John 2:13-22
So imagine the pandemic is over and you show up eagerly at church one Sunday for worship. The usher greets you warmly at the door — and asks you for ten dollars before you can take a seat. So you pull out the cash from your wallet, but the usher shakes her head and says, “Those are American dollars, and we only use church money here. However, if you go to that table right over there, they can exchange your money for you.” So you go to the table, and they do exchange your money — for an additional ten dollars. So having now spent twenty dollars, you return to the usher who says, “Oh, I see you do not want to receive Communion.” But you protest and say, “Yes, I do!” — at which point the usher directs you to another table where you can purchase your ticket for the Sacrament.
That, of course, sounds ridiculous, though I should point out that as late as the 1950s there were Episcopal churches in this country that still rented pews and allowed the wealthiest members to buy the best seats. But my fantastic scenario is meant to shed light on what actually happened at the temple in Jerusalem. Jews not only came from Judea and Galilee but from around the world to offer sacrifice there: it was the only place a devout Jew could offer sacrifice. So there were always pilgrims there, especially during festival seasons. And there was always a temple tax that had to be paid, but many of the people who came had only Roman or foreign coinage, coinage that had images of Caesar or pagan deities on it and was unacceptable in the temple precincts. But moneychangers in the temple would trade your shekels for your pagan coins — for a price, a price you had to pay because there was nothing else you could do. And then if you brought your own lamb with you to sacrifice, it had to be unblemished. So temple officials would inspect your animal, and if it was not good enough, you couldn’t bring it to the altar. But it just so happened you could purchase an acceptable lamb right there in the temple — for a price, thus giving a new twist to the idea of fleecing the faithful. All of this was a lucrative business which took advantage of Jewish pilgrims who had no choice but to pay the price. And, of course, the burden fell heaviest on the poor.
So Jesus storms into the temple as we just heard. He is not having a temper tantrum, nor is he mounting a revolution — the moneychangers and animal merchants were no doubt back in business within an hour after he left. But Jesus is doing a prophetic act, an act not directed at a few bad apples but at an entire system which takes advantage of the poor, a system which people apparently think pleases God or at least escapes God’s notice. It doesn’t.
We don’t sell pews anymore, but we are the Body of Christ, and we can look around with the eyes of Christ and see whole systems that take advantage of the poor. When we lived in Worcester, my wife Lori Ann worked in a school building that had been condemned twice. There was no playground, just asphalt; the only bathrooms were in the basement; a boiler had exploded, causing serious damage that was never fully repaired; after a tornado ripped off part of the roof, classrooms with significant water damage were still used; and the classes were ridiculously large because teachers were few. Meanwhile, just down the street from where we lived, was a pristine elementary school with a beautiful playground, lovely classrooms, and ample resources. Both schools were in the same city, the same school district. What was the difference? Well, you know what the difference was: the school Lori Ann taught at was composed of poor children from poor families, and they had no power to change the system. Look around . . . many of us have been able to work at home during the pandemic, but there are hourly workers, some of them making little more than minimum wage, who are required to come into work or they’ll be fired. Many of us have employers who pay for our very expensive health insurance, but what if your employer doesn’t provide that? What if you have to choose between medicine and food? What if you have to work two jobs to pay the bills, and there is no childcare to help you? What if college is a fantasy you could never afford? What if fortunate, affluent people look down on you and scorn you because in their eyes you aren’t trying hard enough? Look around with the eyes of Christ and see how in so many ways the system is rigged against the poor. And sadly, those that escape it are just exceptions that prove the rule.
We can certainly disagree about the best policies and plans to address the problem, but we need to see the problem. Blindness is the great scourge of the New Testament: too many people just won’t see. We cannot love our neighbors as ourselves if we don’t see our neighbors and the reality they live in. Some 50 million Americans live below the poverty line; millions of others live paycheck to paycheck, just barely getting by. Many of the people we have relied on during this pandemic, like health aides, grocery store workers, food delivery people, and others are paid shockingly low wages to do jobs they have to show up for. We are the Body of Christ, and we need to see all this the way Jesus sees it.
That vision may inspire us to respond in different ways, but as Jesus shows throughout the Gospels, to see the suffering of others will necessarily call forth some response. I am not by temperament a revolutionary or much of an activist, but for me this Gospel is an urgent invitation to see and to love and to do what I can. Part of my own metanoia, my own ongoing conversion of heart and mind, is to realize ever more fully that what happens to the least among us matters to God and matters to me. And I believe it should matter to all of us.
No comments:
Post a Comment