was the owner, who distributed the land as he saw fit. The people of Israel were tenants in possession of the land, each allocated an ancestral portion, according to their tribe.

If poverty forced you, it was possible to sell your tenancy to another member of your tribe. You were not selling the land, which belonged to God, but your tenancy rights, for a period of time. Essentially you were leasing out the use of the land.

Every fifty years, at the year of jubilee, tenant possession returned to the original tenant or, if they had died, to their heir. The fellow tribesman who had benefitted from the land received no payment. However, the right of redemption meant that, if you were forced to sell your tenancy, but then your circumstances improved, you had the right to redeem it back at any time before the year of jubilee. In such circumstances you paid your fellow tribesman the equivalent of the rent for the years still left on the lease (so, up to fifty years).

Your nearest relative also had the right to redeem the tenancy you had sold, at any time. In such circumstances, they took on the administration of the land, until the year of jubilee.

The man who sought to be an apprentice of Jesus held many estates. In other words, he had bought the tenancy rights of several members of his tribe, who had fallen into poverty. This was a way, provided by law, for him to care for the poor. At some point, he would have to surrender the tenancies he held (though at this point in their history, the people were not counting strict fifty-year cycles).

Jesus instructs him to allow the nearest relatives, the kinsman redeemers, to buy back the tenancies he held. This would release a significant sum of money (especially where there were many years left on the lease) and Jesus instructs him to give that money to those most destitute.

The man has already acted to support those who have fallen into poverty, but Jesus now asks him to divest of what he holds, to return simply to his own ancestral portion, allocated to his family by God. For then, he will have a heavenly storehouse, God’s storehouse.

It is a radical act of trust, that God is good and will provide.

And the man is unable to take that step.

But the encounter Mark records reveals Jesus to be the one offering himself as Redeemer, to take on the tenancy that the man finds himself unable to administer, living a life with a sense of permanence as opposed to a fear of loss or failure.

When life is overwhelming, as it sometimes is, and as my children’s generation seems to find it more often than not, Jesus still holds out the invitation.

 

Malformation

 

Reflection on Job 19.21-27 and Luke 10.1-12

There’s a story in the bible concerning a tribal chieftain of the ancient near east called Job, who, in the prime of his life loses everything. His children are killed when a building collapses. His livestock – his livelihood, his wealth, his resources – are stolen by violent men who murder those employed to care for the animals, also leaving their dependents fatherless. Quite understandably, Job’s wife falls into a deep depression.

Four friends of Job do something beautiful beyond words. They come to him and sit with him, in silence – for there are no words – for seven days and seven nights. Simply holding him in meaningful connection through their presence.

And then they open their mouths and put their feet in it. They try to control, to correct, Job’s thoughts and feelings. To belittle them. They attempt to fix their friend. To explain and justify what he has gone through. Every which way, it is ugly as hell.

Eventually Job has had enough. He calls on them to be silent again, and emphatically states his belief that, even having lost everything, he would see God restore to him all that he had lost.

If I wanted to get rich quick, I would put a swear jar in my church for every time I asked someone how they were and they replied, oh, you know, there’s always someone worse off.

This is abuse, beloved. This is how abusers seek to exercise control over their victim. By conjuring up a hypothetical someone to diminish our emotions and responses to our emotions. To belittle us and invalidate our experience. (Even if the hypothetical someone existed, it would not help them one bit to be told, oh well, there’s always someone doing better than you.)

But we have had these words spoken over us so many times over so many years, have internalised them and spoken them over ourselves, that when I call it out as abuse, I am questioned or dismissed, and when I call it ungodly, I am told that I am going too far.

This is also spiritual abuse, because we have been taught that this response is how we put others before ourselves, as mature Christians ought to do. But Jesus said we are to love our neighbour as – or in the same way as, or according to the same measure by which, we love – ourselves. For the extent to which we are able to accept and love ourselves is the extent to which we are able (the limit on) to love our neighbour. If we habitually belittle ourselves, we will habitually belittle them.

If you came to me and told me that you were expecting a baby but that it had died in the womb, or that your sister had cancer, or that your marriage was falling apart, or that you were waiting for the results of medical tests, and I said to you, oh well, there’s always someone worse off, would you feel heard? Would you feel valued? Would you say I was being pastorally sensitive? Would you come away glad that you had spoken to me, feeling that even if there was nothing to be done – no answers – that somehow you felt more at peace? No, you would not.

And yet, we say these very words to ourselves all the time.

Read that again.

In the Gospels, Jesus sends out his apprentices ahead of him, to every place he intended to pass through. He instructs them to seek out hospitality, and to be present to whoever welcomes them. He also instructs them not to insulate themselves against the emotions, but to remain vulnerable – no excess resources, no financial get-out-of-jail card, not even shoes to shield them from feeling the ground beneath their feet. On entering a house – on being invited into a life – they are to proclaim peace. They are not to seek to control or fix, but to be led by the one who has welcomed their presence, validating whatever they place on the table.

And Jesus promises them that healing will come, wherever it is needed, through their vulnerable presence with their neighbour. Through meaningful connection.

 

Let go

 

Jesus’ greatest interpreter was a Pharisee known as Paul, from Tarsus in what is now Turkey, who had trained under Gamaliel, who was the head of the rabbinical school of thought named for his grandfather Hillel. In correspondence with the church in Corinth, Paul wrote:

‘...For the wisdom of this world is foolishness in the presence of God...So let no one boast in humans. For all things are yours, whether [three master-teachers known to the church in Corinth, whose teachings – way of life – they argued about] or the world or life or death or the present or [that which will happen to you in] the future – all these things are yours, and you are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s.’

(1 Corinthians 3.18-23)

I am struck by how Paul reframes the things we – according to the wisdom of the world – try to control, as things that belong to us – that are intrinsically proper to our being – over which we have neither control nor the need to control them. Instead, Paul invites us to receive them as gifts, and to enter deeper into the mystery of these gifts.

I am struck by the inclusion of death in that list. As something to embrace, not fear. We are mortal (or, as Paul lists more fully, we are human creatures on the earth, who experience birth and death and the passage of time). And Jesus chose to embrace death, walking into this mysterious unknown adventure before us, transforming it – as so with life, with the world, with the present and the future – into its fullest, most complete, perfect expression. Not the end, but a new season. (To put it another way, death is not the consequence of sin, death as separation from God is the consequence of sin.)

The invitation is to let go and enjoy the incomparable gift we have been given. To go deeper into what it means to be human, in the imagination of the One who gave us life.

 

Wellbeing

 

Since 2009/10, The Children’s Society has published an annual, longitudinal report of the wellbeing of children and young people in the UK. They look at:

evaluative wellbeing – thoughts and evaluations about how life is going;

affective wellbeing – ‘good’ and ‘bad’ feelings and emotions; and

eudaimonic wellbeing – a sense of meaning in life, such as, do I have a sense of purpose? strong relationships? self-belief?

The latest report, just published and available online, shows that our children and young people have significantly poorer levels of wellbeing than they did fifteen years ago, and that our fifteen-year-olds have lower levels of wellbeing than their peers across 27 European nations.

Jesus was a rabbi, which means master, or, one who had mastered life. One, we might say, who had a high level of wellbeing, and when other people spent time with him their wellbeing levels increased too. Someone you might look at and say, they seem to have their sh*t together. Life isn’t simply happening to them, or around them, but they are living purposefully, a life with meaning. Like most rabbis at the time, he did this in the context of a very ordinary life, in Jesus’ case as a stone mason and carpenter in a small community.

Of course, Jesus wasn’t the only person who was seeking to live life purposefully. It wasn’t an unusual idea. Wellbeing isn’t a new idea; it is an ancient one. In Hebrew it is expressed as shalom. Jesus wasn’t the only person seeking to love God fully and love other people deeply. Many people were.

One such group was the Pharisees. They advocated that the ritual practices by which the priests in the temple at Jerusalem kept themselves oriented towards God, and symbolically remade the world – that gave them a strong eudaimonic wellbeing that in turn strengthened their evaluative wellbeing and affective wellbeing – should be adopted by all Jews in every place.

The biographer Mark records some Pharisees asking Jesus why his disciples didn’t observe such rituals? (See Mark 7.) In particular, why didn’t they ritually wash their hands (note, this is not a matter of hygiene) before eating a meal that involved bread (an extension of the priestly practice of washing their hands before handling grain offerings). For the benefit of his non-Jewish audience, Mark mentions some other examples of ritual practice observed by the Pharisees. The point is not, look how ridiculous these people were, how wrong they had got it! The point is that whatever their own cultural background, the audience might recognise the human tendency to depend on certain rituals – including twenty-first century secular Western societies. It is meant as an a-ha! moment.

Jesus responds by calling people out as hypocrites, that is, actors who present a mask to the world. It is important to note that this is not a dismissal of Judaism (or even a dismissal of Pharisaism). Jesus was a Jew. His disciples were Jews. They observed a kosher diet and played a full part in the ritual world of their culture, including the key events and celebrations that strengthen communal wellbeing. This is an internal debate between people with a shared vested interest in promoting wellbeing (shalom).

Jesus lists several harmful behaviours that result from poor wellbeing, or the absence of shalom – behaviours which the Pharisees would also have been concerned about – as evidence that ritual alone is inadequate and can even be harmful when it allows us to deceive ourselves as to what is going on On The Inside. Certainly, fixating on ritual is unhealthy.

One of the significant things about the findings of The Children’s Society is seeing children and young people brave enough to take off the masks we hide behind to Present a Brave Face, or a toxically positive outlook, as we so often see – and is so damaging to wellbeing – on social media.

If we are to help them grow a healthier evaluative, affective, and eudaimonic wellbeing, ritual will have a part to play. For my part, I love welcoming children to communion, in which I am led by their desire to take part. But it starts – as all love starts – with hearing. Really hearing. (As in, Hear, O Israel...) Not being quick to mould them into our image, bent out of shape as it is, but recognising the likeness of God in them. They are the canary in the mine.

 

God is not the king

The evangelical tradition – of which I am part – is vulnerable to narcissists because of the way in which we habitually misread Jesus’ parables.

Despite the fact that God tells Samuel that kings represent a rejection of God’s invitation to relationship with him;

despite the fact that kings are repeatedly recorded as rejecting God's ways and leading their people away from knowing him;

so that even the very few kings considered good are corrupted, to the extent that a direct parallel is drawn between David killing Uriah to take his wife and Ahab killing Naboth to take his vineyard;

despite Pharaoh;

despite the consistent testimony against kings of the nations by the prophets;

despite the fact that kings have John the baptizer, Jesus, and several of Jesus’ disciples put to death;

despite all this, whenever a king appears in a parable Jesus tells, evangelicals assume that the king represents God, and that the behaviour and actions of the king reveal God’s character.

They don’t. And for as long as we teach that they do – for as long as we perpetuate lazy and dangerous readings – we will be vulnerable to narcissists.

Jesus employs parables about kings in the context of his impending death at the hands of the authorities. These include a parable of a king who throws a banquet for his son, a stinging critique of the high priestly family of Annas and Caiaphas, in which Jesus prepares his disciples for his trial, complete with enlisted crowd, and execution outside the city wall. But this parable is routinely co-opted by evangelicals to show that God will punish those who do not show him deference with hell.

Jesus employs parables about kings to judge the kingdoms of the world. In one he presents a man of wealth who seeks the title king from an external source, in the face of a counter-delegation by those who know him; who distributes resources to ten servants (seven of whom we do not hear of again) rewarding success and punishing failure to accumulate for him dishonest gain. This accurately describes the way in which Herod the Great had come to power as a client-king of Rome, sought to secure succession for three sons, one of whom would have his land annexed by direct Roman rule. Or the way Tiberius, emperor at the time of Jesus’ public ministry and death, negotiated power, rewarded Germanicus with a full triumph for quelling rebellion, delegated rule in Rome to Sejanus while Tiberius removed himself to Capri to live a life of debauched indulgence, before having Sejanus executed for planning a coup. Or the way narcissists operate today. The parable is a warning against getting drawn into such ways – this is not the way of Jesus – and yet it is routinely co-opted by evangelicals to show that God will punish those who do not use the talents he gives them to his glory.

Jesus employs parables of kings to contrast the way of the world with the divine way. Asked by Peter how often we must forgive others, Jesus effectively says, there is no limit. He then goes on to tell a parable in which there is a limit - to highlight the contrast. A king who has been reckless with his fortune seeks to take back what he has given out. One of his slaves, who has done very well for himself by keeping close, is unable to repay him. The king makes a show of writing off the debt. However, the slave then goes out and demands repayment of a far smaller debt owed him by a fellow slave, and shows no mercy when it is not forthcoming. This causes such a scandal that it reflects badly on the king who had written off that slave’s debt. In effect, he asks, ‘This is how you repay me? Making me look foolish in public?’ The king has the servant cast out to rot in prison. This is classic narcissistic behaviour. It could be straight out of the Trump playbook – or the way in which narcissistic church leaders make people feel special before ghosting them or threatening to prevent their future prospects. And yet this parable is routinely co-opted by evangelicals to show that God will treat people this way – which justifies narcissistic behaviour.

I could go on. Teaching on persistence in the face of injustice, Jesus tells a parable of a widow who keeps coming to a judge. The judge has no regard for God or his neighbour – is the embodied antithesis of the commandments to love God and love your neighbour. Despite this, and despite the fact that it is the woman – who has no power except commitment to justice – who demonstrates persistence, evangelicals are more likely to see God as the judge (male, position of power) than the widow. But God is not found in the places we want to find God.

We need to do better. For a tradition that claims to honour the Bible, we need to go back to the texts. But the cognitive dissonance will be enormous.