Luke 6:27-49 Give to Everyone Who Begs From You

Jesus is still talking directly to the disciples, although he’s also surrounded by a crowd of people who have come for miracles and healings.  But his words are about discipleship, about what it means to truly follow him, and more, what it means to imitate him in the hopes of being able to heal and bring peace like he does.  Since his actions and words are revolutionary, he is laying out a revolutionary model for his disciples, one that will overthrow all of their societal assumptions about what is good and what is right.

We barely get three sentences in to these instructions before we confront one of our own deeply held societal assumptions.  “Give to everyone who begs from you,” he says. I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard Christians quibble with this injunction.  People tell stories of giving money to a beggar and then seeing him enter a liquor store or drive away in a nice car. Wouldn’t it be better to simply give to some honorable charity, particularly if we afraid that we’re feeding people’s addictions or letting them get one over on us?  Jesus’ answer is no. Give to everyone who begs from you. He insists on this because giving is spiritually transformative. In a way, its not about the person who is asking you for money. It’s about whether you can cultivate a spirit of generosity, and hold your wealth and possessions loosely.

“Do good,” he says, “and lend expecting nothing in return.”  We might agree with everything surrounding these statements. We might concede that loving our enemies is important, and that we shouldn’t sit in judgement on others.  But many of us openly rebel against the idea of giving freely, with no expectation of anything in return, and not only that, giving to people who might be unworthy.  

But Jesus tells us to imitate God, and God is profligate.  If we are to be imitators of Christ and perfect as our Father in Heaven is perfect, then we can’t be scared, overprotective people.  Ronald Rolheiser describes God as “joyous, happy, playful, exuberant, effervescent, and deeply personal and loving” in Wrestling with God.  For us mere humans, exuberance, love, and joyfulness require a strong willingness to set fear aside and trust in goodness and beauty.  Profound, unsuspicious generosity is a key spiritual practice that will help us do this. We give to everyone who begs from us because we are invested in becoming more joyful, playful, effervescent people.

Luke 6:1-26 Blessings and Woes

Jesus upends the lives and thoughts of the Pharisees, and they respond with anger.  He sees that they’re angry, but instead of trying to assuage their anger, he ignores it and continues in his world-altering actions and teaching.  He chooses disciples, and although he’s surrounded by a crowd of people, he begins his Sermon on the Plain by addressing them directly. And what he says is almost a repetition of the Magnificat.  Those of us who wish to be disciples should hear these words directly addressed to us. We have a choice when we hear them. We can respond with the anger of the Pharisees, or we can give ourselves to Jesus’ message, even while admitting that discipleship is going to be hard.

“Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the Kingdom of God.”  We know that Jesus has been preaching about the Kingdom of God in the synagogues of Capernaum, but this is our first chance to hear the content of that teaching.  We’ll hear about the Kingdom of God more and more as the Gospel goes on. It will never be exactly defined, just described in a myriad of different ways. This first description isn’t really about the Kingdom, but about those who have access to it – the poor.  Why the poor and not anyone else?

Mostly because they’re the ones who can see it.  The Kingdom of God is that sense of divine reality that pervades all things.  Anyone can see it, but only if you stop to look for it. God sees it all of the time, and in order to see it we must align our sight with God’s, and see reality as alive with a shimmering beauty and goodness, free of contest and envy and anger, humble and simple, yet abundant in its riches.  We can’t see it when we’re full of the kind of pride that wants to convince us that we control the world and know what its like. The concerns of power and prestige have no place in the Kingdom of God, and if those are our concerns, then we’ll reject the Kingdom when we catch a glimpse of it. Jesus addresses this first phrase of the Beatitudes to the disciples as a way of telling them what their training is going to be like.  As followers of Jesus, they will learn to set aside their need for control and power, their fears and their jealousies, and embrace both physical and spiritual poverty.

At the same time, he acknowledges that this is going to be difficult.  You will be hungry. You will weep. But he also reassures. You will be filled.  You will laugh. And his third acknowledgement and reassurance is both the most frightening and the most humbling.  People will hate and revile you for rejecting the things that they feel are so important. But you will experience joy.  

As I said at the beginning of this study, Luke believes that joy is central to Christian spirituality.  And since we’re describing the undefinable, let’s spend a moment with C.S. Lewis, one of the great describers of joy.  He calls it “an unsatisfied desire which is itself more desirable than any other satisfaction.” Joy, for him, is

a technical term and must be sharply distinguished both from Happiness and from Pleasure.  Joy (in my sense) has indeed one characteristic, and one only, in common with them; the fact that anyone who has experienced it will want it again.  Apart from that, and considered only in its quality, it might also equally well be called a particular kind of unhappiness or grief. But then it is a kind we want.  I doubt whether anyone who has tasted it would ever, if both were in his power, exchange it for all the pleasures in the world. But then Joy is never in our power and pleasure often is.

Lewis is very nearly equating joy with longing, a kind of holy longing that is given to us by God.  Anyone who has ever experienced this longing knows that it’s better to have it than to not have it. Without it we pursue our pleasures but they feel ashen, we acquire but the things we own are merely junk, rather than loved possessions.  Such longing is like a kind of swooning romantic love, with all its risk and fears. And if you can experience that kind of love generally, if you can swoon over trees and buses and people’s faces, then you’re very close to experiencing what its like to see through God’s eyes, and with God’s heart.  This can easily become painful, because if you love the world, you don’t want to see it suffer. And that’s why there’s a strong note of social revolution within Jesus’ spirituality. Once you’re truly looking, and seeing the glaring and amazing divinity in everything, you can’t turn your back on suffering.  You are hurt with those who hurt, you are poor with those who are poor. And you want those who are closing their eyes and closing themselves off from this dangerous joy to get to experience it, too, even if that means that they have to give up their wealth and their illusions of power and control to do so.

 

Luke 5:17-39 New Wine Skins

Let’s pause for a moment and take stock of just how radical things are about to get.  Jesus is beginning to articulate the overthrow of systems – both outer systems of oppression, and inner systems of spiritual complacency and false allegiance.  From the beginning of Luke’s Gospel, we’ve heard about the mighty being brought down low and the lowly lifted up, the hungry being filled with good things and the poor sent away empty.  That is, in fact, the content of Mary’s song, The Magnificatand it’s indisputably radical. For some, it’s hard to take. I once heard Barbara Brown Taylor preach on The Magnificat.  She talked about having heard a contemporary version of it sung on Christian radio, in which the poor were lifted up and the hungry filled, but all of Mary’s lines about the mighty being brought down and the rich sent away empty were left out.  Obviously, the singer and the station’s listeners couldn’t stand to hear about loss of power and prestige. But Taylor pointed out that these words are only threatening if we believe that no spiritual good can come of losing power or experiencing hunger.  What if God wants the mighty to be cast down and the rich sent away hungry for their own spiritual good?
If we’re honest, many of us will react to this possibility with fear and anger, rather than joy and hope, particularly if we’re people of relative wealth and comfort.  If we do, then we should pause and acknowledge some sympathy with the scribes and pharisees. They are correct in sniffing out Jesus’ radical agenda, and we can hardly blame them for having the same qualms that we do.  Because when Jesus forgives sins and heals, when he eats with sinners and societal outcasts, he is essentially saying that the whole program of his culture is wrong. They care about, and get angry about, the wrong things.

Peter Rollins in his book The Idolotry of God offers the same critique of our culture, particularly of our religious culture.  He writes that the good news of Christianity

is sold to us as that which can fulfill our desire rather than as that which evokes a transformation in the very way that we desire.  Like every other product that promises us fulfillment, Christ becomes yet another object in the world that is offered to us as a way of gaining insight and ultimate satisfaction.  Jesus is thus presented as the solution to two interconnected problems: that we exist in a state of darkness concerning the meaning of the universe and that we are dissatisfied with our place within that universe.

And he goes on to ask the question

what if we cannot grasp the manner in which Christ is the solution to the problem of our darkness and dissatisfaction precisely because he *isn’t*the solution?  What if, instead of being the solution (i.e., the one who offers a way for us to gain certainty and satisfaction), he actually confronts us as *a problem*, a problem that places every attempt to find a solution for these ailments into question?  To put this another way, what if Christ does not fill the empty cup we bring to him but rather smashes it to pieces, bringing freedom, not from our darkness and dissatisfaction, but freedom from our felt need to escape them?

Rollins challenges us to understand what the Pharisees actually felt.  Their quibble wasn’t with a misuse of tradition or a breaking of the rules.  We can’t dismiss them that easily. They correctly understood that Jesus was going to smash their entire way of looking at the world into pieces.  The things that had given them spiritual satisfaction wouldn’t any longer. The methods and practices that they used to look for that satisfaction would fail them.  All of their thinking and ways of beings had to be stripped away – they were old wine skins, and it was time to discover new wine skins that could be filled with something else.  What that something else was, they didn’t know yet, and that made it even more scary.

We should feel the same fear as we read Luke’s Gospel.  Our worlds really will be turned upside down. We really will be asked to embrace the unfamiliar.  And if we’re treating our religious beliefs as a commodity, if we feel that we can buy, sell, and own Christ, we’ll be disabused of that notion pretty quickly.  Jesus is not about self-help, or even simply self-transformation. Jesus is ultimately about divinity manifested on earth, and divinity is always more than our selves.  When we truly come to experience resurrection, the self falls away, and only love is left.

Luke 5:1-16 – The Call of the Deep

What needs to happen in our lives before we can hear and respond to a sense of call?  As Luke introduces characters, he often hints at their backstories. Zechariah and Elizabeth are given a fairly elaborate backstory, and their lives provide the backstory to John the Baptist.  The Annunciation and the Visitation give backstory to the Incarnation, telling us how this young girl came to give birth to the savior of the world. When we meet the apostles, we are also given backstory, although sometimes it’s shaded and less elaborate.

Peter’s backstory manages to be both subtle and extravagant all at the same time.  We meet his mother-in-law before we meet him – Jesus heals her at the end of chapter four.  So even before the scene on the Lake of Gennesaret (also called the Sea of Galilee), we have some inkling of what Peter is like.  He’s married, he owns a house, his mother-in-law lives with him, and he’s been hanging out with Jesus, and was probably among the congregants at the synagogue in Capernaum when Jesus preached there.  In a way he’s primed to hear and respond to a sense of call, because he already know something about Jesus (this is not true in the Gospels of Mark and Matthew). In another way, he’s primed to resist the call, because he’s a married person with clear responsibilities.  Maybe it’s because of this that Luke makes his actual moment of call so big and dramatic – a miraculous catch of fish after providing Jesus with a floating pulpit, sitting right in Jesus’s shadow as the crowds on the shore stared at the both of them. Peter is already singled out as special before his call, and the abundance of his catch probably helped assuage any anxiety he had about providing for his family if he were to go off and follow Jesus for real.

But what about our own sense of call?  When I use that term, I’m not talking about discovering a sense of vocation, which is how we often talk about call when it comes to work or family.  I’m talking about the call to enter seriously into the spiritual life, the first step on a spiritual journey that ends in resurrection. Adyashanti describes a sense of call as “that moment when the trajectory of your life begins to turn toward the mystery of life…that transcendent aspect of life that shines through the world of time and space.”  If we’ve experienced that sense of call – and most people who start attending a place of worship have – what is the backstory that prepared us to hear it?

For me it was Holy Hill, a monastery outside of Milwaukee that my parents took us to when we were children.  I was raised Methodist, so entering the basilica at the top of the hill filled me with a sense of wonder and mystery.  I remember it as being dark and gloomy, with cavernous side chapels and a bank of votive lights that shimmered against the wall.  People moved and spoke differently in that space, whispering from their knees, and there was something strangely intimate about the shush and the darkness.  There was an odd machine in the Undercroft, a mechanism that you put coins into, and when you did music would start playing, and a diorama of the halt and the lame, set on a turntable behind glass, would begin to operate, leading the little ceramic people on a continuous circle through the doors of a church and out of them again, into a slow passage through the world.  But the most powerful aspect of Holy Hill was the Stations of the Cross, which you walked by following a wooded path across the topography of the hill itself. The stations were larger than life size, made of carved granite and protected by grottos of piled stones. We would walk there in all seasons, sliding down icy stairs in winter, walking over damp leaves in autumn, or beneath flowering trees in spring and summer.

This was the backstory for my own sense of call.  Holy Hill provided a chance to gaze beneath the surface of things, to be moved by wonder and joy.  Not the kind of joy that can simply be confused for happiness, but the kind of joy that creates sharp and distinct memory, an experience of the divine that prepared me to recognize God in other experiences when they came.  Holy Hill was my own miraculous catch of fish. What was yours?

 

Luke 4:14-44 Casting Out Demons

There are many ways of thinking about demons, and they all have seeds of wisdom in them.  Skepticism is our default reaction when we hear about demons, and often we lace our skepticism with a trace of contempt for the past.  But skepticism itself has some spiritual value. We don’t want to make too much of demons, even as we consider other ways of thinkings about them.

Because we’re rational people, we look for rational explanations.  One of the most popular is to assume that the demonaics of the Gospels were simply people suffering from mental illness.  I’ve long thought this was offensive to people who are mentally ill, and who probably don’t need to be accused of harboring demons as they struggle with their illness.  But I mentioned my qualms to a friend who is manic depressive, and she said that she wasn’t offended by this association. Her illness sometimes does feel demonic. So let’s leave the possibility that the demons of the Gospels were illnesses in the mix.

Another possibility, and the one I believe in most strongly, is the idea that demons are manifestation of community illness, rather than personal illness.  I have heard police officers say that it really is possible for entire communities to have collective bad days. And this makes sense when we consider how empathetic we really are – how sensing one person’s mood can lead us to discover that mood within ourselves.  But my understanding of demons as a kind of community illness goes much further than that. I want to associate them with the principalities and powers that Paul will talk about in his epistles. What are those forces that are influencing your thoughts and actions without you even realizing it?  We are increasingly sensitive to the power of racism, sexism, and homophobia over our lives, and if we’re honest we can name moments when we unconsciously act out of the promptings of those -isms. When we do, we’re feeling the demonic manifest itself in our lives.

In the Gospels, certain people don’t just experience a moment of racism or sexism.  The principalities and powers seem to take them over completely. But this isn’t just a Biblical phenomena.  Anthropologists have seen it working in most, if not every, society. Powerful communal forces can become manifest in a single individual, so that these forces can be excised or banished in the form of that individual.  Think of the people whom we shun. Often we turn against them because they have manifested something in their lives that we are secretly tempted by, or have done ourselves and then kept hidden. An obvious example is teenage girls who are shunned by conservative churches after they become pregnant.  They are blamed for sexual activity that the community finds shameful, even as many community members indulge in it.

Another way of thinking about demons might feel much closer to home.  A few years ago, I was in almost constant conflict with a friend. I didn’t know why, but he was always hinting to me that I was disappointing him in some way, sometimes actively hurting him.  It always took me by surprise that some chance comment I made would be given a negative interpretation by him. And because I think of myself as a good person who doesn’t willingly hurt others, I constantly stewed about it.  One day, while I was painting and stewing, I realized that I was having an experience of the demonic. Not that my friend was demonic, but the doubt and hurt that we both felt in the relationship was like a pesky demon that continually tore at each of our own sense of selfhood.

Naming what I was feeling was tremendously helpful.  Being able to picture that pesky little demon put it in perspective and it didn’t tear at me so much after that.  And that’s the solution to every encounter we have with the demonic. Name it, and its power is diminished. There’s a reason why Jesus prophesizes before he casts out demons.  He’s modeling to us the very power that will allow him to perform his exorcisms. Prophets don’t predict the future. They correctly name what’s going on in the present. If we can correctly name the demonic, we will gain some degree of power over it.  For those with mental illnesses, this naming might simply be diagnosis. For all of us as we deal with our culture’s ills and isms, such naming might entail honest recognition of the ways that we are affected by the powers and principalities that want to claim dominance over our lives.  In our interpersonal relationships, such naming can heal and reconcile.

In narrative therapy, there is a model of naming that we should pay attention to.  It involves simply taking the thing that is troubling us about ourselves or our loved ones, and talking about it as if it were a third person.  Married couples can talk about the marriage as if its a third person, and when they do they feel tremendous relief, because they no longer feel as if they’re accusing each other, or that the fault is in them or in their partner.  Individuals can talk about grief, or depression, or addiction, or anything else, as if it were a third person, not integral to themselves but something that they’re in relationship with, and that they can set boundaries around, argue with, rage at, or reconcile themselves to.  We each have the potential to be prophets to our own lives, naming the powers that move or manipulate us, and reclaiming our own ability to choose how to relate to them. And once we see them for what they are, it might be right to treat them with some skepticism, to laugh at them and see if they can laugh at themselves.  If they can’t, then we have some measure of how demonic they really are. If they can, then we might be able to convert them, just as we ourselves our converted.