Matthew 18:21-35
Absurd Love – Absurd Community
James Sledge September
17, 2017
The
problem of needing to know more about a scripture passage’s context in order to
understand it has showed up so frequently of late that I wonder if we don’t
need a Bible version of that real estate adage, “What are the three most
important things in real estate? Location, location, location.” Except our
answer would be “Context, context, context.”
Take
today’s reading. It’s not a stand-alone parable. Our verses are the final
lesson in a larger set of teachings, the last big teaching moment Jesus has
with his disciples prior to Jerusalem and the cross. That says something about
their importance. And because Matthew uses private moments with the disciples for
Jesus to speak directly to the Church, that says something about how important
these words are for us.
There
is an interesting ebb and flow in these teachings. They start with Jesus saying
that we must become like children to be part of God’s kingdom, that those who
are humble like a child are called greatest in the kingdom. Jesus then shifts
from actual children to “little ones,” a phrase that speaks of those new to
faith. Here the emphasis is about how terrible it is to cause a little one to
stumble, and about the great lengths we must be willing to go to avoid
stumbling ourselves. Jesus goes on to say how important these “little ones” are
to God, telling the parable of a shepherd who leaves the ninety-nine sheep to
find the single lost one.
Jesus
then shifts gears, insisting that this community also be a place that holds its
members accountable. He lays out a method for confronting those who sin. Meet
privately first. If that doesn’t work, a few members should speak to the
person. If that fails the entire congregation gets involved, and finally, the
offender is to be cast out.
It
is in this context of holding community members accountable that Peter speaks
in our reading this morning. Quite likely Peter is thinking of the elaborate
process Jesus has described of confronting offenders alone, then with a few
members, then before the congregation. Perhaps Peter has in mind some difficult
folks he worries will abuse this process. They’ll cause trouble and resist
correction until they’re on the verge of being thrown out. But later they’ll go
back to their old ways, and the process would start over again. Surely there
have to be some limits to this. “Is seven times enough, Jesus?”
No,
says Jesus. Seventy-seven times. Or seventy times seven; either translation is
possible, and either is probably just an absurdly high number that says, “Keep
on forgiving.”
Then
Jesus tells his parable. It clearly addressees Peter’s question, but it surely
goes with all those other teachings where humility makes one great, where
little ones are treasured and protected, but where there is accountability and
correction. This parable surly means to say something about the nature and
character of the community laid out in Jesus’ teachings.
The
parable is filled with absurdities, some that we may miss. It may help to
recall that slavery in Jesus’ day was quite different from our American
experience of slavery. It was neither racially based nor understood to be
permanent. People sometimes sold themselves into slavery to deal with a
financial crisis, hoping to buy themselves back out at some point.
Slavery
was still a cruel institution, but because of its more fluid nature, slaves
often moved up into important positions in the masters’ businesses and
enterprises. Some slaves might literally be running the business, managing
large holdings of money and goods. That meant that an unscrupulous slave could
indeed do a bit of embezzling, but in no reality based scenario could a slave
have been caught owing the master 10,000 talents. We’re talking billions of
dollars here. A single talent was about 15 years wages for a laborer.
One
absurdity in the parable leads to another. Confronted with this debt of
billions, the slave pleads, “Have patience with me, and I will pay you
everything.” Right. And just where is he going to get the money. If he
gets a job and gives everything to the master, it will take him 150,000 years to
make 10,000 talents.
And
so the master responds with another absurdity. “You know what, I feel bad for
you. Cancel the debt. You’re free to go.” In what universe would that ever
happen?
But
the parable has one final absurdity. This slave who has just had a
multi-billion dollar slate wiped clean runs into another slave who owes him
some money. The amount here is believable, in the thousands. Perhaps he’d
loaned his friend money to help buy a new car. Who knows. But he demands that
the money be repaid immediately.
Just
like the slave who owed billions, the slave owing thousands pleads, “Have
patience with me, and I will pay you.” Except this seems doable. The debt
is small and he will surely be able to pay it off, but he receives no mercy at
all.
The
parable offers no explanation for the first slave’s bizarre behavior. Of all
people, you’d think he would be understanding, would have mercy and compassion.
Yet he shows no pity, an absurdity as large as his master’s, but in the
opposite direction.
What on earth would compel someone to
act in such absurd fashion? Perhaps the parable is simply using absurdity for
emphasis. Perhaps, but Jesus tells the parable to address a real issue, a real
tendency to act as this unforgiving slave does. So what concern about members
of the Church, about us, does Jesus use this parable to name, in exaggerated
fashion
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The other day I was channel surfing and came
across a movie from a few years ago, Barney’s
Version. Paul Giamatti plays Barney, a deeply flawed TV producer. His best
friend is a handsome, even more flawed writer named Boogie, who drinks and
parties his way through life without much thought for the people he hurts along
the way. On one occasion Barney bails his friend out of big mess and is betrayed
in particularly egregious fashion for his trouble. In the argument that follows,
Barneys laments that his friend has not even attempted to apologize. Boogie responds, “I’ve got another book for
you to read, Barney, The Life of Heinrich
Heine, who on his deathbed was begged by his family to plead for God’s
forgiveness but replied, ‘Surely God will forgive me. It’s his (expletive)
job.’ ”[1]
I’ve
known people who viewed their parents a big like this, who saw them primarily
as a resource to tapp into, who never seemed to understand the love that
motivated their parents to be there for them. And so they did not know how to
love their parents back, did not have any sense of the pain they caused, much
less any remorse for it.
I know a lot of religions folks who
think of God, faith, or spirituality, primarily as resources to draw on. I’ve
certainly found myself in that place, wanting things from God but oblivious to
the love that motivates God or the pain that I cause God, scarcely thinking
about how I might love God back.
_____________________________________________________________________________
Some
Christians think of the cross as part of a magic formula that gets people into
heaven, a slight of hand that has to take place to placate God, who would
otherwise have to punish us. But the cross is not that at all. It isn’t God
firing a bullet and then sending Jesus to jump in front of the bullet. Rather,
the cross is the ultimate picture of God’s love that goes to absurd lengths to
reach us, the picture of love that will not give up hope on restoring
relationship, no matter how impossible that seems, no matter what absurd acts
are required.
And
the God whose absurd love comes to us in Jesus, expects that the community gathered
in Christ’s name will share in this absurdity, will model this absurdity for
the world. And when we truly encounter and understand the depths of God’s
absurd love for us, each and every one of us no matter who we are or what we
have done or failed to do, then becoming an absurd, counter-cultural community
of love and welcome and forgiveness and grace will not seem absurd at all. It
will be the natural behavior of beloved children of God.
[1]
Boogie paraphrases the quote generally attributed to Heine. “Of course he will
forgive me. That’s his job”
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