A few years ago, on National Public Radio, Scott Simon interviewed James Martin, a priest of the Society of Jesus, better known as the Jesuits. Father Martin is Editor at Large of the Jesuit magazine America, and author of numerous books, including The Jesuit Guide to (Almost) Everything. The two discussed simplicity and poverty, two vows the Jesuits keep, and Martin was witty and funny, but when Simon asked his final question, the talk turned serious. “I’ve saved the hardest question for last,” he said. “If there is a God, why do little children suffer?”
“That isthe hardest question,” Martin said. “And I think the answer is ‘we don’t know.’” Which is an honest answer, at least … he didn’t trot out the latest Christ-o-babble, he didn’t give his pet theories, or Aristotle’s pet theories, he just answered quite simply “we don’t know.”
The ancients, in Jesus’ day and before, thought they knew. They thought that bad things were God’s punishment for sins. God visited punishment upon people for doing things God didn’t like. Things such as, oh, invading countries for their natural resources . . . keeping a vast segment of their population in poverty to support the upper class . . . dating foreigners. Stuff like that. And for these offences, God would visit plagues and famines and invasions, and visits from your in-laws. And bad things for seemingly-innocent people like the “little children” of the radio host’s question were explained away by this as well: you see, the ancients didn’t have the same concepts of individuality that we do. (Which is why those of us in modern Western societies need to take care in interpreting stuff in the Bible, much of which applies to groups of people—nations, peoples or tribes many times—we need to be careful how we take concepts in scripture and apply them whole-hog to the faith and spirituality of the individual. They often just don’t fit.)
Anyway, the ancients had an answer for the question of why bad things happen to little, seemingly innocent children, and that was that they weren’t really innocent. Remembering they had no concept of the individual, the sins of the group they belonged to—the peoples, the nation, the tribe, whatever—were thought to be imputed onto all of its members. Thus, they could say “the sins of the fathers are visited upon the sons,” etc., etc.,never thinking at the time how that let womenoff the hook.
Of course, this idea of God punishing one’s sins by doing bad things to one hasn’t completely died—witness the our brothers and sisters that blamed Katrina on the gay community—and come on, admit it: we all, from time to time, ask: why me? And this idea of calamity as punishment for sin, at least a is coherent, straightforward answer for Scott Simon’s question to Father Martin, and it informs the first part of this rather difficult passage. Jesus is teaching a crowd of people, as he was wont to do, and somebody tells him about some Galileans that Pilate had—apparently—slaughtered. They said Pilate—who was notoriously brutal—had mingled the blood of these Galileans with their own sacrifices. And Jesus says: “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans?” Then he answers his own question: “No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did.” And now I bet they were sorry they brought it up, because he goes right on: “And what about those eighteen others killed when the Tower of Siloam fell—bang!—right on their heads? Do think they were worse than anybody else living in Jerusalem?” And again, the answer is “not on your life … and unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.”
We need to stop right here and acknowledge that all this talk of sin and repentance makes a lot of us modern Christians—myself included, if you must know—really nervous. What do you mean, repent, we want to ask Jesus. What do you mean, we’re gonna perish just like they did if we don’t turn our lives around? Where’s the grace? Where’s the forgiveness? For that matter, where’s the God-is-love business that we all like to quote? Seems a little harsh to me, and a little un-politically-correct as well. How we gonna pack ‘em into the pews if we keep reading about stuff like this?
Good question. Almost as good as the one about why bad things happen to little children. And notice that Jesus doesn’t debunk the notion of suffering as a consequence of sin—though he doesn’t support it, either—he simply tells us that the ones who died in those sudden slaughters—some by accident, and some by cruelest murder—the ones who died in those incidents aren’t any more sinful than anyone else in Galilee or Jerusalem. They were sudden, unexpected, and maybe that’s the key: maybe Jesus is saying the same thing he says elsewhere. Don’t wait to repent, don’t wait to come to a higher mind, which is the literal meaning of the Greek word, because death can come at any time, whether by the knives of bloody Pilate or the simple cracking of a tower stone. It’s consistent with his teaching, and that of his follower Paul, who warns us to keep awake, lest we be caught napping when the end times come.
And so, the force of Jesus’ argument seems to be not that his listeners will perish without repentance, but that they’ll perish, as he says, “just as those Galileans and Jerusalemites they did.” That is, in the same, unrepentant state, without having experienced the fullness of life on earth of those who have turned theirs around, or come to that higher understanding. Be careful, Jesus says, to do this while you can, because if a tower falls on you, or a homicidal maniac like Pilate gets hold of you, it’ll be too late.
Now I know that, as in most places we see it in Scripture, we tend to read “perish” as “go to hell,” where the fire will lick your bones, crackle, crackle, crackle, and ol’ Scratch will stick you in the behind with a pointy fork, but that’s not what Jesus is talking about here … he’s not talking about heaven or hell, but plain old death—really perishing—and living life fulfilled and to our greatest potential before we do. But if we turn our lives around, if we come to a higher knowledge, literally a “higher mind,” we can live that life here on earth, we can live in God’s kingdom without going anywhere else. And I think that that’s what this repentance is of which Jesus speaks. We are called to that higher mind, that living out of our calling here on earth, regardless of what happens after we die.
And now, he launches into another parable, and it’s not much more promising than the pronouncements about repent or perish. The owner of the vineyard has a fig tree planted in his vineyard, but when he came looking for fruit, there wasn’t any . . . which is understandable: room in a first-century vineyard is limited, and if a plant doesn’t produce, the livelihood of the farmer dictates that it be gotten rid of replaced by one that will produce. Only natural, only right. Gotta be productive if you’re a fig plant, or else you’ll get ripped out.
And he tells the gardener—the one who planted the tree in the first place—he tells him “Cut that puppy down! I’ve come here for three years running, and no fruit! Why waste the soil? Cut it down!” But the gardener sticks up for the poor little plant, saying let it alone for just one more year and let me tend it, let me aerate the roots and pack a little manure around the base, and if it doesn’t bear fruit in a year, then by all means: cut it down!”
And our tendency is to try to treat this allegorically, like we’re used to doing with parables: our tendency is to assign identities to each player. Let’s see now: the owner represents God, the fig tree is a recalcitrant nation, or is it an individual, or a tribe. But if God’s the owner, then who’s the gardener, who is it supposed to be who intercedes for the poor little plant? Jesus? The Holy Spirit? And notice that it isn’t a plant’s fault that it doesn’t bear fruit . . . even the most ignorant farmer of the day would know that some will produce, some won’t, them’s the breaks, Jake.
And I wish I could tell you exactly what it means—that’s kind of my job, you know—but it’s just a little too . . . irregular for that, a little too out of round. On the surface, it’s the same: the plant better turn it’s life around before it’s too late, silly plant, but then what’s all this about the gardener? What about this entity who helps and nourishes the plant in its efforts at sanctification? Well . . . maybe Jesus is allowing as how in this, we will not be alone.
On NPR, after Scott Simon asks Father Martin that embarrassing question, why do bad things happen to innocent little children, and Martin admits he does not know the answer, he says this: “for the Christian, there is the person of Christ, who has gone through suffering himself, and who understands our suffering.” Christ, he is saying, is with us, along for the ride, and he’s been there, and thus . . . gets it. He understands. He has suffered about as badly as any human can, and understands, deeply and fully.
But more than that: we are nurtured along the way, in our Christian life, we are helped and taught and supported . . . our roots are aerated and we’re watered, and manure is spread around our base. Paul put it this way: “the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words.” We are not alone on our journey of repentance, on our travels toward Christ. This turning-around business, this coming to a new mind, as daunting as it may seem, is not up to us. It is under the direction and guidance of God the Holy Spirit, and we are accompanied along the way by our brother through adoption, Jesus Christ. And to that I say, Thanks be to God! Amen.
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