The letter of James is pretty scathing
when it comes to the rich.
“You have lived on earth in luxury and pleasure;
you have fattened your hearts for the day of slaughter.”
A day of judgment is coming, and the rich are invited
to weep and wail over their impending miseries,
when their fine clothes will be in tatters
and their silver and gold corroded.
All that they trusted in,
all their wealth and power,
which had been gained through exploitation
of the poor and the weak,
will be a testimony against them
and will devour their flesh like fire.
when it comes to the rich.
“You have lived on earth in luxury and pleasure;
you have fattened your hearts for the day of slaughter.”
A day of judgment is coming, and the rich are invited
to weep and wail over their impending miseries,
when their fine clothes will be in tatters
and their silver and gold corroded.
All that they trusted in,
all their wealth and power,
which had been gained through exploitation
of the poor and the weak,
will be a testimony against them
and will devour their flesh like fire.
Boy, those rich sound like terrible people,
and their fate equally terrible.
I’m glad I’m not one of them.
Or am I?
I tell myself that I’m not rich,
that I am only “comfortable,”
while ignoring the fact that my standard of comfort
includes two cars, regular meals out,
and numerous video streaming services to entertain me—
all luxuries by the standards of 99% of the world.
Could these words actually be addressed to me?
Is my heart the one being fattened for the day of slaughter?
The temptation to hear these words as addressed to others,
and our difficulty in hearing them as addressed to ourselves,
is actually pretty typical.
We human beings can often direct our critical eye
outward rather than inward.
But today’s Gospel reading suggests the opposite:
that I should be generous in my judgment of others,
whose hearts I cannot know,
and strict in my judgment of myself,
whose heart I do know.
and their fate equally terrible.
I’m glad I’m not one of them.
Or am I?
I tell myself that I’m not rich,
that I am only “comfortable,”
while ignoring the fact that my standard of comfort
includes two cars, regular meals out,
and numerous video streaming services to entertain me—
all luxuries by the standards of 99% of the world.
Could these words actually be addressed to me?
Is my heart the one being fattened for the day of slaughter?
The temptation to hear these words as addressed to others,
and our difficulty in hearing them as addressed to ourselves,
is actually pretty typical.
We human beings can often direct our critical eye
outward rather than inward.
But today’s Gospel reading suggests the opposite:
that I should be generous in my judgment of others,
whose hearts I cannot know,
and strict in my judgment of myself,
whose heart I do know.
The disciples object when a stranger,
someone from outside their circle,
begins performing exorcisms in the name of Jesus.
We are not told who this person is
or where he got the idea of doing such a thing.
But the disciples are appalled at the temerity of someone
who would do a good deed in the name of Jesus
without being part of their group.
Perhaps the disciples are suspicious of this person’s motives
or his sincerity in using the holy name of Jesus.
But Jesus seems quite generous
in assessing his motives:
“whoever is not against us is for us.”
Jesus knows, of course,
that it is possible for people to be deceptive—
to appear to be doing good
when they are in fact doing evil.
But he wants us to see
that we put ourselves in considerable peril
when we take up the role of judging others,
for the hearts of others are hidden from us,
and we should presume that God’s Spirit is at work
in the most unlikely people and places.
But after Jesus calls us to forbearance in judging others,
he then commends stringent self-judgment.
We cannot see into the hearts of others,
but we can see into our own hearts,
we can see how they have fed on sin,
fattening themselves for the day of judgment.
We are to examine our own lives,
and whatever causes us to sin,
whatever causes us to separate ourselves from God,
we should cut off or pluck out,
even if it is a hand or a foot or an eye.
Of course, it is usually not your hand or foot or eye
that causes you to sin—
that would be a comparatively simple problem,
easily, if painfully, solve with a sharp knife.
It is our twisted wills and ungoverned passions
that cause us to sin,
and these are not so easily dealt with
as a hand or foot or eye.
These are remedied only by long
and often painful spiritual therapies
of honest self-examination and confession
by which they are excised from our souls.
And the cost to us if we fail to do so
is exclusion from God’s kingdom,
and an eternity in that place,
“where ‘their worm does not die,
and the fire is not quenched.’”
he then commends stringent self-judgment.
We cannot see into the hearts of others,
but we can see into our own hearts,
we can see how they have fed on sin,
fattening themselves for the day of judgment.
We are to examine our own lives,
and whatever causes us to sin,
whatever causes us to separate ourselves from God,
we should cut off or pluck out,
even if it is a hand or a foot or an eye.
Of course, it is usually not your hand or foot or eye
that causes you to sin—
that would be a comparatively simple problem,
easily, if painfully, solve with a sharp knife.
It is our twisted wills and ungoverned passions
that cause us to sin,
and these are not so easily dealt with
as a hand or foot or eye.
These are remedied only by long
and often painful spiritual therapies
of honest self-examination and confession
by which they are excised from our souls.
And the cost to us if we fail to do so
is exclusion from God’s kingdom,
and an eternity in that place,
“where ‘their worm does not die,
and the fire is not quenched.’”
This is terrifying stuff.
This may be why most of us think of hell,
if we think of it at all,
as a place for other people to go:
the Hitlers and the Stalins and the Pol Pots.
But Jesus speaks here of Hell as a possibility
that we should contemplate for ourselves,
as a possible fate for our sin-fattened hearts,
the hearts whose gluttony for vice
we know only too well.
Perhaps it is because the truth of our own sin
is so fearful to contemplate
that we project our judgment outward onto others,
terrified at what we might find
if we look into ourselves.
But fear cannot have the final say,
for the Gospel is ultimately a word of hope,
not a word of fear.
Jesus’ call to self-scrutiny and conversion
is not a call to beat yourself up.
It is a call for hopeful honesty.
For an honest acknowledgement of our sins,
joined to the practice
of generosity and charity toward others,
can serve as the therapy needed to heal our souls.
If we can learn to see in others
the new creation that grace brings about,
if we can learn to see the Spirit’s work
in the most unlikely of people and places,
then we can find hope for ourselves as well.
If we can come to see in God
a boundless love and generosity toward others,
then we can see that same love and generosity
as something given us as well,
sinners though we are.
This may be why most of us think of hell,
if we think of it at all,
as a place for other people to go:
the Hitlers and the Stalins and the Pol Pots.
But Jesus speaks here of Hell as a possibility
that we should contemplate for ourselves,
as a possible fate for our sin-fattened hearts,
the hearts whose gluttony for vice
we know only too well.
Perhaps it is because the truth of our own sin
is so fearful to contemplate
that we project our judgment outward onto others,
terrified at what we might find
if we look into ourselves.
But fear cannot have the final say,
for the Gospel is ultimately a word of hope,
not a word of fear.
Jesus’ call to self-scrutiny and conversion
is not a call to beat yourself up.
It is a call for hopeful honesty.
For an honest acknowledgement of our sins,
joined to the practice
of generosity and charity toward others,
can serve as the therapy needed to heal our souls.
If we can learn to see in others
the new creation that grace brings about,
if we can learn to see the Spirit’s work
in the most unlikely of people and places,
then we can find hope for ourselves as well.
If we can come to see in God
a boundless love and generosity toward others,
then we can see that same love and generosity
as something given us as well,
sinners though we are.
May God who is merciful
have mercy on us all,
even on me,
a sinner most in need of his mercy.
have mercy on us all,
even on me,
a sinner most in need of his mercy.
