this is based on a
piece I wrote for the Christ Church weekly newsletter; more of these are at www.ecrier.blogspot.com
As I do every so often, this morning I was with the Sisters
of Saint Anne in Arlington, saying Mass for the convent. Our Gospel was the
story of Lazarus and the rich man—Lazarus who suffered at the gate of the rich
man’s house, poor and begging, and the rich man, who after death found himself
in burning flames while Lazarus and Abraham snuggled together in heaven. As I
wrote last week, I’m pretty agnostic about an individual “Big Bad” (i.e.,
Satan/the devil) but I do believe that there must be some sense of wholeness and restoration for us in
the passage from life to death, and that must certainly include a sense of
sharing in the suffering that we’ve inflicted.
Let me explain a little more.
Nice as it sounds, I don’t think that everything is unicorns
and fluffy clouds after we die. Even for
the purest in heart, our puny minds can’t even imagine how grace-filled and
beautiful it will be to be united with God.
I think we are fully known now, but we don’t fully see. Then will see “face to face” (1 Corinthians 13.12) and know as we
have been fully known. As we are known,
now—then we will know. And part of that knowing surely must be how we are
linked to others, how the suffering of one person hurts us all. In our life
together now, we hide those connections; we don’t see the suffering of the
animals we eat, or the panic of polar bears losing the ice they depend on. We don’t visit the factories that make our
stuff, don’t feel the depth of the unending fear of those who live in war zones
and suffer genocide. We allow them to stay
far away—frankly, we prefer it that way.
How would our world change if we enacted Christ’s call to
love our enemies? We barely even try to imagine because we’re too afraid they’d
shoot first.
But in that “face to face” encounter? All of that has to
fall away. The cost of our lives comes into focus. Suffering will no longer be
invisible. And yes, I think it’s going to hurt. Not because God wants to punish
us—and likely not with literal flames (IT’S A METAPHOR!)—but because seeing the
real nature of reality that we can only dimly imagine now will show us how we
are linked. And if a Pakistani woman whose husband has been killed by a drone
strike really is my sister, those unicorns and fluffy clouds are going to feel
pretty far away.
Still, the heart of the Gospel is forgiveness; still Jesus
forgave even from the cross. I also don’t believe that what we do is forever. I can’t imagine that anything we ourselves can
do can trump God’s power to restore all things and all persons. Only God can do forever. We can pray—with our hearts as well as our
hands and feet. We ask God for the grace to be bold enough to witness suffering—not
to hide—and strong enough to do something about it. We’re called to inhabit the
space between, of grieving oppression in the world as well as acting on it.
Righting injustices but also thanking God for full bellies and access to health
care. Bringing the “Kingdom/kin-dom of God” to be
right here and right now, and helping to knock down that wall between “heaven”
and “earth.”
In baptism, we embrace the covenant “with God’s help”—a lot is wrong, but a lot is
possible, too. And we know we’re not working alone.
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