Tag: Luke 16

Still from Muppet Christmas Carol

Interpreting Luke 16 with The Muppet Christmas Carol

Kyle

A sermon for the Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Year C (Proper 21: Jeremiah 32:1-3a; 6-15, Psalm 91:1-6, 14-16; 1 Timothy 6:6-19; Luke 16:19-31)

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Of all the genius bits of casting in The Muppet Christmas Carol, my favorite comes in the very first scene.

“The Marleys were dead to begin with,” says Gonzo as Charles Dickens, though that’s not my pick.

I was too young to spot the change back in 1992. But I can imagine Dickens fans in the theater being both GRATEFUL for the direct reference to the first line of the book, and also CONFUSED about Marley suddenly becoming plural.

My friends, it had to be thus. Because Jacob Marley—and now also Robert Marley—simply had to be played by Statler and Waldorf.

If you’re not a Muppets fan and need the wikipedia summary for these two, this excerpt should do it:

Species: Muppet humans

Occupations: Hecklers, curmudgeons, comic relief

How else could the Muppets tackle A Christmas Carol and its bizarre premise and intense social commentary? How else could you make a kid-friendly movie of what seems to have been a Dickensian remix of today’s parable.

I mean, within moments of coming on screen, these two puppets are singing “You’re DOOMED, Scrooge. You’re doomed for all time. / Your future is a HORROR STORY written by your crimes.” 

This is not usual Muppets territory. But because it’s Statler and Waldorf, we’re still chuckling at their last grandpa joke. 

And we’re unsurprised and even charmed when “the chains the Marleys forged in life” turn out to be binding them to adorably animate little Muppet treasure chests. In fact, those boxes themselves float up to finish the song’s final verse.

The prospect of eternal torment was never so funny and so cute.
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The Muppets succeed in SIDELINING a distracting detail in the premise of today’s gospel story, which some believe to be the inspiration for A Christmas Carol: Through humorous misdirection, they help us see past the somewhat grisley frame of this parable and look instead at the challenging picture inside it. 

It’s easy to fixate on the detail of “the chasm” that separates the Rich Man from Lazarus in death, the great dividing line in this apparent afterlife.

But this is not a parable about if Hell exists, who might go there, or for how long. The imaginative setting is just the backdrop for the conversation Jesus wants his characters to have.

The striking detail of “the chasm” IS meant to catch our attention, but in order to point back to another detail: the Rich Man’s SECURITY GATE in life. 

It’s as if Abraham is saying, “You isolated yourself then. So too are you isolated from us now.”

The Rich Man wanted to keep Lazarus at a safe distance: off his doorstep and out of his neighborhood. He didn’t want to have to see a poor and hungry man covered in sores as he took his own sumptuous feasts with wealthy friends in their fine clothes.

Marginalized people from every generation and era have had to grapple with going not just ignored but sometimes literally unseen. Upstairs/downstairs, front-of-house/back-of-house, one side or the other of the tracks or the river—

In Jesus’s day, in Dickens’s day, and in ours, the rich and powerful concoct ways to separate themselves from the people who make it possible for them to be rich and powerful. And then to varying degrees they ignore, rationalize, or even forget that they have done so—at least until they run out of space on the picturesque side side of the tracks, or the Lazaruses run out of space or patience on the run down and polluted side.

Dean Arthur Penrhyn Stanley of Westminster Abbey, who preached there on the Sunday after Charles Dickens death, certainly believed that this social dynamic motivated both Dickens’s and Jesus’s stories: He said, “By [Dickens] that veil was rent asunder which parts the various classes of society. Through his genius the rich man … was made to see and feel the presence of Lazarus at his gate.”
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I sometimes get frustrated that this parable is cited by fundamentalists in support of common discourses around Hell and our need to shape up, lest we get sent there. 

But try as I might this week, I wasn’t able to think of a more appropriate way for Jesus to make his point about the cruel and calcified ways we literally separate one life from another. Where else but on the very threshold between life and death could so important a conversation take place?

So although the fire and brimstone folks are unlikely to take their moral theology from Dickens’ Christmas Carol—let alone The Great Gonzo’s—I’d simply want to point out one last thing: At least in my reading and viewing, it wasn’t fear that ultimately brought Scrooge around to the need to turn from his Marley-esque ways. 

It was love, and laughter, and compassion. It was the obvious and abundant joy he witnessed in places he’d never bothered to look.

So if you think Dickens was at all on the right track in reimagining Jesus’s parable to give the Rich Man half a chance, here’s my Cliff’s Notes on the meaning of both.

Don’t fear the chasm that might separate us from each other in some unknown great beyond. Fear the chasms that separate us from each other’s love and friendship right here, right now. 

"Singing Pilgrims" by Ahron de Leeuw via Flickr (CC BY 2.0)

Pilgrim Virtues

Kyle

Proper 20, Year C

(Amos 8:4-7; Psalm 113; 1 Timothy 2:1-7; Luke 16:1-13)

Image source: Ahron de Leeuw via Flickr (CC BY 2.0)

PDF | Audio (soon, or via Dropbox) | Text:

Let me start by saying that I’m as confused by our Gospel passage today as you might be. A manager “squanders” the resources he’s been entrusted with and receives notice to get the books in order, such as they are, and prepare for the pink slip. So he scrambles around cutting deals with his master’s debtors, hoping to ingratiate himself and receive eventual welcome “into their homes.”

As we get ready for Jesus to pounce on the manipulative manager, the punchline all but set up, we hear instead that the master “commended” the manager’s shrewd strategy. And just as we get our heads around this shocker and prepare for Jesus to write both men off as “children of this age” rather than “children of light,” he tells the crowd to “make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest wealth so that when it is gone, they may welcome you into the eternal homes.” [pause] What’s the deal?

Well, let’s first commend Jesus for his shrewdness too. A story with not one but two surprise endings certainly grabs his hearers’ attention—no mean feat in his time or ours. And a parable that leaves us asking “What’s the deal?” has achieved the overriding objective of any parable: to get us thinking hard.

A lot of very smart people have thought very hard about this peculiar parable, and I read quite a few of their attempts to make at least some sense of it. Several of them seemed to me to put too tidy a bow around a messy story dripping with ambiguity. Jesus, and Luke, were quite capable of being clearer if they wanted to be.

The interpretation I found compelling and relevant to our life together has modest ambitions. It starts by picking up on a little translation detail that would be easy to miss:

When the manager is contemplating possible landing zones for his self-made golden parachute, he speaks of being welcomed into his associates’ “homes” using a greek word that means home, house, or household. When Jesus talks about the friendships we are to forge, the promised “eternal homes” would be better translated with “tabernacle,” “habitation,” or simply “tent.”

The persuasive commentator then puts this small detail into a broad perspective on the Christian life:

“Jesus does not promise to provide what the unjust steward sought, the stable abode of those who have possessions and security. Rather, [he] promises the unstable abode of the wanderer, the refugee, and the pilgrim, whose mobility requires the dispossession of goods” [Scott Bader-Saye’s “Theological Perspective” from Feasting on the Word (Westminster John Knox): Year C, Volume 4, pages 95–96.]

So we might paraphrase Jesus like this: You might as well throw that dishonest wealth around with some abandon, because you can’t take it with you on the journey I’ve got in store for you.

This exposition doesn’t “solve the puzzle” of this parable, but I don’t think that should really be the goal. What if, instead, we just sat with the question our commentator suggested: What would it mean, what does it mean, for the people of God to be pilgrims rather than citizens, tenants rather than landlords, sojourners and wayfarers rather than the kings and queens of our own castle keeps? Here’s my stab at some … let’s call them “Pilgrim Virtues”:

First, pilgrims know that absolute security is an illusion. They do their best to bring provisions for the days ahead, and to steer clear of the most dangerous obstacles. But no one is immune to famine and disease, to cycles of violence and random tragedies.

(On that note, let me pause and bid your continued prayers for the victims of the mass shooting at the Navy Yard on Monday morning; for their families, friends, and colleagues; and for all those affected by violence throughout the world. If you know someone touched by this tragedy, or if you experienced resonances with some past trauma in your own life, please remember that the clergy and people of St. Paul’s are here for you. Just speak to someone after the service and we will do our best to connect you with the help you need.)

So pilgrims are not surprised by the worst that life can throw at them, but pilgrims are also thankful, as we know, for the gifts they have received. They don’t have the luxury of mistaking those gifts as signs of their own value or of a contingent blessing based on good behavior or worthy offerings. Pilgrims know what it’s like to be out of meal and oil, and they’ve learned the hard way to trust that God is present anyway. If they hadn’t learned to trust and to be thankful for what they have, they never would have made it this far.

Pilgrims can also be on the lookout for opportunity. They are blessed with an awareness that the story of their people is still being written. They are resistant (though not immune) to the temptation of glorifying “the good old days.” If they weren’t, they probably wouldn’t have ended up as pilgrims in the first place, because the memory of what was is seductive. It seems like a much easier dream to chase than the promise of what could be. But of course the pilgrims have it right, and the alternative is usually folly.

So what do these pilgrim virtues have to do with us? We might start by asking what false security we’re hanging onto. To add some wayfaring imagery to Bishop Jim’s question from two weeks ago, what treasures are we dragging through the wilderness that should have been left in Egypt? Some things are worth carrying, as the Israelites knew. But only the essentials—pilgrims travel light. We can’t limit our soul-searching to physical things: some old ways of working and worshiping, of relating to each other and our neighborhood, will probably need to change. God is doing a new thing, but none of us knows entirely what. That’s why we’re on a pilgrimage.

How about thanksgivings? What do we have to celebrate, right here, right now, even among much uncertainty? My first idea is the incredible talent and dedication in our music program under Robert McCormick’s steady direction. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate our choirs than with more music, and I hope to see many of you here Friday night to support their ministry and join in the fun. Sharing and retweeting our social media posts about the event wouldn’t hurt either.

Another gift I’ve heard the parish buzzing about these past couple weeks is, and you can’t make up these coincidences, pilgrims: the Pilgrims in Christ class. As someone who makes his living as a Christian education consultant in training, I cannot understate to you what a tremendous blessing it is to have newcomers, long-time members, and a team of dedicated teachers so excited for a year-long faith formation experience that meets for two evening hours every single week. If I even suggested something like that to anyone who called our center at the seminary looking for ideas, they’d probably still be laughing at the absurdity. But Pilgrims is transforming lives in this parish, even in a year of transition. I’m thankful for everyone taking the plunge.

But what opportunities to use our many and distinctive gifts haven’t we thought of yet? What life-changing ministries lie just beyond the horizon? What unmet needs are we just starting to get an inkling about? What new ways to share the love of Christ are seeking root in the fertile soil of our hearts and minds?

We’ll miss these opportunities if we’re busy engineering a soft landing into business as usual or serving masters other than the Lord of All. We’ll miss them if we expect them to be unambiguous or tidy or painless.

But those who have taken a leap of faith in this life know the sure provision and surprising pleasures of a pilgrimage in Christ. It takes an ability to stay calm, to keep alert, to let go. It may even take some holy shrewdness.

The one thing we can be sure of is that God will be there in the thick of it, even if we don’t always understand how.