Monsters
Rebecca Clancy
Ruth 3:1-11 I John 3:18-34 Mark 7:14-23
At a family gathering over the holidays, the parlor games came out, as they always do. To tell the truth, I have never been much of a fan of parlor games. Even as child, they did nothing for me. I may be the only person in the country who as a child never played Monopoly. I realized after Hi-Ho Cherrio and Candyland that they weren’t in my line. I think it’s because of my temperament. I don’t like to sit still.
And I particularly dislike parlor games that have to do with trivia. This is because compounding the temperament issue, I am particularly bad at trivia. I am impressed by those minds somehow enabled to store away every tidbit of information that they encounter, but mine is not one of them. At any rate, when the parlor games came out over the holidays, I headed for the door to take a walk.
I was prevented from doing so, however, by my relations. There was one game that required four players – two sets of partners – and they only had three. If I didn’t play, no one could. Just my luck, it happened to be the latest trivia game. I so much didn’t want to play that I was willing to allow the others to forgo the game. “I am really, really bad at trivia,” I protested. “The last time I played, I didn’t get a single answer right. I couldn’t name a single Beverly Hills Hillbilly. I had no idea who held the all time record for home runs. I didn’t even know the capitol of Wyoming. I’m telling you I’m that bad. I will simply ruin all the fun for my partner. “Oh I don’t mind,” smiled my partner. “Besides, I’m good at trivia. I’ll carry you.” In this way, I was coerced into playing.
The first category we drew was entitled, enigmatically, “ologies.” As it turned out we had to define various studies that ended with “ology” like biology, zoology, etc... Astrology was the first one. “The study of the stars.” my partner said. “That’s not quite right,” I interjected. “It’s actually the study of the stars as they are believed to influence human affairs.” She shot me a dirty look, but we got a point. The next “ology” was theology. “Got it,” I said, and proceeded, “The study of God and consequent religious and ethical practice.” We got another point. Next was archeology. “Got it,” I said again. “The study of human beginnings through material remains.” Another point. Next was philology. “Got it,” I said once again, “The study of ancient texts in order to recover their original meaning.” My partner, rather than being pleased with my efforts, lashed out at me. “I thought you were really bad at trivia.” “I am,” I maintained, “but by some bizarre fluke every one of these “ologies” has had to do in one way or another with the Bible.”
There was one final “ology” -- teratology. I could tell my partner was completely stumped, but I feared if I said “Got it” again she’d reach across the table and slap me. “Do you have any idea?” she asked desperately. “Yes,” I said, “Teratology is the study of monsters.” “And what does the study of monsters have to do with the Bible?” she asked, again in a tone less than friendly. “The study of monsters has nothing to do with the Bible,” I replied. “Monsters just so happen to be a special interest of mine. I actually consider myself to be something of an amateur teratologist.” “I’ve known you for over forty years,” she charged, “and this is the first time I’ve heard you describe yourself as an amateur teratologist,” I do not think I’ll be begged to play parlor games again. Providence was, in an ironic way, sympathetic to my dislike of them.
But in fact monsters are a special interest of mine, and it’s not because I am a connoisseur of evil or a voyeur of freakishness. It’s more in the opposite direction. It’s because way back in college when I first read Victor Hugo’s Hunchback of Notre Dame,
something struck me about monsters. It struck me that as often as not, the monster is not the bad guy. The hunchback of Notre Dame was not the bad guy. He was born deformed, that is all, and driven deaf because in his deformity he was housed in a place no one would ever have to look at him – a bell tower. But he was a decent man -- pure, sensitive, kind, and most importantly, fully capable of giving and receiving love.
Yet the citizens of Paris for a public spectacle placed him on a torture rack in the attempt to stretch his misshapen body. And when he screamed in agony and cried that he thirsted, they were unmoved, but for their derision. The hunchback of Notre Dame wasn’t the bad guy. The bad guys were those who rendered him monstrous so they could justify treating him like a monster.
This early realization led me to see this phenomenon all over history. There are precious few real monsters. There is an old widow in the woods, a recluse, perhaps a bit eccentric. But no, she is a witch. She enters children’s dreams and possesses them. Her imprecations cause epidemics. There are the Jews of the Third Reich. But no, they are Satan’s minions. They even bear their master an uncanny resemblance. And they harbor salacious desires for Aryan women. There are men of African descent in the Jim Crow South, struggling to live down their historical enslavement. But no, they are boys, incapacitated for anything but servitude and second class citizenship. The phenomenon is all over history. The monsters weren’t the bad guys. The bad guys were those who rendered them monstrous so they could justify treating them like monsters.
And if the phenomenon is all over history, we may wonder whether it is still alive today. And yes, of course it is. It’s bound to be. One of the biggest fallacies out there is that we’ve somehow succeeded history; somehow gotten beyond it. The monsters still aren’t the bad guys. The bad guys are still those who render them monstrous so they can justify treating them like monsters -- immigrant peoples, gay peoples, people of different races or religions, people suffering from infectious diseases. Think of the distorted caricatures that are drawn of them all: They endanger us. They bring crime into our communities. They threaten our livelihoods. They undermine our national security. They seek to destroy our families. They erode public morality. They will infect us. Sure, they are no longer, as a rule at least, being burned and gassed and lynched. But they’re being stigmatized. They’re being excluded. They’re being disrespected. They’re being discriminated against. In short, they’re being deprived of their basic humanity. And why? Why? It’s been the same reason all along. It’s because they’re different. They’re different, and so they’re hated and feared.
I guess now that I think about it, teratology has everything to do with the Bible. I guess now that I think about it, teratology is a special interest of mine precisely because it has everything to do with the Bible.
Consider this morning’s Old Testament lesson from the book of Ruth. The book of Ruth is considered to be a light and lyrical tale about a loyal and dutiful daughter in law -- irenic and dulcet. In fact, the book of Ruth is none of these things. The book of Ruth is radioactive. Yes, it tells the story of a loyal and dutiful daughter in law. She’s even better than a loyal and dutiful daughter in law. Ruth goes far beyond the call of loyalty and duty. She’s downright heroic.
Her mother in law, Naomi, at the death of her son and Ruth’s husband, beseeches Ruth return to her own people where she will best fare. But Ruth disregards her own interest and commits her life to the care of her mother in law. She follows behind hired hands gleaning barley, performs manual labor from dawn to dusk, in order to supply her need. She wins the love Naomi’s kinsman and eventually provides Naomi with a grandson to love and care for. She creates for Naomi against all odds a happy ending. Forget Heroic. Ruth is a downright saint. But Ruth is Moabite. The people of Israel disliked the Moabites. It’s more correct to say I suppose that the people of Israel despised the Moabites. Every depiction of the Moabites in the Old Testament away from the book of Ruth depicts them to be sexually dissolute in the most vile ways imaginable.
Yet the book of Ruth portrays a Moabite as a paragon of moral virtue, portrays a Moabite as embodying moral virtue the people of Israel knew well they could not hold a candle to; and that of course made them look like a bunch of ethnocentric hypocrites. How would we feel, by way of
comparison, if an Iranian or a Palestinian or fill in the blank; any of those we love to hate were portrayed in such a positive light so as to make us look bad, portrayed as being possessed of all the qualities we deem they lack and that we embody? The Bible recognizes that the Moabites weren’t the bad guys. The bad guys were those who rendered them monstrous so they could justify treating them like monsters.
Or consider this morning’s gospel lesson. Jewish cleanliness laws may well have arisen with the best of intentions. And indeed they arose in an attempt to preserve personal purity and holiness. And indeed they recognized that without punctilious and scrupulous effort that was built into the structure of day to day life, personal purity and holiness would likely lapse. But as Paul knew so well, even the law was sold under sin. Jewish cleanliness laws had become means to ostracize those deemed unclean – the gentiles, the unreligious, the diseased. All of these contaminated the clean, carried with them defilement. And so in this morning’s gospel lesson, Jesus tossed the Jewish cleanliness laws out. Just like that -- into the sewer. Again the Bible recognizes that the unclean were not the bad guys. The bad guys were those who rendered them monstrous so they could justify treating them like monsters.
Yes, teratology has everything to do with the Bible, and if this is the case that brings God into the mix. That means for us that for all of our standards and respectability, when we render others monstrous, God sees them through the light of the rainbow and us in the cold light of day. God sees us as monstrous.
Friends, there are no monsters There are only children of God, children that God created, children that God redeemed through his Son; and children God called us to love “not only in word and speech, but in truth and action.” Amen.
Romans 8:25 Waiting on the Lord Many years ago, almost too many to count, I had the opportunity to study the Old Testament at the University of Edinburgh. That means that I had the opportunity to live in Scotland for a time -- so I am here to tell you that there is more to Scottish culture than kilts and bagpipes. There is the Scottish national dish -- Haggis to be precise. In case you’re unfamiliar with Haggis, it is made from the liver, heart, and lungs of a sheep. They pack them into the sheep’s stomach, toss in a little oatmeal, and boil it. I only tried it once. Once was enough. Then there’s the Scottish national flower – the thistle. You see thistles everywhere -- on flags, coats of armor, dishware. They were once even featured on the currency. I would have thought that heather would have been a better contender for the Scottish national flower -- it is everywhere, and it’s much less prickly -- but no one consulted me. Then there’s the Scottish national poet, Bobby Burns. Burns wrote in Old Scottish. I actually picked up quite a bit of Old Scottish during my time in Edinburgh. I pride myself that I can recite much of his poetry by heart. Old Scottish is unintelligible to the modern ear, but the Scots still love him. I used to walk past the Scottish National Gallery of Art on the way to class. You could peer in the front door and see the famed portrait of him. If you’re unacquainted with his work, he wrote, To a Mouse. To a Louse. And, I kid you not, Address to a Haggis. And then, of course, there’s Greyfriars Bobby. I guess you could call Greyfriars Bobby the Scottish national dog. Grayfriers Bobby was a good Scottish breed -- the Skye Terrior. He and his master were inseparable, and after his master’s untimely death, Greyfriars Bobby remained at his master’s graveside -- day in and day out -- for 14 years, until he himself died. Greyfriars Bobby is a testament of devotion and loyalty not just to the Scottish, but to everyone. A statue of Greyfriars Bobby stands in the heart of town. At the funeral of his master, when the casket was being lowered into its final resting place, Greyfriars Bobby gave way to grief. He whined, whimpered and pawed at the grave. Beyond his grief, however, Greyfriars Bobby settled into a daily routine. Every day, when the 1:00 gun was fired, a man by the name of William Dow, who had befriended Grayfriers Bobby, picked him up at the cemetery. They strolled together to a local coffee shop, where Grayfriers Bobby ate his daily meal. After a bit of socializing, they strolled back to the cemetery. Greyfriars Bobby settled back onto his master’s gravesite and watched the sunset. There were attempts to lure Greyfriars Bobby away from his master’s graveside, especially in inclement weather, but they were fruitless. Greyfrirs Bobby refused to leave. Greyfriars Bobby is all the proof I need that dogs go to heaven. Do you really think that he when arrived at the Pearly Gates to be reunited with his master, Peter, who Jesus entrusted with the keys to bound and to loose, turned him away on the grounds that he was a dog? That makes no sense to me. And I’m sure it made no sense to Peter. There’s a lesson we can learn this morning from Greyfriars Bobby. And lest you register skepticism that there’s a lesson we can learn from dogs -- this is the whole point of the book of Ruth – that we can learn lessons in unexpected places. Ruth was a despised foreigner. She was feared. She was suspected. She was accused. Yet there were lessons that the people of Israel learned from her. There are lessons we can learn in unexpected places. At least that’s what the Bible proclaims. And it’s not just Ruth. It’s Ruth, yes. But it’s also the Good Samaritan; it’s the Magi, it's the Roman Centurion, it’s the Canaanite woman, it’s the Ninevites, it’s the Ethiopian eunich, it’s Cornelius. And if the Bible hits you over the head with something that many times, and you still refuse to accept it, you’re just being stubborn. There are lessons we can learn in unexpected places. And the more unexpected the place, the more important the lesson. Sure, there’s a lesson we can learn from Greyfriars Bobby about loyalty and devotion, but there’s also a lesson we can learn from him about waiting for someone. Because if you think about it, we are all waiting for someone. Every one of us. It could be someone who is angry with us – someone who holds a grudge against us, someone who dislikes us, someone from whom we are estranged. It could be someone who is stationed at a far-flung corner of the earth -- someone who is called to serve and sacrifice, someone who has placed himself in harm’s way, someone we may never see again. It could be someone who has fallen prey to an addiction – someone who is facing an uphill battle, someone who has made strides only to fall back, someone whose potential and possibility are under siege. And it could be, like with Greyfriars Bobby, someone that we lost – someone who is irreplaceable, someone who enriched and defined our lives, someone who spared us from loneliness and aimlessness. We are all waiting for someone. And so, we can learn a lesson from Greyfriars Bobby, and it is this. Yes, for a time we grieve their absence. We weep. We mourn. We despair, even. We do all these things…for a time. But then we must get back to the business of living. As Langston Hughes reminds us, Life is for the living. We must get back to the business of living – of caring for others, of speaking the truth, of practicing fairness, of sacrificing for others, of sharing our abundance, of striving for peace – of doing the best we can to prove, day by day, that we have heard the upward call of Jesus Christ. While all the while we are waiting for someone. But here’s the thing. We don’t wait in vain. Because we wait, ultimately, through Jesus Christ -- so we wait for our eternal home in heaven where those for whom we wait are waiting for us. And we will know that joyous reunion that Greyfriars Bobby and his master now know. Amen.
John 20:1-18 But why? Why did Mary stand weeping outside the tomb? There is, of course, the easy answer. Mary stood weeping outside the tomb because, arriving at the tomb, she discovered that Jesus’ body had been stolen. But that’s the easy answer. Easy answers are, as often as not, simplifications; and simplifications are, as often as not, distortions. So, let us look beyond the easy answer and ask again, Why did Mary stand weeping outside the tomb? Mary was one of those people whom nature had favored. And nature does play favorites -- that much is undeniable. Mary was tenacious, discerning, steadfast, spontaneous, courageous – not to mention brimming with natural affections. Yes, she was one of those people whom nature had favored, but sometimes that is not enough. Mary had a bad start in life, and that tends to temper even nature’s most generous gifts. When Jesus first encountered Mary, she was not of sound spirit. She was afflicted and tormented. But Jesus performed a miracle that recalled her to life. She became his passionate and devoted follower. It would seem that her past was behind her. Like with so many others Jesus encountered, Mary had been lost and now was found. But this only led her to the foot of his cross. She had endured the entire spectacle. Dark men – petty, jealous, and scheming -- closed in on him. They subjected him to a farce of a trial, and this only as a formality. They intended to see him executed from the very beginning. The disciples, for their part, panicked and scattered. What if they were next to be targeted? But not Mary. She abided with him those endless hours as he hung on the cross right through to his death agony. She watched from a distance as Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus deposed his body from the cross and laid it in a tomb. Mary was shattered. She was traumatized. She was devastated. She was forced to endure the unthinkable – the death of one deeply beloved, and to malicious violence. But Mary was not entirely bereft. She still had his body. She could cleanse and anoint it, bestow upon it what loving care she could. And going forward she could become that person – the one who visits the graveside, the one who keeps memories alive, the one whose tears are never exhausted. In time she would achieve a sort of notoriety for it, but it’s the kind of notoriety no one wants. But she arrived at his tomb only to discover that his body had been stolen. So why did Mary stand weeping outside the tomb? She stood weeping outside the tomb because she had hit rock bottom. I have never hit rock bottom. If dread keeps it at bay, dread has done that much for me. But I have seen others who have. It’s a terrible thing to witness, much less to experience. A kind of derangement takes hold. They aren’t recognizable. They aren’t themselves. This is why Mary couldn’t add up two and two. She peered into the tomb and saw two angels robed in white raiment. Why are you weeping? They asked. Now they didn’t ask because they wanted to hear her theory about the graverobbers. This was not the sense of their question. Woman, why are you weeping? They were asking to convey that there was nothing to weep about. And it was the same thing when the resurrected Jesus asked the same question. Woman, why are you weeping? There’s nothing to weep about. I am alive. I am here. I am with you. Dry your tears. But Mary had hit rock bottom, so it didn’t add up. But then Jesus said something. Something cataclysmic. Something earth shattering. Something beyond description and explanation. And something right under our noses. If there’s one trait we all share, one thing we are all good at, one thing we are all GREAT at, it’s not seeing what’s right under our noses. Jesus called her by name. Mary! he said. And suddenly the truth broke in on her. Dimly, but at the same time, and paradoxically, with crystal clarity. She knew. She knew how we know most deeply – in our bones, in our guts, in our hearts. This man so beloved by her – her teacher, healer, leader, friend….he was much more than that. He was the one that time could not bind, the one that darkness could not thwart. He was the one over whom death had no dominion. He was the one she declared him to be. He was the Lord. And he called her by name . Rock bottom? There was no rock bottom. There was only hope, consolation, meaning, purpose, direction, relief, and rejoicing. From his height to her depth, he called her by name. Rock bottom? She now had good news to proclaim, and she proclaimed it for all she was worth. Friends in Christ, her good news is our good news. No matter what you’ve done, what you are doing, or what you will do. No matter how low you fall. No matter how deep you sink. No matter how bad you’re stuck. His deliverance has your name on it. His triumph has your name on it. His love has your name on it. So let us call him by name – Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.
I Samuel 16:4-5 Matthew 5:9 To set the scene for our Old Testament lesson -- Tension was rife. Anxiety was rife. Dread was rife. And why? It was because there was conflict, and conflict produces tension. Conflict produces anxiety. Conflict produces dread. And let’s not pretend that it doesn’t. The hold outs among us might stick their chests out and assert that conflict has no effect on them -- that they are immune from conflict. But personally, I’m a bit skeptical. As I’ve mentioned before, in my various vocations and avocations, I have been subjected to psychological tests. And not just a few of them. And one of the areas that is tested is how you react to conflict – whether you are conflict tolerant or conflict intolerant. According to the tests, I am conflict tolerant, as conflict tolerant as one can be. According to the tests, there is nothing that makes me more comfortable, and more relaxed, and more at ease than conflict. Conflict? Bring it on. There’s nothing I relish more. At least according to the tests. But why is it that in the face of conflict, I become preoccupied. I can’t get it off my mind. I become sleepless. I toss and turn at night. And I feel an enormous sense of relief when the conflict is resolved. So, in my own experience at least, conflict produces tension. Conflict produces anxiety. Conflict produces dread. And that leads us back to our Old Testament Lesson. Talk about conflict! But to understand it, we must back up a bit. In fact, we must back up quite a bit. We all know that Moses received the Ten Commandments atop Mt. Sinai. We all know that with the Ten Commandments in hand, Moses wandered with the people in the wilderness for forty years toward the Promised Land. But we might not all know what happened next. What happened next is that Moses died. Moses was succeeded by Joshua, who conquered the Promised land. And after that? The people settled onto the Promised Land. Since the people were comprised of twelve tribes they settled into the Promised Land accordingly. Each tribe deployed itself on a parcel of land. And they all lived happily ever after. Or not. Problems emerged in short order. The tribes did not get along. Surprise, surprise, the strong tribes picked on the weak ones. Why is it that at all times, and in all places, the strong pick on the weak? But that’s another question. Bottom line, there was disunity among the tribes. Beyond that, they were twelve tribes who each deployed itself on a parcel of land. But they were surrounded by enemies, enemies that had not been wandering around in the wilderness for the past 40 years. Enemies who were trained to fight. So, the people were threatened from within and from without. The closest thing that they had to a leader was Samuel, so they demanded of Samuel a king, a king to unify them and protect them from their enemies. Samuel listened to their demand and anointed King Saul. King Saul was the man of the hour. He was a standout. He stood head and shoulders above all others, was strikingly handsome, and teamed with charisma. He was clearly meant to be. So once again, they all lived happily ever after. Or not. There was something wrong with Saul. Now sometimes when there is something wrong with someone it’s obvious, it’s easy to name – as in the case with addiction, or physically abuse, or mental illness. But sometimes it’s not obvious. Ask twelve scholars what was wrong with Saul, you’ll get twelve different answers. For whatever reason, he proved not to be the stuff of it. He had some fatal flaw. Was it his temper? Was it his jealousy? Was it his paranoia? Was it his anger? Was it his desperation? Because all those things can prove to be fatal flaws. In that last analysis, it doesn’t matter what was wrong with King Saul – simply that there was something wrong with him. Predictably, those closest to him saw it first. But no one else was inclined to believe them. They believed what they wanted to believe, what was easiest to believe. And this is how it goes. The ones closest see it first, and no one is inclined to believe them. Moveover, they didn’t want to face the fact that King Saul was one big false start. But King Saul had some fatal flaw. And fatal flaws are fatal. King Saul deteriorated. It became increasingly difficult to deny. Conflict was brewing. It was not yet open conflict. Soon it would be and in terms too horrific to describe. But rumors were circulating. The atmosphere became charged, and not in a good way. Not one knew just how the thing would play out, but everyone sensed that it would not end well. And that brings us to our Old Testament Lesson. Samuel arrived in Bethlehem, unannounced, unexpected -- in full vestment and with full retinue. What did he want? Why did he single them out? What had they done wrong? Was he there to exact vengeance? In a spark would they all be dead? To set the scene for our Old Testament lesson -- Tension was rife. Anxiety was rife. Dread was rife. And why? It is because there was conflict, and conflict produces tension. Conflict produces anxiety. Conflict produces dread. And so, the people approached Samuel with a question. It was the right question. It was the key question. It was the decisive question. It was this question: Do you come in peace? If you remember one thing about this passage, if you remember one thing about the whole book of Samuel, remember this question. Do you come in peace? Because the people’s question to Samuel is the people’s question to us. Do we come in peace? In the face of conflict do we come in peace? Do we come in peace, or do we come bearing blame for things for which we know we are full well complicit? Do we come in peace, or do we come exacting retribution demanding an eye for an eye? Do we come in peace, or do we come rehearsing old grievances, resentments, jealousies, and grudges? Do we come in peace, or do we come pressing our advantage -- power up, poised to defeat? Because the people’s question to us is also Christ’s question to us? Do we come in peace? Have we gone that extra mile for the one who has burdened us? Have we turned the other cheek? Have we declined to let the sun set on our anger? Have we made peace with our accusers? Do we come in peace? For Christ declares that the peacemakers would be blest, and that through them, but only through them, would his kingdom grow. Amen.
