Valparaiso University Chapel Reflection
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Julien C. H. Smith, Ph.D.
A reading from the Gospel according to Matthew [26:47-56].
While he was still speaking, Judas, one of the twelve, arrived; with him was a large
crowd with swords and clubs, from the chief priests and the elders of the people. Now
the betrayer had given them a sign, saying, “The one I will kiss is the man; arrest him.”
At once he came up to Jesus and said, “Greetings, Rabbi!” and kissed him. Jesus said to
him, “Friend, do what you are here to do.” Then they came and laid hands on Jesus and
arrested him. Suddenly, one of those with Jesus put his hand on his sword, drew it, and
struck the slave of the high priest, cutting off his ear. Then Jesus said to him, “Put your
sword back into its place; for all who take the sword will perish by the sword. Do you
think that I cannot appeal to my Father, and he will at once send me more than twelve
legions of angels? But how then would the scriptures be fulfilled, which say it must
happen in this way?” At that hour Jesus said to the crowds, “Have you come out with
swords and clubs to arrest me as though I were a bandit? Day after day I sat in the
temple teaching, and you did not arrest me. But all this has taken place, so that the
scriptures of the prophets may be fulfilled.” Then all the disciples deserted him and fled.
When I teach the Christian Scriptures, I like to suggest that what the Bible gives us, more than moral
exemplars, more than a set of doctrines, is a grand narrative—a story that helps us understand who we
are, the world in which we live, the God who created and loves us; a story that gives us an enduring
hope for reconciliation—not only reconciliation between humankind and God, but also reconciliation
within the entire human family. It is a narrative of both good news and scandal. It is scandalous not least
because by its very nature it comes into conflict with many other grand narratives, both religious and
secular.
Now, I don’t think I’ve ever felt the urge to pull out a sword and chop off someone’s ear when I perceive
the Christian narrative coming into conflict with another narrative. But I do confess to you that I
sometimes respond defensively, or arrogantly. Just as surely as the sword, this sort of violence keeps us
from truly loving our sisters and brothers of different faiths. When we feel defensiveness or arrogance
rising in our gut, today’s Gospel reading is good news. It shows us that God does not need us to defend
the Gospel in this manner; in fact, God doesn’t need us to defend the Gospel at all. We did not invent
the Gospel; nor are we responsible for its success. We can, and we must, leave that to God. And as we
do so, we will find a freedom to love those whose lives are guided by different narratives.
Sometimes, however, my response is not the arrogance and violence of this unnamed disciple, but
rather fear. I fear the voices that say, “The gospel is offensive. To truly love those different from us, we
must abandon this narrative; or at the very least, we must confine it to the private sphere of Sunday
worship and morning prayer.” At the end of the day, I don’t believe that abandoning the Christian
narrative gives us any real direction for loving our neighbors of different faiths.
We live, as the late theologian James McClendon aptly put it, as though in a “tournament of narratives.”
The key to authentically and soulfully loving our neighbors of different faiths is to learn how to engage in
this tournament fairly, honorably, and enthusiastically.
Think back to when you first learned about competing in sports, even if it was just the playground.
Perhaps you were taught the rule, “It doesn’t matter whether you win or lose, but how you play the
game.” I would imagine that nearly every competitive athlete might take issue with the first part of that
proposition—as might any Bears or Packers fans here today. But at the same time, any athlete who truly
honors the sport knows that victory is hollow when the game has not been played well or fairly. Jesus’
own ministry provides a model of how we might “play the game” well: through patient, humble
dialogue.
A story told of St. Francis of Assisi presents us with another compelling example. Scott Alexander, in the
book On Our Way, relates that in 1219, during the Fifth Crusade, Francis travelled to Acre, where he
preached to Crusaders, questioning the legitimacy of the Crusades. (One wonders how the history of
modern warfare might have looked different if more armies hired military chaplains like St. Francis.)
Eventually, Francis crossed enemy lines and met with the Muslim Sultan Malik al-Kamil. Although we
know precious little about that meeting, Francis and the Sultan parted in friendship. Jesus and St. Francis
both present a picture of announcing the good news vulnerably, through dialogue, in friendship.
To return to the metaphor of a tournament: when we learn how to play a sport, we are taught to say,
“May the best person win . . .” and everyone who has ever uttered those words has also silently
concluded, “. . . and I hope that person is me.” Playing our best, playing with heart, no less than playing
fairly is the way we honor our opponents. When we hear the dispirited comment at the end of a game,
“You let me win”—this is the sure indication that we have not truly honored our opponent. When we
play the game well, all competitors are mutually enriched. We will often find that we learn from those
with whom we compete. Even as we thereby gain new friends, and our enriched by the perspectives of
different narratives, our loyalties to our own narrative are often strengthened. The condition and result
of loving our neighbors is that we know the Christian narrative well, not abandon it.
As it turns out, our education at Valpo might be an invaluable tool in learning how to compete soulfully
and honorably in this tournament of narratives. We learn many of the requisite skills in our best classes:
when we learn to read charitably the thinkers of the past; when we are hospitable to the readings of our
fellow learners; when we play the delicate balancing game of holding to our convictions while learning
from the thoughts and experiences of others.
If you will permit me to mix my metaphors one final time, let us abandon the sword and pick up the
soccer ball, or if you have bad knees like me, perhaps the chessboard. Let us pray for the grace and
humility to lover our neighbors by sharing with them, and learning from them, the narratives that we
both dearly cherish.
It would seem from today’s reading that from the beginning followers of Jesus have been getting it
wrong. When our loyalty to the Lord is threatened, we turn quickly to violence. Some today look at this
long and sad history of religious violence—and to be sure Christians are by no means the only ones
implicated—and will conclude that if the human race is ever to live together peacefully, then our
religious convictions must be confined to the private sphere.
But this strategy stands in tension with what the Christian tradition has historically claimed as central to
our identity. When Jesus traversed the shores of Galilee some two thousand years ago, he was
announcing good news. Indeed this good news has provided his followers with an all-encompassing
narrative in which we find reconciliation with God and the hope for reconciliation within the entire
human family. This gospel was a scandal when Jesus first announced it; it remains scandalous still for
many reasons, not least of which is that some would say such all-encompassing narratives have no place
in a pluralistic global society.
And so we must acknowledge that, when our narrative comes into contact with competing narratives,
violence—whether physical, verbal, or otherwise—is simply out of the question. Rather, in today’s
reading, Jesus presents another way: “Day after day I sat in the temple teaching.”