25 April 2015

Stealing and Love, Hoarding and Forgiveness

He had stolen my allowance. I knew he had. He refused to give it back, and so I did what any self-respecting older sister would do: I chased the little brat down and sunk my fingernails into his back until he gave me my allowance back. The irony wasn’t that my dad made me give Curtis the entire contents of my piggy bank; that was pretty fitting. The irony was that, at this point in my life, I was giving the entirety of my allowance to church. In the name of piety, I gave my brother four parallel scars on his back. In the name of loving Jesus, I had forgotten to love my little brother. It was a lot easier to love the kids halfway around the world who I thought my allowance was helping than my little brother, who I was convinced had stolen my money. I’m sure that I was convinced that the world was completely unjust as I emptied my piggy bank and watched my brother smile in satisfaction that he had won the day.
The community in 1 John had taken a hit. People from within the congregation had started to leave; they had started to forget to love each other; they had started to behave as though Jesus’ command didn’t matter. They had it all, and they refused to share. Maybe they were convinced that this was their just dessert from all of their hard work. Maybe they were planning to give it to a different charity. Maybe they were convinced that if they shared what they had, they wouldn’t have enough for themselves. Maybe they were just stingy. Maybe they were just human. Maybe they were a little more like my 9-year-old self, whose piety stood in the way of love.
Because, really, for as much as Christians talk about loving one another, we’re not that good at actually doing it. Sure, we’ll say, “If you need anything, just let me know,” but – more often than not, the person we seek to comfort will never call and, the truth is, we frequently forget about what it is to love in truth and action. Love in truth and action is showing up and saying, “You sit down; I’ll make dinner,” it’s paying attention and placing ourselves – even if just for a moment – on the back burner long enough to recognize the image of Christ in our neighbor. But eventually people quit showing up, quit loving, and started acting like they could keep Jesus but forget their neighbors.
It is really tempting to keep Jesus and to forget our neighbors. Life is less inconvenient when we’re only worried about ourselves and our own wellbeing. That’s the hard part about following Jesus. It’s not just about us and Jesus; its about us and all of those whom Jesus loves. It’s about all of us and all of the other sheep. And when the other sheep become too inconvenient, become too quarrelsome, become too difficult to bear, we leave the fold, going off to wander to find a greener pasture, a better place where we and Jesus can be by ourselves. Yet we keep being returned to the fold, with all of these inconvenient awkward sheep, with these inconvenient awkward humans who are difficult to love and even harder to care for, insisting that they are “fine,” even though we know that they are not, refusing our efforts to help even though we know they need help.
“We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us—and we ought to lay down our lives for one another. How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses help?”
But it’s easier to drive by. It’s easier to not ask the question, “Are you all right?” especially if we know that our asking will lead to a conversation that lasts for hours when our to-do list is already longer than what we can accomplish and we’re already behind besides and barely surviving ourselves. So maybe we say a quick prayer and go on our way, hoping that Jesus will care for them when we have refused to do so. But this is where we find a wrench in our scheme. Belief and loving our neighbor are two sides of the same coin: Jesus’ love isn’t just a love that saves us. It is a love that binds us together. It is a love that makes it impossible for us to look at a brother or sister and say “Meh. That’s her issue.” Because you dwell in Christ and Christ in you, you are bound not only to Christ but to the world Christ loves.
All of this being bound to our neighbor and loving our neighbor, for many, brings up the question: What’s in it for me? But let me return with a question: What is in it for you in a world that is ambivalent toward those who suffer? What is in it for you in a world that refuses to share with the last and the least? What is in it for you in a world in which people are so easily forgotten, so easily written off, so easily refused love? A world that is ambivalent toward those who suffer, that refuses to share with the last and least, in a world where people are forgotten, written off and denied love is a world that does not know Christ, nor God’s love made manifest in Christ. It is a world that has forgotten the joy of a God who loves us despite ourselves, who places us in community with one another because we need one another.
In a world that can feel dark and lonely, in which we think we need to “do it ourselves,” Christ has brought us into a community that tells us our vulnerability is our strength, that shows us love we do not deserve, because it is all gift. Our selves, our possessions, our time, all that we have is a gift, and it multiplies as it is spent. That’s the funny thing about love: it comes in abundance, anointing us, and filling our cups to overflowing. It is the joy that begs to be shared.
An empty piggy bank is nothing compared to Jesus’ self-giving love, the scars of wrongs past healing over time, as we who had left the fold in search of greener pastures come home. And, cringing in anticipation of the “I told you so,” we find the open arms of Christ saying, “Welcome home. It’s about time.”


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