The Wheel of Fortune

The Rich Man and Lazarus

Sunday, September 27, 2010

Another uncomfortable one, but this one for its clarity. The opposite of last week, in that way at least.

I can't help thinking that it's too easy - or perhaps too much the opposite of easy - for the "you had a good life here on earth" to mean "you will suffer eternally in hell" and "you had it rough" to mean "come sit by Elijah in Paradise." I mean, Elijah had it rough too, but he also did a lot of stuff. A real force for good. Perhaps Lazarus gets a pass because he wasn't able to do much but sit outside a gate and let dogs lick at his sores? But you don't want to get into blaming the victim either.

It is too hard a knot for me t'untie, as Viola would say (in a massive cop-out of solving a problem of her own creating, so this is a really bad example for me to use and a great example of how guilty I feel about this cop-out reading of the parable).

The Renaissance had this whole Wheel of Fortune concept to help them deal with the guilt of having it good. This feels, to me, something like the parable form of that. It's okay that our society has blatant inequality and pretty much dumps certain people into the gutter. If you think about it, everybody hits the bottom of the wheel - you can only go up from here! Lie number one: you can always burrow in deeper, you can always get dragged down further. And, don't get too pleased with yourself (or nuveau riche guilty) about it when you're on top of the world, because the wheel keeps turning and you'll fall back down! Line number two: you can always rise, you can always keep going upward. A setback isn't a downward spiral.

And, of course, the biggest lie of the Wheel of Fortune is that it's drawn with a king on the top and a beggar at the bottom, to symbolize the vast range of the wheel that keeps on turning. But only one person is ever a king, and he never becomes a beggar (except for like Charles II or IV during the English Civil War) and no beggar gets to be king for a day (except Robespierre and Cromwell and Quasimodo). It doesn't happen. It takes a revolution. The lie of the Wheel of Fortune model of the universe: it's really just an excuse not to feel bad about being born into title and privilege and hopefully keep those who most decidedly were NOT from bringing out the guillotine.

And my whole philosophy and rant on the Wheel of Fortune really comes down with how terrifying it is, to someone in the 10% of the world glutted with luxuries so much that they seem like necessities (nice to have you back, Father Castillo!), to hear that that means we're probably going to hell. Unless we manage to see it - the Lazarus at our doorstep. If we let the chasm that exists between the rich and the poor - that distancing that we put up, that ditch that we build to keep sane and comfortable - from persisting. And then pretend we don't notice the flames - when we set the chasm on fire so it would be uncrossable and thus we didn't have to feel bad about not crossing it.

Surely it must be a terrible moment, when having built this divide to feel less like an asshole for spending money on an iPhone that could build a well to give water to an entire village in places where iPhones might as well be hovercars, a terrible moment when we realize that God is actually on the other side of that gap. We built the divide between Heaven and Hell. We did it because we got the locations mixed up. Location location location. And we didn't notice the glaringly obvious. We didn't think about where to look for God.

And I don't know what I can even do. I can't give away money that's being given to me - that never feels like mine anyway. When I'm being supported in everything, when I can't even find a job to work for my bread, it's hardly me sacrificing the give alms at Church. I suppose I could find service - but I think I might have a nervous breakdown, especially if I also find a job. But then, that's all bull, isn't it?

I'm digging a ditch to keep everything at a distance. I designing a Wheel of Fortune. I'm playing games with myself and dancing faster than I thought I could, to dance rings around the fact that I have everything and I'm not helping those with nothing.

So suggestions? The free breakfast for the homeless seems pretty well-staffed, but...I don't know.

The Bewildering Steward

Luke 16:1-13

The Dishonest Steward

Every time this gospel pops up, I perk up for the Homily, hoping that someone will finally help me to make sense of it. I've heard a few decent attempts, I remember thinking, but they didn't make enough of an impression that I can really tell you what they said. Today was a particularly poor showing - the priest told a parable about parables, specifically what makes a good football coach and presumably what that means for our own prayer life. The easy way to make this parable a quick moral is to go straight for the throat of "money doesn't matter - give it all away." But Jesus said that elsewhere without the weird frame story.

So a steward is caught cheating and fired - after he trains his replacement. So he decides to cheat the master even further before he's finished his two weeks notice and make himself a place to stay with all of his master's debtors. I can see the steward's perspective on this - he is already totally screwed as far as his job is concerned, so he might as well drive himself into the ground. But then the master is pleased with his resourcefulness.

When the Master is a clear cipher for God the Father, He often acts weird, but I don't even know what to make of this.

If you cheat God - if you are a sinner, presumably? - then if you can't be good and repent then at least sin well - take care of your fellow man? Take other men's sins on you? So that they will take you in to their homes in Paradise?

Of course, my instinct now is to appropriate this parable for my own personal soapbox, as seen much in the actual Lent of this past year: the salvation of non-Christians. So I want to see this parable as such:

If you cannot believe in God, if you cannot leave the faith of your fathers, if you cannot say to Jesus that you were His follower on the Day of Judgment, then do good by your fellow man. Take all of the gifts He gave you, in any case because He loves all of His people, and do good. And they will bring you with them. You will reach Him through them. He will reach down and touch your life through the people that you help.

Perhaps that's too easy or an unfair appropriation, but it's the most sense I've ever been able to make of the parable.

Honestly, the football coach was a poor metaphor, but the thrust of it was a little better put together than I previously gave it credit. The visiting priest talked about self-evaluation in your prayer life. Personally, I think in our life of service might have been more to the point. Modestly examine your natural tendencies before planning out a new endeavor - give yourself the edge in making it actually happen. That's not bad.

Perhaps the really interesting bit is "For the children of this world are more prudent in dealing with their own generation than are the children of light." Which is about ten different kinds of interesting, really.

Those who live up on the mountain don't know how to talk to those still down in the Valley? It's certainly hard to explain faith to a non-believer. The language just doesn't work. And perhaps there are people who cannot be reached by someone who has our specific faith. Maybe that's why our faith isn't universal yet. But those servants of God who don't have the benefits of His presence in their lives, they too will be saved. Like the Dishonest Steward who cannot deal with the trust of God, but takes pains to care for those on his own level.

If you are not trustworthy in small matters, you will never be trusted with the responsibility of dispensing Grace. But what I love about that bit is how it starts with the small. There seems a tendency these days (perhaps always) to start in the aggregate. To start with "Do you believe in Jesus Christ" or "Are you a Christian/Muslim/Jew/Buddhist?" Starting with broad definitions, rather than the small "Are you a good person to those you meet?" or "Do you have the joy of God in your life? Do others see Him in you?" or even just "Did you help someone today? Could I rely on you if I needed someone" and using the aggregate to define a good person rather than asking first if you are trustworthy in small matters.

Perhaps that is why we are so often deceived. In politicians, to whom we do the same. In people of faith who give lip-service to God and don't reach out to their fellow man. In atheists who work tirelessly to improve our world. In Muslims who only want to worship in Manhattan and reclaim the space which has become emblematic of everything wrong with their religion.

Ask first if you are trustworthy in small matters. Because I'd like to use this parable as yet another excuse to believe that that is what really matters in the Final Judgment. And it certainly seems the better starting place for all the people and encounters in my own life.