Homily for Sep 19, 2021
Today’s gospel is strikingly similar to last Sunday’s. The setting is the time after a series of stunning events-feedings of impossible numbers, healings, walking on water and for Peter, James and John, witnessing the brilliance of the transfiguration. The disciples are, to say the least, VERY impressed. They begin to understand that this Jesus is not just some rustic preacher proclaiming a message of repentance. They are beginning to suspect…even believe that they have fallen in with the long-awaited messiah, the savior of the Jewish nation prophesied by Scriptures. And they begin to “discuss” among themselves their places in the new regime that Jesus will bring about.
And, why not. They’re excited. Jesus has shown great power in his miracles, he has claimed authority in his teaching and even been claimed by God as child and beloved. For the early adopters, this could be big…even bigger than buying Apple stock in 1980!
They are about to become great in this wonderful new world order.
The only fly in the ointment is that Jesus, twice now, has talked about the need for the “Son of Man,” God’s chosen one to be rejected, suffer and be killed. To be fair, Jesus has also twice said that he will rise again, but either that was far too fanciful an idea or the disciples just stopped listening once Jesus had gotten to the killing part.
In any case, the disciples did what we so often do when confronted with uncomfortable information, they became confused. Jesus, however, is a patient teacher and he does what any good teacher does in such a situation. He backs up a little, slows down, and takes a different tact. Aware of their jockeying amongst themselves for influence and position, he reminds them that in this new order, it is service and humility that define greatness.
As he does several times in the Synoptic gospels, Jesus chooses a child to illustrate his teaching:
“Then he took and put a little child among them; and taking the child in his arms, he said to them,
‘Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”
Notice, in this instance, Jesus does not tell the disciples “you must become like little children…” That comes later in Mark. Today, the command, for it is a command, is to WELCOME.
The teachings of Jesus make it clear that to “welcome one such child” is to respond with compassion to any person who is vulnerable. The one we welcome as Christ is the opposite of great and powerful. The child that Jesus places in our midst is a Hatian family living under a bridge in Del Rio, Texas, a homeless veteran sleeping in a tent in Reindahl Park, an elderly friend deprived of visitors by the ongoing pandemic, one of the far too many prisoners in our corrections system.
To respond with empathy and respect to any of these is at the very heart of what it means to follow Jesus.
But, as I carried this image of Jesus and the little child around in my prayers this week I was reminded of a couple of things. The first is that while this whole “Jesus and the little child” thing is very suitable for a Hallmark card or a movie on the Lifetime channel, in real life it can be far more complicated. Many of the homeless are dealing with trauma, addiction and other mental health issues that need to be effectively addressed at the same time that housing assistance is provided.
The social and economic structures that produce both mass incarceration and mass migration are tangled and deeply rooted. In responding to the refugee or the prisoner I am brought face-to-face with my need to challenge the very system that makes me so comfortable. The scale of the task is so daunting. My own complicity and place of privilege make me feel guilty, small and very much inadequate for the task at hand.
It was this realization that brought me to another question: “What if the child set within our midst is me?” At this point I was reminded of a powerful story I came across a few years ago. It is told in the book Radical Acceptance: Embracing Your Life with the Heart of a Buddha, by the psychotherapist Tara Brach. The story concerns a mother, whom she calls Marian, joining her alcoholic adult daughter in therapy. In one session the daughter reveals that throughout her teen years she had been sexually abused by her step-father. She rages at her mother for her failure to protect her from this abuse. The mother is devastated to the point of despair, racked by guilt for her failure and for the harm she had allowed her daughter to suffer.
The story continues,
Fearing she might harm herself, Marian sought counsel from an elderly Jesuit priest who had been one of her teachers in college. Crying, she collapsed in the overstuffed chair he offered. ‘Please, please help me,’ she pleaded. He listened to her story and sat quietly with her as she wept. When she calmed down, he gently took one of her hands and began drawing a circle in the center of her palm. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is where you are living. It is painful–a place of kicking and screaming and deep, deep hurt. This place cannot be avoided, let it be.’ Then, he covered her whole hand with his. ‘But if you can,’ he went on, ‘try also to remember this. There is a greatness, a wholeness that is the kingdom of God, and in this merciful space, your immediate life can unfold. This pain,’ and he again touched the center of her palm, ‘is held always in God’s love. As you know both the pain and the love, your wounds will heal.’
This is the moment in which Marian finds the courage and ability to be truly present to her daughter–to work with her towards healing. Welcoming the child that is myself, is a prerequisite for responding to others and to the world with compassion and grace. It frees me to act with integrity and authenticity. It is at the heart of what the letter from James describes so beautifully as “works done with gentleness born of wisdom.”
Tara Brach puts it this way:
Feeling compassion for ourselves in no way releases us from responsibility for our actions. Rather, it releases us from the self-hatred that prevents us from responding to our life with clarity and balance…When we feel held by a caring presence, by something larger than our small frightened self, we begin to find room in our own heart for the fragments of our life, and for the lives of others. The suffering that might have seemed ‘too much’ can awaken us to the sweetness of compassion.
May it be so, for each of us.