From Under the Rubble

Scripture: James 2:1-6

Many years ago, I participated in a Bible study group that met in a grand old Methodist Church. We gathered in a room filled to its walls with ancient, overstuffed chairs grown so soft with age that when you sat down in them you found yourself staring at your knees. It turned out that the chairs fostered the perfect environment for theological debate, because when disagreement arose no one had the abdominal strength necessary to sit forward in a confrontational pose, let alone leap to their feet and stalk out of the room in a huff.

I loved the people in that group, but none as much as a soft-spoken woman in her eighties who always sat at the back of the room, near a fireplace that looked as if it had not been lit since Eisenhower was President. If I remember correctly her name was Hazel, although I’ll confess to hedging my bets here because almost every woman of that age in that church was named Hazel. Anyway, I loved Hazel for many reasons, but for two in particular.

First, Hazel understood that with her grey hair, wise demeanor, and gentle speech she could get away with saying things others could not. So, often, in the middle of our discussions she would raise her hand slowly, tilt her head slightly, and in her own quiet way throw a conversational hand grenade into the middle of things. Disagreement would erupt. And Hazel would sit back and watch, sometime allowing a sly smile to creep across her face.

But the second reason I loved Hazel was that she had the insight and persistence to raise the same questions, over and over again, whenever we neared the end of our discussion. She would wait until we got to that comforting moment where we believed our collective effort at interpretation had led us to a point of clarity and understanding about a Bible story, chapter, or verse. And she heard her cue when someone offered up the group’s conclusion about what the passage meant. “Well,” she would say just as we were hoisting ourselves up out of our chairs, “the passage probably means that. But is that the only thing it means? Is it possible it could mean something more?”

Hazel’s smile would spread into a Cheshire cat grin and we would laugh and groan—although, on a few occasions, I thought I could hear some of the less inquisitive among us gnashing their teeth and rending their garments. It was great fun. But it was more than that.

Indeed, over the years I have come to believe that Hazel's questions reflect sound theology and provide an immensely useful principle of biblical interpretation. Look at it this way. We believe that God tells us many things through the Bible. So why wouldn’t we also believe that sometimes God tells us more than one thing at a time? Why wouldn’t we believe that the same passage can contain many different messages? And why wouldn’t we believe that sometimes it takes a fair amount of human effort to sort those messages out? It seems to me that this sort of richness is exactly what we should expect from the God who created such dazzlingly complex things as photosynthesis, the human eye, the structure of the universe, the crazy activity of subatomic particles, and love.

Well, that brings us to this passage from the Letter of James, which I believe has at least two messages—messages that, to make things even more interesting, appear to point in very different directions. Indeed, they may seem inconsistent and irreconcilable. I want here to draw those two messages out; highlight their apparent incompatibility; explore why they are in fact fully consistent; and invite you to consider the possibility that they offer a provocative insight into what it means to be the people of God.

The first message in this passage is one of equality and inclusion. This message is hard to miss. James condemns the practice of showing “favoritism” or making “distinctions” based on an individual’s economic standing. He calls us out for seeking to draw the wealthy close to us while keeping those in poverty at a convenient distance. “Have a seat here, please” we say to rich; “stand there” we say to poor. James brilliantly recognizes that respect is paid in the currency of proximity: those we honor we let near; those we do not honor we let alone.

Jesus understood this perfectly. He understood that to honor all of God’s children means to be close to all of God’s children. Think of all the times in the gospels when Jesus says “do not hinder; let him, let her, let them come to me.”

In her recent book Reading Jesus, novelist Mary Gordon contends that this is why giving money to good causes, while absolutely critical, is still not enough. “The essential genius of Christian charity,” she writes, is that it should be “personal” and “personalized.” Philanthropy is a wonderful thing but it “allows for acts of charity that keep the recipient at a distance.” “For Jesus,” Gordon suggests, “what is required is an encounter. What is insisted upon is the personal responsibility of love.”

Of course, sometimes a personal encounter is not possible or practical. Not all of us can head off to Haiti or Guatemala or Bangladesh with crates of food, clothing, and medical supplies. Also, sometimes it is easier for people to accept charitable gifts that come anonymously or from a distance. I know a family that once fell on hard times but that would never have accepted an outright gift of cash; but when a concerned neighbor left nine one-hundred dollar bills in an unmarked envelope in their mailbox it left them with no choice but to accept the gift with grateful hearts.

Or, at least they thought it was a neighbor. I am, I will confess, a firm believer in miracles. And, in my theology, God knows how to use an ATM machine.

Still, I think that Gordon is right in believing that there is something different and essential about personal encounters. After all, that is what James—and Jesus—believed as well. For the personal encounter allows us not only to care for people, but to include them, embrace them, respect them, and honor them. In contrast, when we remain aloof from the poor we fail to treat them as equals and we thereby, even if unintentionally, facilitate their marginalization and oppression. In this regard, it is worth remembering that the book of Proverbs tells us that when we oppress the poor we insult their Maker. (Proverbs 13:41)

But there is a second message in this passage from the Letter of James: “Has not God chosen the poor in the world to be rich in faith and to be heirs to the kingdom that he has promised to those who love him?” Now, in one sense this verse includes the same themes of inclusion and equality just discussed: all those who love God will inherit the kingdom. But, in another sense, this verse appears to say that in God’s kingdom some are more equal than others. After all, the verse doesn’t suggest that God loves even the poor; it suggests that God loves especially the poor. That explains why God chose them to be “rich in faith” and “heirs to the kingdom.”

We find the idea that God has a special concern for the poor in numerous biblical passages. Indeed, as you know, that idea is fundamental to the school of thinking called Liberation Theology. Some years ago, in a heated theological debate with a friend, I quoted one of the Liberation Theologians in support of an argument on this point; my friend responded by quoting Tevya, from Fiddler on the Roof, who observed that while it was certainly no disgrace to be poor it was probably no great honor either.

In any event, this second message appears to conflict with the first and gives rise to an obvious question. How is it possible to square the concept that it is wrong to make distinctions based on economic standing with the concept that God makes just such a distinction and has a special concern for the poor? The answer to this puzzle matters because otherwise we seem caught in conflicting instructions about how to live: treat everyone equally; but treat the poor even better.

In fact, however, this poses no contradiction at all. After all, it is not that God has a special concern for the poor because they are superior to others morally or religiously. Rather, God has a special concern for the poor simply because they are poor—because, in the words of a prominent theologian, they live “in an inhuman situation that is contrary to God’s will.” (Gustavo Gutierrez, On Job (1987)) In this spirit, one might venture that God has a special concern for all those who are suffering or downtrodden or oppressed or in pain, because their needs are, by definition, greater than the needs of others.

Where the need is great, the concern must be great. That just makes sense. And it makes sense whether we’re talking about how God loves or how we should live. And in this, our world, and in these, our times, the need is great, indeed.

Perhaps you remember the old Batman television series. In the show, when things got tough the police would project a special spotlight—the “Bat Signal”—into the sky. Batman would immediately collect his gear, call for Robin, hop into the Batmobile, and take off into the night, ready to attack the problem at hand.

When I was a child this was my favorite moment in the show: it brought the first spark of hope into a dark and dangerous situation. But as I have grown older I have come to appreciate that things are always tough for someone somewhere; that God calls us to an eternal vigilance over crises near and far; and that we must never weary of attacking the problems that are constantly at hand: poverty; disaster; homelessness; injustice; hatred; violence. To be the people of God is, at least in part, to understand that the Bat Signal never really goes out.

I was reminded of this when I read one of the many stories that emerged after the recent earthquake in Haiti. Shortly after the earthquake, a foreign news crew that had arrived on the scene set up to take pictures of the devastation. As they were getting their equipment in order, they heard a cry from under some nearby stones. They stopped what they were doing, rushed toward the sound, and began digging with their bare hands. There they found a living sixteen-month-old child. They pulled the child out from under the rubble. They brought the child into the light.

That is, of course, precisely what Jesus calls us to do. He calls us to pause from the business we call our life; he calls us to notice the rubble all around us; he calls us to listen for the lost voices; and he calls us to go in their direction and to bring them into the light. Jesus warned us that the poor we will always have with us, at least in this life and in this world—the poor and the sick and the sad and the terrible and the tragic and the ravages and the rubble. And so we will.

I would like to tell you that this call makes life easier. It doesn’t. I would like to tell you that this call makes life prettier. I can’t. I can only tell you, because the scriptures tell me, that it makes life better.

In the meantime, though, the messages of this scripture—indeed, the message of Jesus’ ministry on this earth—may prompt you to look closely at how you are spending your hours. I have no question that, when you do so, you will find meaning in your life, probably even a great deal of meaning, even as it is right now.

But the question, as my old friend Hazel used to say, is this:

Is that the only thing it could mean?

Is it possible—is it possible—that it could mean even something more?

Amen.