Proper 20 C - The Shrewd Manager

Proper 20

September 22, 2013

Luke 16:1-13

The Shrewd Manager

Before we start talking about today’s tricky readings, I have a little test. There are three steps.  I’ll go slow, and there are no winners or losers.  Do this in your head, and don’t say anything out loud, lest you ruin the surprise.

First, think of a country that begins with the letter D.

Now, think of an animal that begins with the last letter of your country.

Finally, think of a color that begins with the last letter of your animal.

Now picture your animal, in your color, cheering at the Olympics for your county.

Got it?  OK.  Now realize how silly it is to think of an orange kangaroo cheering for Denmark.  There are no orange kangaroos!

I must be magic, right?  Nope, just trained on cultural bias and assumptions.  We all have bias that results in us making  choices.  And so much of that bias is based on things we don’t even see, things we don’t actively decide.  We get our bias in a pretty passive way – where we live, when we were born.  And these things change the way we see the world.  It changes what we assume about ourselves and about others, and determines our actions.

 See, we northern hemisphere, first world folks most frequently pick Denmark as our country that begins with D. In another hemisphere and culture, we might have picked Djibouti, or Democratic Republic of Congo.   Once most of us picked Denmark, there are other animals that begin with a K, but kangaroos are on all our ABC flash cards.  Orange is in our crayon pack, but serious artists in the bunch may have picked ocher.  And if we lived in Temple, Texas or Tacoma Washington, we may have jumped to the color olive, because of the significant amount we see at our community’s army bases.

The moral of this little exercise?  We are absolutely creatures of our culture.  So much so that we don’t even see our cultural bias, and yet the majority of us stood there envisioning an orange kangaroo from Denmark.  This cultural bias ends up firmly attaching to our psyche, and helps develop something that’s gaining national attention, our implicit bias –which is so inherit or implicit, we fail to see it.   It influences what we think about other people, other cultures, other countries, and even the colors, animals and countries you pick at a short little exercise at church.

There’s nothing to do about implicit bias, except understand it exists, and question it when you make judgments about others.   Just be aware of it.

I mention all of this about cultural and implicit bias in light of today’s Gospel reading.  This reading from Luke 16 is tough.   What we hear, or at least what I heard is the following: The manager isn’t doing a good job and gets fired.  Being conniving, he runs to the people who owed his employer and tells them to cut what they owe.  This accomplishes a few things.  It makes the debtors grateful, and ingratiates them to the manager.  The rich owner then does the unthinkable.  He commends the manager.   What?  That’s not fair.

From where we sit, in one of the most capitalistic and wealthy countries in the world, this cannot be right.  The manager swindles his boss out of his hard earned income, and the owner thanks him?   This goes against everything we entrepreneurial Americans to know to be true.  You work hard and are honest, and the system repays you.  If you are wronged, justice will be done.

But what if our understanding and our visceral reaction to this story is deeply affected by that implicit bias?     For a second, let’s step away from that orange kangaroo and try to see things as if we weren't as implicitly biased as we really are.

What if the manager had worked his whole life, was a great manager and had done everything expected of him by his rich owner.  Maybe the rich owner is a crook, and inappropriately fired the manager, leaving the manager to face pending doom without skills or resources.  Some scholars argue that the words used would indicate that the manager was in the right and the rich owner was mean, and inappropriately fired the manager, trying to destroy him.     That would make the story easier to swallow and understand.

Here’s another scenario that doesn't jump out at us because of our implicit bias.  What if what the people originally borrowed was significantly less than what they were asked to pay back?  There were laws on the books at the time prohibiting lending with any interest.  What if the rich owner not only lent with interest, but with significant interest, conducting what is now known as “predatory lending practices”?  What if they’d borrowed the equivalent of 2 jugs of oil, and now one year later, payment was being extracted for 100?  This may seem absurd, but that’s exactly what the annual rate would be for the predatory payday loans that are rampant in our society.  People borrow $100 for 2 weeks, and are required to pay $15 interest.  Carried out for a year, that’s nearly 4,000 percent interest.  People are crippled by exorbitant interest fees on these seemingly innocent short term loans.  As a result, they borrow more to pay the last debt, resulting in increasing debt.  This is a horrible problem in our country.   While banks are heavily regulated, payday loan establishments are not, and the people who use them are stuck with unregulated horrible predatory lending practices that cripple them.  If we were sitting in their shoes, maybe this story would sound different.

Maybe the wealthy owner was effectively a predatory lender, and he was jacking up the interest to the point that it was unbearable.  Perhaps the manager was just performing his own form of debt forgiveness, in a corrupt and unfair system.    Some scholars argue that the words used in this story would indicate that the manager was just making right on the original loan, and removing the excessive interest.  This too would make the story more understandable.

I’m not sure whether these scholarly justifications are correct, but they don’t ring true with me.  These explanations, predatory lender or mean boss, both help explain the story, but I think they let us off the hook, in thinking about the hard part of today’s Gospel reading.

At its core, today’s reading is about an authority figure, who has someone over which he has some authority.  The underling is trusted, and then messes up.  Badly.  And in the end, the underling returns and instead of being mad, the authority figure commends the subordinate.   Does that sound like any other stories familiar to us?  What about one of the most beloved, heart warming stories, the story of the prodigal son?

Authority figure – father.   Subordinate who messes up – son.  Son returns and instead of being mad, like the older brother is, the father welcomes him and celebrates.  Perhaps not coincidentally, the story of the prodigal son immediately precedes this story.   In the oral tradition, these stories would likely have been heard together.  So perhaps it’s not a coincidence.  Maybe the stories are related somehow, even though one story we love, and the other – we don’t.

Why are these stories received so very differently by us?  I think it’s because we live in a society where we implicitly value family.  Forgiveness and love are what we assume family is; it’s what family is supposed to do.  It’s justified.  I’m not suggesting that it always is exactly like that, but that’s our assumption or norm about family.  We want to be that forgiving father.  Work, on the other hand, is not that.  It is contractual, and we have no illusion of love or relationship.  If we’re the employee, it’s how we make money. If we’re the boss, it’s how we make more money.  The primary purpose is making money; it’s not primarily about the relationships.

Both stories involve power, bad decisions, relationships, and mercy, or at least, the lack of condemnation.  Because of their contexts and our implicit biases, in one we hear family, love, forgiveness, good master and good loving resolution.  In the other we hear money, cheat, bad master, and bad unfair resolution.

We can see how and why the father forgave and welcomed the son, why he chose love over justice.  That’s what fathers do.  It’s much more difficult to comprehend why the master commended the shrewd manager, why he welcomed him with a commendation, why he chose love over justice.

I believe that the three most frequently repeated words of mine as a child were, “that’s not fair”.  I was all about justice, defined in the worldly dictionary as action that is morally right and fair.    To a large degree, I still am.   I believe it’s critical to try to be just and fair.  But what I hear in today’s reading is that there is something more important than justice.  Love.

What I hear from the Gospel today is that at the end of the day, love needs to rule, not justice.   Love needs to rule when it’s an errant son returning, or a shrewd manager.

Love needs to rule when it’s my own kids, or my coworkers.  Love needs to rule when the other person steals our heart, our inheritance, our money.  Love needs to rule when there’s remorse, and when there isn’t.

In this story, the resolution was unjust.  And we have a great model for seeing what that choice looks like in action.   At the end of his life, as he was being tried and tortured, Christ did not choose fairness or justice.  He could have.   Everyone was goading him to save himself, to testify on his own behalf.  But he chose love.  He chose an incredibly unjust resolution to demonstrate what love looks like, to show what the choice of love over justice looks like.

The closing of today’s Gospel says you cannot serve God and wealth.  We hear that and we know that it means we can’t love money more than we love God.  But in light of today’s reading, I think it also is a warning about those implicit biases we don’t even know we have.  The one that makes the unforgivable actions of a child against a parent more forgivable than the unforgivable actions of an employee  against the money-making boss.  For some reason we feel it’s more egregious to wrong someone when the relationship is primarily about money, rather than when it’s family  That says something about the high value we place on that money making relationship.  To me, it says that we do serve two masters, and that the second master, the money master, is so embedded in our culture and our bias, we don’t even see it.  We hear the praise for the shrewd manager, and cannot fathom why, even though we all love the similar plot of the prodigal son.   We need to understand that we do have bias, particularly about wealth and capitalism, and the American Dream.  And knowing that, we need to struggle with today’s Gospel.  And we need to fight against the invisible urge to root for the orange kangaroo, or to decide that in this story, this story that involves money, love is too extravagant.

When I feel that urge to respond with my battle cry, “that’s not fair”, I need to catch myself and try to figure out if my implicit biases are making me serve that other master, the master that cares about retribution,  and my hard-earned money, or making sure things are fair.   I believe that it’s our cultural capitalistic implicit bias that makes this story so much harder to hear, harder to understand.

After all, Jesus didn't strive to be fair.  He didn't command everyone to be fair to one another, but rather to love one another.   Love needs to rule when we know it’s the right thing to do, like the prodigal son.  And Love needs to rule when it’s hard, and doesn't seem fair.  Particularly, when it doesn't seem fair.  When it’s hardest, it’s most important that we as Christians love. When we hold fast to love, when we serve love, not money and not justice, we are, as the collect says, holding fast to things that endure, and we can let those earthy things like money, like retribution pass away without anxiety.   We cannot serve God and wealth.  Our greatest challenge is to see and cease all of the ways our implicit bias about wealth and money and working hard and the American Dream result in actions that serve that other master.   Instead, we need to serve love.

Proper 14 C - August 11, 2013

Do you know what is the single most frequent thing Jesus said in the Bible? Repent? I am the truth?    Nope.  DO NOT BE AFRAID.     Because it’s so frequently repeated, including the opening of today’s Gospel reading, it’s worth considering why.  What is it we’re not supposed to be afraid of, exactly? 

The Gospel tells us to have your lamps lit and be dressed for action.   If you are, the master Jesus, will come, be glad and serve you.  But, if you are not ready – woe to you.   We should be afraid if we aren’t ready, with our lamps lit, and dressed for action.  Ok.  Just be ready.  Unfortunately, I’m not sure how to stand guard all the time.  I can’t be ready for the master to come all the time.  I’ve got things to do, places to be, people to see.  

As a culture, we’ve gotten to a place where we have too much stuff and too many events to worry about. We have so much to maintain and protect and store and plan.   Doing all that - with and for all that – seems to take a lot of our time and energy.   And it’s not just our culture.  It’s been a problem throughout history.

The reading from Isaiah today says that the Lord does not delight in the blood of bulls, does not seek offerings, cannot endure solemn assemblies with inequity.  It sounds to me like the Lord was telling the people that God did not enjoy the stuff and rituals and offerings on which humanity had learned to rely, which humanity thought was all it needed to DO to garner support and love from God.  Rather, the Lord says that meaningless celebrations, “Have become a burden to me”   Not just disliked, but burdensome.  

While we don’t perform sacrifices with the blood of bulls, we have our own share of meaningless celebrations, and useless offerings and we think going through the motions of meaningless ceremonies will make us right with God.  Sometimes, we even treasure those precious things.    And if that’s where our treasure is, according to today’s Gospel, that’s where our heart is.  

That is not where I want my heart to be, with all my worldly treasures or meaningless rituals.   It sounds so . . . shallow and materialistic.  Besides, my so-called treasures have become a burden to me too.  I worry about maintaining my stuff, planning my events, performing my rituals.   We all have something here and now over which we fret and stew.  While we’re fretting, we risk being found asleep when the master comes.  In that state of worry, it’s hard to be standing guard and dressed for action in case the master comes.  

We know that giving alms certainly benefits the people receiving alms. We absolutely should share our wealth. But the idea of selling your belongings is also hugely beneficial for us, the ones who are shedding and sharing our excess.  We benefit, because we can rid ourselves of some of those things over which we fret, and events about which we worry.  
  
I’m guessing everyone who has stuff or events crowding their life, has, at one time or another thought better of it, and realized the absurdity of having and doing too much.  To some degree, everyone has come to the same conclusion as Jesus, if perhaps not so extreme. We know we need to get rid of something.  Maybe I don’t need to sell all my belongings, but I could get rid of this pile of clutter.  Have a garage sale. Skip that event.  Not host the obligatory party.  And yet, we always come back for more.    So why do we continue to turn to those things?  

For me, I think it’s largely due to what I can see and know and experience in this world.  I go to the store, and I see things that are advertised as making me healthier, happier, wiser, stronger.  I want to be all those things.  I buy into the societal norms of popularity and acceptance. And while I may know, deep down that they won’t really solve anything, I can see them, and plan them, and buy them. They are known, tangible, and kinetically real.  It’s all too easy to place my faith in those things.  

Unfortunately, the pretty clear message from today’s readings is that that is not where I should put my faith, in those things God finds burdensome. 

 I am, rather, to put my faith in God.  

But God is so . . invisible and amorphous and intangible.  It’s so hard to put your faith in things unseen, even though that’s exactly what Hebrews says we’re supposed to do.  It’s so hard to actually have faith, to have “assurance of things hoped for but not seen”. 

This reminds me of a scene from John Irving’s book, A Prayer for Owen Meany. Two of the characters are walking home after dark and pass the local Catholic High School, just as they’re talking about faith. One character Owen, has faith, and the other, John, does not understand the concept.  There’s a statute of Mother Mary at the school that on this evening, the two cannot see because of the dark and the fog.  Owen asks John if the statue is there.  John says of course it is.  But how do you know?  You can’t see it.   Because it was there earlier.  Yes, but you don’t know that it’s there now.  This is how Owen described faith.  It’s a certainty in something unseen.  You just know, without really being able to know.  

Faith is a funny thing, and I’m still learning what it is, and what it is not.   For me, faith is not knowledge, or intelligence, or proof.    I don’t know about God like I know the sum of 2+2.   

Faith is also not the same as hope.  You know that team-building game where you stand with your back to someone and fall backwards blindly while your team catches you.  Whenever I’ve done that, I’ve held out hope that I’d be caught.  Like faith, I didn’t know and couldn’t know if I’d be caught.  Unlike faith, I wasn’t sure I’d be caught. I was hoping, although I knew there was a chance I’d land hard, despite my hopes.    Now if I had Faith that I’d be caught, I’d have assurance. I’d somehow KNOW.  

Lastly, faith is not easy.  Unlike the falling into the arms of your team-mate game, faith in God demands that we fall into the arms of an invisible God.  Tough.  We are asked to have the assurance that God will be there, even though we can see nothing, touch nothing, buy nothing, plan nothing, to serve as our insurance.  And in fact, all those things we try to buy, or do to insure God’s grace is precisely what God finds burdensome.  We are just supposed to have faith.  Not in those things, but in God.  

So how is it we can ever have faith, faith enough to get rid of those silly things we own, buy store, do. Those treasures on earth, often secured as our insurance for God’s grace.  

We can only have faith because it is a gift from God. We are continually asking God for faith.  And with that faith, we really can give up those things, because we learn to rely on God, without the insurance of any of the stuff we as humans are so wont to do and buy.  

Having faith really isn't ours to do.  It’s ours to ask God to do.  Then we just lean back, and fall into God.  

Henri Nouwen, a famous theologian had a great epiphany about faith at the circus, of all places.  One day, he was sitting with Rodleigh, the head of a trapeze troupe that performed in Germany.  Rodleigh said, 'As a flyer, I must have complete trust in my catcher. The public might think that I am the great star of the trapeze, but the real star is Joe, my catcher. He has to be there for me with split-second precision and grab me out of the air as I come to him in the long jump. The secret,' Rodleigh said, 'is that the flyer does nothing and the catcher does everything. When I fly to Joe, I have simply to stretch out my arms and hands and wait for him to catch me.  

Nouwen was surprised.  You do nothing? He asked. 

'Nothing,' Rodleigh repeated. 'The worst thing the flyer can do is to try to catch the catcher. I am not supposed to catch Joe. It's Joe's task to catch me. If I grabbed Joe's wrists, I might break them, or he might break mine, and that would be the end for both of us. A flyer must fly, and a catcher must catch, and the flyer must trust, with outstretched arms, that his catcher will be there for him.'

As it says in Hebrews, Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. We must ask God for that faith, day by day and week by week.  And with that faith, that assurance, we need to fall into God.  With outstretched arms, we can have the absolute  conviction that our unseen catcher will always be there to catch us when we fly.