Author: CCW

“And he arose and followed him”

The call of Matthew from “the receipt of custom” – what a wonderful phrase! – seems rather disturbing and disquieting. Jesus says “follow me” and “he arose and followed him.” It seems so abrupt and arbitrary.

It is a story of conversion but without the inner struggle and conflict displayed in the conversion of St. Paul. Somehow the external details suffice. He is a tax-collector and that is associated here with being a sinner. Why? Publicans, as the name suggests, have an immediate connection to the res publica, the public things, the things pertaining to the life of the political community especially in its natural and economic life. There is a certain necessity to taxes, unpleasant as they may seem to be. Why, then, the association with sin?

There are two reasons. The first has to do with the particular context. Matthew’s tax-collecting is seen as a kind of spiritual betrayal, a form of treason against the spiritual community to which he properly belongs. He is collaborating with the Roman overlords in collecting taxes for them from his own people while benefiting personally. Rome had outsourced tax collecting!

Unlike contemporary politics, “politics within the limits of economics” where the state exists for the markets, here there is no doubt that the economic is subordinate to the political and that the political is inescapably spiritual. It is a question of fundamental loyalties and identities. Matthew, like Zacchaeus, is despised by his own community for being a tax-collector.

The second reason is more universal and brings out the real problem with each and every form of economic determinism. It is signaled in the Collect. Matthew’s conversion applies to everyone. “Grant us grace to forsake all covetous desires and inordinate love of riches.” It is a question of disordered love, of love in disarray, a question of fundamental loyalties and identities for each of us. We sense the gospel imperative, “ye cannot serve God and Mammon” – worldly riches – “for what does it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his soul?” The suggestion of the gospel is that we are more than our material acquisitions and more than our acquisitiveness. We are spiritual creatures who cannot, ultimately, be satisfied with anything less than the kingdom of God.

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“That ye, being rooted and grounded in love, may be able to comprehend … what is the breadth, and length, and depth, and height; and to know the love of Christ which passeth knowledge…”

Paul’s words in Ephesians are powerfully and wonderfully illustrated in the Gospel (Luke 7.11-17). The raising of the only son of the widow of Nain reveals the love of Christ “which passeth knowledge,” the love which goes beyond what we can know and do simply on our own. Something is being shown to us that belongs to the deeper truth of our humanity; a truth found in our engagement with God. Without the love of God, the suggestion is, we are utterly incomplete, bereft and empty.

What Paul seeks for us is what Christ provides for us, namely our being “rooted and grounded in love” and being able to comprehend – to understand – the wondrous extent of the divine love which goes beyond our human capacities. To be aware of this is to be awakened to an ethic of action rooted in compassion.

The last several Sundays of the Trinity season have presented us with this underlying concept: our human actions as rooted and grounded in God’s love. Compassion was the operative word in The Parable of the Good Samaritan. That compassion is ultimately the love of Christ, the Son of God who became man for us and who engages us in our brokenness and hurt to heal and restore and to set us in motion towards one another. That compassion of Christ is the motivating force in the story of the one leper who “turned back, giving him thanks and he was a Samaritan,” too. Thanksgiving is ultimately rooted in the divine love which perfects our human loves. Thanksgiving is a form of love at work in us.

This morning we have the powerful story of the raising of the only son of the widow of Nain. It is one of three stories where Jesus meets us as mourners and each time something happens that is transformative. “Be ye transformed in the renewing of your minds,” as Paul says elsewhere. And, indeed, what we see and hear transforms our thinking and our doing. The operative word here in the Gospel is once again, the word, compassion. “When the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her.” Compassion is deep love, the deep love of God in Jesus Christ which reaches out to our humanity, at once to the sorrow and loss of the widow and to the death of her only son. We are meant to feel her pain, to use a much abused expression. To put it better, we are meant to empathise with her loss and to feel its depth. She is utterly bereft – a widow who has lost her husband and now a mother who has lost her only son. We sense and feel her desolation, the utter emptiness of her being.

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“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do”

The Cross is the meeting place of lovers. That “strange and uncouth thing,” as the poet George Herbert calls it, reveals the incompleteness of our human loves and the all-sufficiency of divine love. It is signaled in what might be called the erotic liturgy of The Book of Common Prayer, a liturgy which is shaped and governed by the Cross, the liturgy of eros redeemed, the liturgy of the redemption of desire, of love as forgiveness. But what does it mean?

I have often been struck with the coincidence of the early beginning of school term with the Feast of the Holy Cross, and especially with one of its early and associated titles, namely, the Invention of the Holy Cross. It speaks so profoundly and yet so paradoxically to the nature of the intellectual enterprise. Inventio crucis.

Invention? Yes, but not in the sense of something fabricated out of our fevered imaginations. The feast derives from the celebrated visit of Helena, the mother of Emperor Constantine, to Jerusalem and her so-called discovery of the Holy Cross in the early fourth century as well as the exposition or “Exaltation” of the supposed true cross in the seventh century. Inventio does not suggest fabrication and invention so much as discovery and disclosure, in part our renewed discovery of our commitment to Christ in his Church.

In the Christian understanding of things, humility and sacrifice are de rigueur in the passionate search for understanding, the eros of intellectual life. The cross is the meeting place of all lovers.

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