Tisha B'Av

In the Jewish calendar, Tuesday, July 20 (which, of course, begins at sundown tonight) will be Tisha B'Av, the fast of the ninth of Av (the fifth month of the Jewish year 5770). It is observed as a day of mourning to commemorate the destruction of the first and second Temples, both of which were destroyed on the ninth of Av (the first by the Babylonians in 586 B.C. and the second by the Romans in 70 A.D.) By extension, it also commemorates other tragedies that have befallen the Jewish people throughout their history - among them the expulsion of the Jews from Spain on August 3, 1492 (9 Av 5252), the same day incidentally on which Columbus set sail on his first voyage to the New World.

Traditionally, Tisha B'Av is preceded by a three-week period of increasing mourning, during which weddings and other such celebrations are not permitted. On Tisha B'Av itself, a strict fast is observed along with many traditional practices of mourning (sitting on low stools and refraining from laughter and idle conversation). In synagogue the book of Lamentations is read, and the Torah Ark is draped in black.

Tisha B’Av is a reminder not only of the Temple and its long abandoned rituals but of the special significance for Jews of Jerusalem as the Holy City and of the fundamental importance of the actual land of Israel in God’s covenant with Abraham. A Christian will naturally recognize in Abraham’s descendent Jesus the fulfillment of God’s promise to Abraham that “in your descendents all the nations of the earth shall find blessing” (Genesis 22:18). What seems beyond debate (to me at least) is the specificity of God’s promise to Abraham about the land as a component of that covenant.

Speaking of God’s covenant with Israel, St. Paul wrote the gifts and the call of God are irrevocable (Romans 11:29). Scholars and theologians may debate how to relate this saying of St. Paul to the rest of the New Testament and what it may mean in practice for the mission of the Church today. What must it also mean for our attitude to the physical place itself?

Beyond Welcome

This past week, as I was packing for my impending move to Tennessee, I noticed the words on a picture frame someone had given me many years ago: Be not forgetful to entertain strangers; for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. That’s Hebrews 13:12 (in the 17th-century King James Translation), and it refers back to 2 famous stories in Genesis – the one proclaimed at Mass this Sunday about Abraham’s hospitality to three “men” who showed up at the entrance of his tent (Genesis 18:1-10a), and again, a little later, Lot’s hospitality to two of these same “men” when they showed up to extricate Lot from the doomed city of Sodom.

Both stories highlight ancient middle eastern expectations and traditions of hospitality. Abraham in particular is depicted as an especially lavish host. One rabbinic midrash interpreting this story says that Abraham kept his tent open on all four sides, so that he could quickly welcome travelers approaching from all directions!

Extravagant middle eastern hospitality as practiced by the virtuous Abraham certainly sets the scene for what happens in the story, but it is essentially just that – a scene-setter. If we see this story mainly as a lesson about being welcoming, we might miss the less predictable part of the story, when the visitors surprisingly asked Abraham, “Where is your wife Sarah?” and Abraham (apparently ignoring the breach of decorum in such a question about their host family’s private life inside the tent) actually answered, thus setting the stage for the guests’ amazing response, “I will surely return to you about this time next year, and Sarah will then have a son.” Only then does it become fully obvious what the story is really all about – not Abraham’s conventional hospitality to his guests, but his unconventional guests’ revelation of God’s plan and promise.

The setting for today’s gospel story (Luke 10:38-42) also starts out as a conventional scene of hospitality to an honored guest – Jesus being welcomed and waited on by Martha in her home. This story of Jesus at Martha’s home is more easily recognizable and familiar. It could take place almost anywhere, at almost any time - even in a midtown Manhattan apartment. And anyone who has ever hosted a party or planned and coordinated a social event of any kind can immediately relate to Martha’s being burdened with much serving.

Again, however, the heart of the story is not Martha’s welcoming behavior, but the breakdown in decorum caused by Mary’s not helping her sister. For centuries, this story has been cited to represent two complementary traditions in the spiritual life – the active, represented by Martha, and the contemplative, represented by Mary. Nowadays, it is sometimes seen as symbolizing two particular personality types. When we hear someone spoken of as a Martha or a Mary, biblically literate people immediately recognize what is being suggested.

Obviously, hospitality is important. Presumably, Jesus and his disciples expected to be fed, and did actually appreciate all of Martha’s efforts to provide them with a proper welcome in her home! Likewise, being a welcoming community is often hailed as a great thing in parish life.
But, as Martha was to learn, welcoming is only the first step and certainly not an end in itself. For Martha in the gospel, as for Abraham earlier, much more important than their hospitality to their guests was the identity of their guests and what they had to offer to their hosts. Likewise, for us, being a welcoming community is at most a first step – an important first step, to be sure, but only a first step. The important question is to what and for what are we welcoming one another?

In the Abraham story, the regular rituals of hospitality led to the unscripted, unexpected promise of an immediate heir, while, in the gospel, Mary listened attentively to the ultimate fruit of that promise, Abraham’s greatest descendant, Jesus. Abraham and Mary listened to the Lord’s word, and as a result their lives would never be the same again. When we welcome one another to the Lord’s table, let us learn to imitate Martha’s solicitude in order all the more to imitate Mary’s receptiveness.

Homily at St. Paul the Apostle Church, NYC, July 17-18, 2010

Packing

Packing is a chore. It’s demanding physically and even more challenging emotionally. With a little help, one can easily get through the physical effort and difficulty. With a lot more help, one can also get through the emotional stress that permeates the entire process. I am so grateful to my dear friend and co-worker Kathy for her generous assistance and her efficient way of approaching the process!

Right now, it looks like I will have some 35 or so boxes to ship to Knoxville early next week. All things considered, I guess that’s not too much accumulation after 62 years of life and 10 years in one place! That, however, is still after having given away lots of books and other nice things and having thrown away an incredible amount of paper and other such stuff. It feels good to get rid of things. It feels especially good to give things away, particularly when one is giving away things like books to those who are really likely to use and benefit from them. Even so, it is still hard to part with things. Hence the 35 boxes that remain!

Jesus encouraged his disciples to travel light (cf. Luke 10:1-9). Detachment is surely a great virtue – and a necessary one. Still, the attractiveness of things is a powerful one. Nor is it altogether bad. After all, without books I would not be the person I am. I really just cannot imagine myself living without constantly reading and learning. As for all those other modern gadgets that have become so important a part of our wired – and wireless – world, well maybe one doesn’t need all of that stuff. Certainly multi-tasking is a highly over-rated alternative to actually paying attention to something – or to someone. Still, without my computer and my phone, without email and Facebook, my existence (while certainly livable) would undoubtedly be poorer relationally. And that is no small matter!

So, while detachment is indeed a virtue and giving things away is certainly good, it seems that living productively in this world and maintaining fulfilling human relationships will probably always require at least some things – maybe even at least 35 boxes worth!

A Trip to the Cemetery

There is a scene in the 1971 film The Emigrants, when, just before leaving their impoverished existence in 19th-century Sweden for the greener pastures of Minnesota, the Larsons (played by Max von Sydow and Liv Ullmann) visit the graves of their deceased children. It’s a very poignant scene, because both they and the audience know they will never be back to visit again.

I thought about that scene today as I visited Gate of Heaven cemetery in Westchester, where my father and my sister are buried (as well as my maternal grandparents and an aunt and an uncle). Of course, my impending move is nothing like that of the 19th-century Larsons. Not only do I fully expect to visit New York again many times, but I will almost certainly see that specific cemetery again.

Back in the 50s and 60s, when we used to visit the cemetery several times a year as a family, I had only a grandfather and an uncle buried there. Then my grandmother joined them in 1967. Much later, my father was buried there in 1999, followed by my sister Christine, who died in 2007. I also have cousins buried elsewhere in the same cemetery, which is also the resting place various other friends and acquaintances, as well as any number of those whose burials or funerals I have been privileged to celebrate in the course of my ministry here in New York, first at Good Shepherd in the 1980s and then these past 10 years at St. Paul’s.

A cemetery certainly evokes a sense of place. It represents a very tangible connection, not just with particular people but with a particular place connected with those people. Wherever I may move, the cemetery where my father and my sister are buried will forever connect me with this particular place, this part of the world. Cemeteries are, obviously, about separation, the supreme separation between the living and the dead. But a cemetery's permanence as a physical place to which the living return to visit makes it also about connection, the connection between the living and the dead in the communion of saints, and also the connection one feels with the particular locale one shared with the dead while they were still alive.

The Good Samaritan

There really are few things more exasperating, I think, than asking a serious question and not getting a serious answer – whether it’s an evasive answer that one gets, or maybe no answer at all, or (perhaps worst of all) another question instead of an answer. If the lawyer in today’s gospel (Luke 10:25-37) was at all like most of us, I think he must have been very exasperated with Jesus!

He had, after all, asked a perfectly legitimate question, certainly a serious question, “Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus was, apparently, presenting himself as a sort of teacher, so why shouldn’t he respond? Jesus, however, just answered him back with a question of his own, “What is written in the law? How do you read it?”

Now this lawyer was obviously no slouch. Having had the ball thrown right back at him, he took it and (as they say) ran with it – and ran rather well, judging from Jesus’ approving response: “You have answered correctly; do this and you will live.”

Now who wouldn’t be satisfied with an answer like that from Jesus – to any question, any time?

Of course, the lawyer was able to answer so well because he had been properly instructed in the Jewish law, and so he could quote it correctly. “You shall love the Lord your God, with all your heart, with al your being, with all your strength, and with all your mind, and your neighbor as yourself” (Deuteronomy 6:5; Leviticus 19:18).

But the lawyer was, after all, a lawyer; and so, we are told, he wished to justify himself. He demanded further clarification. The law says I am supposed to love my neighbor as myself. OK, then just who exactly counts as my neighbor?

This time Jesus replied with a story, a long story, known ever since as the “Parable of the Good Samaritan.”

Some two millennia later, we’ve all already heard this parable so many times that we all already know the story. And, because we already know the story, we’re not at all surprised when (of all people) a Samaritan appears as the hero. So we can call it the “Parable of the Good Samaritan,” conveniently forgetting, for example, what a complete contradiction in terms that phrase, “Good Samaritan,” would have been to the people who first heard this story from Jesus himself!

Of course, our only experience of Samaritans is this story (and others like it). We certainly haven’t experienced Samaritans the way the lawyer (and the rest of those present) would have experienced them. So we completely miss the surprise, the shock, the real scandal in the story – and so also miss the ultimate point, which is the parable’s invitation to us to think about things in a new way.

And, of course, we also see this story (as the title we’ve given it suggests) from the hero’s perspective – forgetting that Jesus’ hearers would not have known who the hero was going to be, and so would likely have heard the story from the victim’s perspective.

Lets’ remember the context – a discussion about the law, the Old Testament’s law of love for God and neighbor. Jesus never answered the lawyer’s original question. He let the lawyer do that himself. We don’t need Jesus just to quote the law to us. We can do that ourselves. But we do need Jesus to make the commandment come alive in our world. We need him to tell us who is our neighbor.

“And who,” the lawyer had asked, “is my neighbor?" The way the lawyer framed that question (and the way we hear that question today) it means “To whom do I have some obligation?” That’s not a bad question, but it’s an ordinary kind of question. It’s part of the ordinary logic of our ordinary world, which wants to know, Is this person my neighbor? Is this someone whom I am required to help? Is that something owed to him or her – by me? In short, what is the legal or moral minimum that I as a socially responsible, ostensibly moral person am obliged to do?

But … if we identify (as we were presumably intended to do in this story) with the victim, then that will hardly be our question. Jesus in the story has subtly shifted the focus from neighbor as an object of obligation, someone to whom duties are (perhaps grudgingly) owed, to neighbor as someone who acts, someone who intervenes, someone who saves, someone who acts on my behalf and comes close enough to touch me and become my friend.

Now (as everyone in Jesus’ audience would presumably have understood) in our ordinary world both the priest and the Levite would have had very legitimate reasons, when they passed by, to stay on the opposite side. In order to do their jobs, they had to remain ritually pure, which precluded contact with corpses (a real danger here, since the victim, so we’re told, was left half-dead). The Samaritan, on the other hand, was already impure. He was impure by definition, just by being who and what he was - a Samaritan. So he had nothing to lose by touching the wounded man – nothing to lose, that is, except his right to remain aloof.

But the point of the parable is that he did not remain aloof! The stranger has become our neighbor!

Jesus’ parable portrays otherwise ordinary people in an otherwise ordinary world and one person, a Samaritan, for whom nothing is ordinary anymore. It gives us a glimpse of how God acts – as seen in the actions of Jesus. The question for us is whether we want to enter into that new world.

This “Parable of the Good Samaritan” is thus actually a story about Jesus, whose whole story is about the neighborliness of God, the distant stranger who has now become our friend.

To ask, as the lawyer did, what the minimum is that I must do presumes that we experience the moral life as some sort of burdensome obligation – that we, in effect, experience God and one another and life in general as burdensome obligations.

That is the ordinary logic of our ordinary world.

But the God who is no longer a stranger to us, because he has become our neighbor, has given us – in Jesus – a glimpse of God’s extraordinary logic and God’s new world.

And so, says Jesus (finally answering the question): “Go and do likewise.”

Homily at St. Paul the Apostle Church, NYC, July 11, 2010.