The Prophetic Risk

It is Sunday evening and I’m thinking about the risk I took this morning, hoping it was worth it.  I spoke a prophetic word to the people of God who gather each Sunday at the church I serve.

When I say, “prophetic,” don’t make the common mistake of assuming that I was predicting future events.  Contrary to the misconceptions of many, Biblical prophecy is not concerned about predictions but with addressing the injustices (and idolatry) committed by God’s people and calling them to account.  The basic Biblical plot which occasions the rise of prophets is as follows:

            God makes a covenant with the people.

            The people break the covenant.

            God sends prophets to call the people back to the covenant.

            The people repent (change their wicked ways), or not!

Today I questioned whether the elected leaders of the state of North Carolina were keeping covenant.  Psalm 72 prays for the king to act with God’s justice toward the weak and the needy.  The Gospel of Luke recounts the words of Jesus, “Blest are you poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.”  Jesus’ final parable in the Gospel of Matthew implies that the nations will be judged by the way we treat the least of these.  Keeping God’s covenant carries with it an obligation for those with power to care for the poor.  In today’s political climate of budget slashing, I perceive that the axe cutting government services is falling sharpest on those who can afford it the least.  If I am right in this perception, then this is contrary to God’s covenant.

The risk of speaking as a prophet is that I may offend someone’s political sensibilities.  In doing so, I cause a division in my congregation and I regret that.  I am by nature a pastor, someone who wants to offer care and compassion to people, to overcome differences and bring people together in unity.  I am by calling a preacher, specializing in a message of grace whose sermons are generally appreciated by most.  I like to proclaim good news that makes everyone feel good!

But there is a line in Luke’s Gospel (6:26), right there in the midst of “Blest are you poor,” which says, “Beware when all speak well of you.”  I have always been haunted by those words.  They are a caution to me not to retreat into the comfortable role of pastoral preacher.  Sometimes God requires a preacher to be a prophet.  Elijah was a thorn in King Ahab’s side (1 Kings 18:17).  So much so that Ahab said one day, “Is it you, you disturber of Israel?”  As the old cliché goes --- sometimes the preacher comforts the disturbed, but sometimes one must disturb the comfortable.  Ahab needed to be disturbed. 

If anyone was disturbed by what I said today, I hope they will nevertheless hang with me for a while – engage me in dialogue, or even challenge me.  Perhaps they will also challenge themselves.  If we fail to hang together in church, disagreeing with mutual respect, then I don’t see much hope for our present societal impasse where politicians refuse to meet in the middle. 

Today I spoke as a prophet.  I was uncomfortable.  What do you know . . . maybe I’m the one who needed to be disturbed? 

In Search of Community

          Times are hard.  I write this the same week that the Dow Jones average has hit new highs.  Several weeks ago I learned that the sale of Rolls Royce automobiles has grown the last few years.  Apparently times are not hard for everybody.

          My mother’s family were farmers.  In fact, my cousin Charles and his son still run a small dairy farm in Rowan County.  There’s nothing quite like the taste of sweet milk fresh from the cow.  Those white liquids we buy in cartons from the grocery store are a pale imitation of the real thing. 

          Wendell Berry writes poetically about farming, and farming communities – a way of life that is passing from us.  But in those farming communities there is a richness to life, largely because of relationships.  Farming communities once thrived because of interdependence.  Farmers helped each other get in each other’s crops.  Farmers shared wisdom about when and where to plant.  Farming communities tended to each other’s livestock, cared for each other’s sick, and watched and corrected each other’s children.  The wealth of a farmer was in the abundance of his relationships, not in the balance of his savings account.

          The flow of modernity has been toward greater isolation of people from each other, and the severing of those interdependent relationships which nurture community.  We have been fed a lie that we will be happier if we don’t need anyone else but ourselves.  So, the square footage of our homes has grown significantly, while the number of people in those homes has dramatically decreased.  Even in our homes, families are separated, each having a TV in his or her bedroom so that we can be further isolated from one another.  Or we can be disconnected to each other in the same room, our attention glued to our electronic devices.  Even farmers have become less dependent on each other, and more reliant on their machines.  The rise of the factory farm has led to diminished communities.  And in our growing isolation from each other, we know and care less about each other – particularly about the poor.

          My concern is that the less we see and relate to the poor, the less likely we are to see them as people like ourselves.  Instead of seeing them as “people who happen to be poor,” we tend to see them as a demographic statistic, a stereotype of who they really are, and the easier it becomes to ignore them, as in the Biblical parable of Lazarus at the gate.

          Why should you care?  The Dow is rising.  Why not get ours while the getting is good?  Well, a Rolls Royce may be a nice ride but it is a poor substitute for friendship.  As I learned from an African proverb recently, “How can any one of us be happy if any one of us is sad?”

There is an ethical and moral imperative to care for the poor.  But it seems to me that the reason we should care is not so much to fulfill our sense of obligation to some duty, but so that we might become more human.  Our sense of community is diminished when everyone looks, acts, and thinks like us.  We are enriched by relationships with others, maybe especially those who are not in our socio-economic circle. 

          Jesus says something about inviting people to dinner who don’t have the means to reciprocate.  That might be a good way to begin rebuilding communities that are rich and diverse.  There’s nothing quite like a good meal to help build relationships.