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Loving “The Other” More
The Sixth Sunday after the Epiphany (Year C, RCL)
February 11, 2007
The Reverend Paul R. Abernathy, Rector
I must learn how to love most the one who is least like me.
Hold that thought, my friends, for I’ll come back to it.
This morning’s gospel comes from Luke’s Sermon on the Plain,[1] a parallel passage to Matthew’s, perhaps more familiar, Sermon
on the Mount.
Looking at the text through a first century lens, Jesus, in what are known as the Beatitudes, describes the character of life – what it looks like to
live – in the kin_dom[2] of God that he has come to proclaim. Kin_dom dwellers, Jesus’ followers are those
who daily live with disenfranchisement and disempowerment or stand with those who do. Those who are excluded from the kin_dom are not simply rich,
but rather, those who care only about gratifying their desires, those who, in their self-satisfaction, laugh indecently, ignoring the world of need
all around them, those who burnish and cherish their good reputations with the “good people” of their own kind.
So, those of us who are materially rich or who, like me, continue to aspire to a more comfortable lifestyle, which I already wish I had attained, and
who care deeply and act generously toward those in need, are “off the hook.” Luke’s Jesus isn’t talking to us.
Nevertheless, is it any wonder why most people prefer Matthew’s Beatitudes? Matthew’s Jesus does not say, “Woe to you.” Matthew’s Jesus also
spiritualizes the conditions of life named in the Beatitudes, turning “poor,” meaning that material state of socio-economic need and neglect, into
“poor in spirit,” being that not physical, but psychic, that not visible, but inward awareness of the need for God, that interior enlightenment by
which one knows that one is not God.
No wonder most people prefer Matthew, who, I have a hunch, wrote his version in reaction to Luke’s scandalous severity. Speaking for myself, if I were
interested in living in Jesus’ kin_dom, then, no doubt, I would prefer the poverty of knowing my spiritual need than that of having little or no
food, water, clothing, or shelter, little or no access to opportunities for education and employment, and, even less, having little or no idea how
legally and legitimately to obtain them.
Yet, looking at this text again, beneath the surface of the conditions described – however they are understood, materially or spiritually – what I see
is a declaration of love. Love, not as an emotion, but rather, an action. The Beatitudes are, for me, a proclamation of benevolence and goodwill, and,
even more, a declaration of love’s aim, love’s focus.
Jesus, in the Beatitudes, declares that God prefers the poor, as the words of this morning’s Presentation hymn have it, “dearer to God are the prayers
of the poor”[3] – in his time, a radical statement that challenged, even overturned the conventional wisdom that material
riches were outward and visible signs of divine blessing. Jesus declares that God loves the poor more. Not because the poor are better morally or
spiritually than anyone else. But rather because the poor, in their poverty, exist, subsist in inhumane conditions that, by definition, are outside
of and in opposition to God’s will. God loves more those who are “other.”
I suppose, at this point, I might question how it is that God would create and, then, refuse to relieve so many poor people. How is it that God continues
to allow the evil of systemic and institutional inequity that keeps the poor poor?
I might question. However, as I don’t believe in an external, omnipotent, interventionist God, then, I’m liberated from having to entertain such
considerations seriously.
Where I am left, however, is in a state of profound awareness that I must broaden my field of vision regarding who I perceive is “the other.”
Broaden my field of vision beyond my initially established and justifiable, but narrow boundaries of those who embrace different traditions or who
hold different theological views. I must broaden my vision to see the poor, who, I rediscovered during my sabbatical, can be incredibly rich in
matters and manners real and concrete, and not simply in some spiritualized, sentimentalized perspective way.
I’ve already shared this story with you in one of my “letters from the road” during the sabbatical. However, I share it again…
Christina Gasa is an 80-year-old Zulu grandmother, who lives in the valley of Shayamoya, which means, “where the breeze blows,” near the
town of Hillcrest in the region of KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa. As many of her children have died from AIDS, Christina cares for nine grandchildren.
Her two-room home, the square footage of which is not much larger than our altar platform, stands on a narrow flat outcropping about a kilometer from
the main road, down a long, steep hill, the final approach reachable only by foot. I accompanied members of Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Hillcrest,
who had come to assess Christina’s needs and to offer help. It was and remains a life-transforming moment.
Christina offered a selfless hospitality in her welcome, a gracious humility in accepting whatever help we offered, which was far short of her monumental
need, and, for me, an inconceivable fortitude in keeping her faith and maintaining her sanity.
Christina, in our two-hour visit, taught or re-taught me many things. That physical poverty does not mean one lacks wealth, for she possessed an
abundant capacity to give of herself, both to her grandchildren and to us. That an abiding faith in God is honorable and must be respected, even,
perhaps especially by a skeptical believer like me. That graciousness and hospitality have everything to do with welcoming and accepting “the other,”
who, to her, I was and always will be.
All of this means that Christina Gasa taught me who this God, who loves more the other, is and what this God, who loves more the other, does. And I’ve
decided that, regarding this profound capacity to be open to “the other,” I want to be less other and more like her.
[1] Luke 6.17-26
[2] “Kin_dom,” being more relational and inclusive, less masculine and monarchical, is my preferred substitute for kingdom.
[3] From the hymn, Brightest and best are the sons of the morning, words by Reginald Heber (1783-1826).
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