Monday, October 03, 2005

Christianity v. Politics

Matthew 13:31-32; 44-45
He put before them another parable: "The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed that someone took and sowed in his field; it is the smallest of all the seeds, but when it has grown it is the greatest of shrubs and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and make nests in its branches." "The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which some-one found and hid; then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field. "Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant in search of fine pearls; on finding one pearl of great value, he went and sold all that he had and bought it.
What does the kindgom of heaven have to do with politics? Everything. Nothing at all.

And there, precisely, is the problem.

"The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed." This one is a joke, though we don't get it anymore. The mustard seed is so small, it's easily lost among the "good" seeds. That's the usual reading here. But read it again: the farmer sows this seed intentionally. The smallness is not the issue. In fact, it's compared to the Cedars of Lebanon, the symbols of power and strength and majesty, to this day. But it's a shrub (no political pun intended); a bush. And if it draws birds, well, that's why farmers used to put out scarecrows (a timely connection to October, eh?). So how is the kingdom of heaven like that? It's a scrawny weed that is mockingly compared to great trees. A pest that equates to symbols of power. How is the kingdom of heaven like that?

It gets worse. The kingdom is like treasure buried in a field. You sell all you own to acquire it, including your ethics; because you know what is in the field before you buy it, you take advantage of the seller. Sharp dealing gains you the treasure, but how, then, do you retrieve it, without your fraud becoming known? Do you take possession of that which you acquired by fraud? How is the kingdom of heaven like that?

Or it's like a pearl, and again, you sell all you have to buy it. Now what? Eat the pearl? Move into it? Invest it and live off the proceeds? The problem is clear: you either give it up (but you just gave up everything else to get it?), or you live on the streets, homeless, hungry, naked, and clutching a pearl.

How is the kingdom of heaven like that?

"What does it profit a man, to gain the whole world, but lose his own soul?"

To begin with, kingdoms are all about power. Without power, no kingdom; just anarchy. With enough power, a kingdom, perhaps even a peacable one. But for how long? And how much power is ever enough? Even in the most peaceable kingdom, a little more power is alway seen as necessary to secure against the next potential threat, against the next person likely to seek power, and obtain it, and use it against the king of this kingdom. How much power does one king need? Always a littel more than is available right now, if only to be sure.

And if you gain the greatest power, the treasure that everyone seeks but no one finds, when you give up everything to get it (because a treasure that great and rare will surely cost not less than everything), what have you gained? The whole world? No. A buried treasure acquired by cheating, that must stay buried lest thieves take it, or moth, or rust, or taxes. A pearl of great price, but what can you do with it, except give it up again, in exchange for food, for shelter, for clothing? What does it profit you to gain the whole world, if you cannot spend it, cannot use it, cannot enjoy it, because you gave everything else up to have it? Who has the power here? You, or what you possess?

Politics, of course, is all about power. Power, we say, comes to those who seek it. But it doesn't, actually. Power is a possession, but like any possession, it can be taken away from you. In fact, more than any other possession, it will be taken away from you. Power is the great treasure that you cheated another to have. And then when you have it, what do you have? Power makes the world go round? Power makes everything else possible? Power puts you in the center of the universe, the high seat above all the kingdoms, the ruling position from which all others must obey your commands?

No. Power means you have responsibility. And almost no authority. Possessing all power, you hear power laughing, behind your back. Because you are it's victim. Like all possessions, power possesses you.

Doesn't seem likely, does it? Not, surely, if you're Tom DeLay. Jonathan Alter sketches a picture of a man at the absolute center of power, and getting absolutely what he wants with it. The American system of government is supposed to prevent this sort of thing, to dilute the necessary power it takes to be a government. And that paradox, for a Christian, is what caused Reinhold Niebuhr to throw up his hands and declare the two concerns, politics and Christianity, oil and water. So, does Christianity have anything to do with politics?

Yes. No.

Give Caesar that which is Caesar's, and God that which is God's, is how Jesus puts it, handing the blasphemous coin back to the Pharisees. Blasphemous, because it bears the graven image of a man, and man was made in God's image, and images of God are forbidden. But what is God's, and what is Caesar's? Surely power comes from God. The power over storms and earthquakes and animals, the power over Leviathan and to plumb the depths of the ocean or set the height of the mountains. Surely God is the ultimate power.

Not for Christianity.

Power, of course, has caught up with Tom DeLay. It is about to leave him, and he may yet retire to "K" Street, to live out his life in comfort if not at the levers of governmental power forever. Or he may stay, behind the scenes if not in front of them; the odds that the GOP will lose the house, the only "cure" Jonathan Alter can see, are slim and none: DeLay has helped them stack the deck far too well, and far too often the American response to corruption in politics is further complacency, not activism. We are activated by what we will gain in American politics, not by what we will take back, or take away from, someone else. It's the weakness of the system: taught that government is the problem, not the solution, we believe it, and so turn away from government and leave it "to the politicians," again and again and again. Scandal dogs the American republic the way it follows all the powerful in America: we love them, we hate them, and when it comes to being responsible for them, we turn away. And yet we call our responses "Christian."

These parables tell us all this? No. The world does. These parables tell us that power is another illusion, a dream, a chimera. The parables tells us that power is real, but it isn't of us, our invention, ours to control. The parables tell us that we are looking backward, and when we look forward, see things as they are, at first nothing makes any sense. These parables tell us what the kingdom of heaven is like, and make us ask: "How is the kingdom of heaven like that?"

They force us to rethink the whole concept of "kingdom." Which is why we miss the joke; or focus on the size of the mustard seed, and miss the intention, or the fact that mustard was a weed to Jesus' audience; or think the kingdom of heaven is the "pearl of great price," and to have that, is to have all you need; or try to untangle the ethical dilemma of cheating the owner out of the buried treasure. But the parables mock possession; and they mock even the presumption that we can provide for ourselves (what is farming if not trying to secure the future?). They certainly mock power: the power represented by the cedars of Lebanon, and the power of money, to purchase a field with hidden treasure, or a rare and fine pearl. But the final word on power, is the parable of the unjust steward:

There was this rich man whose manager had been accused of squandering his master's property. He called him in and said, "What's this I hear about you? Let's have an audit of your management, because your job is being terminated." Then the manager said to himself, "What am I going to do? My master is firing me. I'm not strong enough to dig ditches and I'm ashamed to beg. I've got it! I know what I'll do so doors will open for me when I'm removed from management." So he called in each of his master's debtors. He said to the first, "How much do you owe my master?"
He said, "Five hundred gallons of olive oil."
And he said to him, "Here is your invoice; sit down right now and
make it two hundred and fifty."
'Then he said to another, "And how much do you owe?"
He said, "A thousand bushels of wheat."
He says to him, "Here is your invoice; make it eight hundred."
The master praised the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly; for the children of this world exhibit better sense in dealing with their own kind than do the children of light.
Luke 16:1-8 (SV)

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