Catastrophic Generosity

Scripture: The Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Lectionary 22), A.D. 2016 C

Homily:

Grace, mercy and peace to you from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

The Roman world of Jesus’ day was one of strict quid pro quo. If I did something for you, that placed you in my debt, in my patronage. If you did something for me, that would place me in your debt, in your patronage. This created a very complex, and very strict, web of hierarchical relationships. Everybody had people below, and people above. The only exceptions to this were beggars at the one extreme and the Emperor at the other.

I think the easiest way for us to imagine how this patronage system worked would be to imagine The Godfather, or similar films about the Italian mafia. Everyone knows that if you ask The Godfather for a favor, then that places you in his debt, in his patronage. You work for him now. And he is not in the habit of doling out his power or influence free of charge. Eventually, though it may be a while down the line, he’s going to ask for you to return that favor. And it will be an offer you can’t refuse.

That was the world in which Jesus lived, the world into which He was born. It was a world in which even charitable giving had an ulterior motive. The Emperor would offer bread and circuses—free food and entertainment—to keep the mob content, to keep them from rioting, and to remind the people who was in charge. Men in the synagogue would throw their coins dramatically into an offering plate specially designed to ring out, so that their wealth and magnanimity might be known to the entire congregation: the best recognized by the rest.

Again there are parallels in our own day. Think of the wealthy billionaire who calls a press conference and hands over his donation in the form of a comically gigantic cardboard check, all the while calculating his windfall tax deduction. Yes, he’s given to charity. But he’s gotten quite a bit out of the deal himself, hasn’t he? Quid pro quo. Nothing for nothing.

In a world like this, generous people are suspicious. Why would somebody give away bread? Why would somebody sponsor public games, or a Legion in the army at his own expense? Clearly such a person is looking to gain power and prestige, which in politics are often the same thing. Power brokers are going to want to make sure that such a person will play ball, that he’ll integrate into the existing networks of patronage and hierarchy. Wouldn’t want to rock the boat, after all. Otherwise we might just have to slip a knife through his ribs. Nothing personal, mind you, just politics and public life in the Empire.

We may begin to see, now, why Jesus frightened so many powerful people. He didn’t have an army or raise an insurgency or sponsor a good old fashioned Roman political assassination. No, nothing so crass. Jesus was slyer than that, shrewder. Jesus was generous—ridiculously, superabundantly generous. And that threatened everything that Rome and her collaborators held dear.

In today’s Gospel reading, Jesus is on his way to a sabbath meal. He’s been invited by one of the Pharisees, a popular and pious religious sect. Pharisees are known for going above and beyond the call of duty—practicing not just the Law of Moses but also the Traditions of the Elders, which are series of oral laws designed to super-insure ritual purity. Many of the Pharisees were motivated by genuine religious conviction. But many also enjoyed the public acclaim, the high social status, that went with wearing their faith on their sleeves. Nothing for nothing, remember? Their esteem amongst the people gained them quite a bit of power, and thus a place at the table with their Roman overlords. Quid pro quo.

On the way to this meal, Jesus and his companions run into a man with dropsy. Now I don’t know if you’ve ever seen someone with dropsy in the hospital. It isn’t pretty. In fact, it’s a very obvious, very grotesque illness. And Jesus heals him. On the sabbath, mind you, which violates the Pharisees’ strict religious code. It’s quite obvious when someone has dropsy, and quite obvious when someone does not. In curing this man, Jesus has done something very dramatic and very public. It is a demonstration of great power. And He does it in such a way that it seems to kick a little sand in the Pharisees’ eyes—to challenge their elevated place in the hearts of the people.

If a generous man is suspicious, then a Man superabundant in His generosity is downright dangerous. What does Jesus want? What’s his game here? He doesn’t take any money for this healing. He doesn’t even ask the man’s name, that He might call upon him someday to return the favor. No, He just continues on His way. What does Jesus want in return? Does He want to sway the people away from the Pharisees, to gain power over the mob? Will He use his popularity to start yet another Judean uprising against Rome? The Powers That Be simply do not know, and it’s driving them crazy.

That’s why, when He arrives at this dinner, the text says that they were watching Him closely. All around Him people start to take their seats: wealthy people, religious authorities, government functionaries. And they all know their place. They all know where they belong at the table, in the hierarchy of patronage. Where will Jesus sit? Where will He place himself in the hierarchy, in the tangled web of honor and power and loyalty and debt? They’re trying to get a bead on Him, trying to see if He’ll position himself in such a way as to play ball, or rock the boat. And of course, in the back of their minds, the powerful are trying to figure out if they’ll have to kill Him.

And so Jesus does what He does best: He tells a parable, a truth both hidden and revealed within a story. “When you are invited to a wedding banquet,” He says, “do not sit down at the place of honor, in case someone more distinguished than you arrives, and the host would disgrace you by moving you down to a lower place. But when you are invited, go and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he may say to you, ‘Friend, move up higher.’ For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

And just like that—boom—Jesus has flipped the entire situation on its head. He’s upended their whole fretfully meticulous system of hierarchy and status and patronage and power. Now all those who exalted themselves in the high seats are abashed, and those sitting in the lower positions are quietly honored. A simple parable, a Word of truth, and the whole system collapses like a house of cards. They were wrong about this Jesus. He’s not here to rock the boat; He’s here to smash it against the rocks! That tears it. They’ll have to kill Him now.

Now, this story is not just some arcane history lesson. Nor is it banal advice in etiquette. No, this is a parable. And as such it has a great deal to teach us about the Kingdom of God. The New Creation inaugurated in Jesus Christ is not a kingdom of quid pro quo. We do not bargain with God, deal with Him in some sort of patron-client relationship. There is nothing that we can give or owe to God in order to merit what He has first given us: namely, existence.

But beyond that, God has granted us gifts in superabundance, the fruit of the earth, the light of the sun, the joys of family and the natural world. Yet beyond that, God has given us Goodness and Truth and Beauty, the revelations of Word and Sacrament, the promise of forgiveness and healing and life eternal in the Beatific Vision of the One in whom we live and move and have our being.

God gives and gives and gives and gives and gives and there is nothing that you or I or anyone else can do about it. He gives to us His only Son. He gives to us the Spirit that is His life and love and breath. He pours out His Blood from the Cross and pulls us up with Him from the loamy earth of the grave. And there is no quid pro quo. There is no hierarchy amongst the sinful. There is nothing that you can give in exchange for everything. You can’t earn this. You can’t merit it. It can only be given freely, superabundantly—catastrophically! For in taking the lowest spot, the Most High has destroyed our world to make it anew.

And just when we think that we cannot take it anymore, that His gushing grace and brobdingnagian mercies will overwhelm us, annihilate us, carry us away, He says to us impossibly, “Oh, my beloved child. I am only getting started with all that I intend to give you.”

So live abundantly. Give generously. Waste no thought on gaining power or prestige or public acclaim. It’s all just drek. Know instead that God’s generosity has freed us to be generous in return—not to Him, but to all those who are, like us, in need. Do this, and we shall ever hear the voice of the Lord call: “Friend, move up higher.”

In the Name of the Father and of the +Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.