Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Seeing ‘Jesus’ from below #35

In the novel All Quiet on the Western Front, Erich Maria Remarque described the terror, the stench, boredom, the savagery, the courage experienced by a platoon of young German soldiers caught in the brutal trench fighting of the last chaotic days of World War I. In close combat, the longing to survive grips the main character:
We crouch behind every corner, behind every barrier of barbed wire, and hurl heaps of explosives at the foot of the advancing enemy before we run. Crouching like cats we run on, overwhelmed by this wave that bears us along, that fills us with ferocity, turning us into thugs, into murderers, into God only knows what devils; this wave that multiplies our strength with fear and madness and greed of life, seeking and fighting for nothing but our deliverance. If your own father came over with them you would not hesitate to fling a bomb into him.
Away from battle, reflection would slip back in. When guarding Russian prisoners, he pondered how “A word of command has made these silent figures our enemies.” Eventually a veteran of numerous attacks and counterattacks, the German youth was sent out at night to discover how far the enemy position had advanced. He played dead, dagger in hand, in a crater half-filled with water as the enemy rushed by in attack and then back-stepped in retreat. When a French soldier fell into the shell hole, the German soldier stabbed him madly three times. The crossfire kept him trapped with his French adversary through the night. During the daylight hours, he could not avoid his victim. Finally, he bandaged the dying man’s wounds and soaked up dirty water in a handkerchief to relieve his thirst. By mid-morning, the fatigued German soldier started talking to his victim:
I did not want to kill you. But you were only an idea to me before, an abstraction that lived in my mind and called forth its appropriate response. It was that abstraction I stabbed. But now, for the first time, I see you are a man like me. I thought of your hand grenades, of your bayonet, of your rifle; now I see your wife and your life and our fellowship. Why do they never tell us that you are just poor devils like us, that your mothers are just as anxious as ours, and that we have the same fear of death, and the same dying, and the same agony? Forgive me, comrade; how could you be my enemy?
When the French soldier died that afternoon, the German soldier promised, “Today you, tomorrow me. But if I come out of it, I will fight against this that has struck us both down -- from you, taken life -- and from me? -- life also. I promise you. It shall never happen again.”

As he crawled away toward the German line that night, he repeated, “I will fulfill everything I have promised you”. But he knew he merely uttered these words to avert ill luck. He knew he would not do as he promised.

That fleeting moment of insight in the shell hole is the enduring effect ‘Jesus’ can have on anyone who dares to listen (and listen again). To say “yes” is to say “yes” to the unnatural and seemingly foolish resolve to see an enemy as a brother/sister, as a neighbor. ‘Jesus’ had found a reason to respect his enemy. ‘Jesus’ wants no wall between him and any fellow struggler in this life, even an adversary.

As a sign of this extraordinary covenant, ‘Jesus’ first asks, “Can you pray for your enemy? Can you seek God’s blessing for your enemy?” The rabbi in Fiddler on the Roof knew the limits most will tolerate. When asked, “Is there a blessing for the Czar?” the rabbi replies, “May God bless and keep the Czar . . . far away from us.” What familiarity do prayers today show with a Moses who five times interceded for the Pharaoh and the Egyptians who for four centuries had held the descendants of Joseph in slavery? What resonance do prayers today have with the prayer of ‘Jesus’ as he hangs dying on a cross -- “Forgive them for they do not know what they are doing”?

For a second indication of the ‘turn the other cheek’ spirit, ‘Jesus’ asks, “What will you do for your enemies?” The nearest parallel to ‘hate your enemies’ is found in the Dead Sea Scrolls’ instruction to “Love all the children of light and hate all the children of darkness.” Jewish wisdom warns, “Do not gloat when your enemy falls; when he stumbles, do not let your heart rejoice.” Instead, “If your enemy is hungry, give him food to eat; if he is thirsty, give him water to drink.” Rabbis in Jesus’ day did debate two texts in the Torah. One enjoins, “If you come across your enemy’s ox or donkey wandering off, be sure to take it back to him.” The textual parallel reads ‘brother’ rather than ‘enemy’. ‘Jesus’ reinforces the admonition to do good to an enemy. But who is remembered in Jewish scripture or Christian scripture for doing good to an enemy?

  • What about David’s good deeds for troubled King Saul? Perhaps, but David said he acted out of respect for the office of king.

  • What about the Apostle Paul and his co-worker Silas after the earthquake in Philippi? Perhaps, but the shaken jailer hardly remained a threat to them after the earthquake.

Joseph’s care for his brothers? Elisha’s intercession for the captured Arameans? Paul’s assisting the soldiers fighting a storm in the Adriatic Sea? These are perhaps more compelling examples.

Whether Galilean or American, hearers want to know -- What’s the point of swollen cheeks, empty closets, strained backs, closed-out bank accounts? In response, ‘Jesus’ makes no mention of waiting on divine vengeance as did the Psalmists, no mention of converting the foe into a friend by “heaping coals of fire on his head” as Paul did. Why love your enemies? ‘Jesus’ answers – because doing so is inseparable from the sort of person you are (i.e., “sons of the Father in heaven who causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous”).