WHAT IS THIS THING CALLED LOVE? Sunday, September 4, 2005 Vespers Communion Service John H. Boyle Parish Associate, Fourth Presbyterian Church Romans 13:8–14 A good deal of attention has been given in the media recently to an upsurge of interest in spirituality by many people from a variety of religious traditions as well as by those claiming little or no association with such traditions, certainly no affiliation with any expression of what is referred to as “organized religion.” The cover story of a recent issue of Newsweek, entitled “In Search of the Spiritual” (5 September 2005) traces the trajectory of spirituality in America and concludes that “Americans are looking for personal, ecstatic experiences of God, and . . . they don’t much care what the neighbors are doing.” Some forms of this spirituality reflect a social consciousness that embraces environmental concerns, the plight of the poor, the pursuit of justice in the public arena, and an alternative to war as a means of settling international conflicts. Other forms recognize that, in the words of Bob Dylan, “the times they are a’changin’” and that a much more diversified and pluralistic America is now the venue in which the search for the spiritual is occurring, a reality that church historian, Martin Marty, addresses in his recent book, The Protestant Voice in American Pluralism. At the same time, there are some forms of the spirituality sought by many that seem to be aimed more at what appears to be a self-serving agenda. How we feel within ourselves becomes more important than how we relate to and behave toward others. When Jesus stated that we were to love our neighbor as we love ourselves, he was implying that loving ourselves was to be a means to a greater end, namely, love of neighbor. To love ourselves only is not to love ourselves at all. It is to indulge ourselves, and indulgence should never be confused with the biblical understanding of love. Shortly before the onset of World War II in Europe, British Christian mystic and acclaimed author of books on worship Evelyn Underhill gave a series of radio talks on “The Spiritual Life.” In the first one she stated, My spiritual life is not something specialized and intense; a fenced-off devotional patch rather difficult to cultivate, and needing to be sheltered from the cold winds of the outer world. . . . Still less does the spiritual life mean a mere cultivation of one’s own soul; poking about our interior premises with an electric torch. Even though in its earlier stages it may, and generally does, involve dealing with ourselves, . . . it is also intensely social; for it is a life that is shared with all other spirits, whether in the body or out of the body, to adopt St. Paul’s words. You remember how Dante says that directly a soul ceases to say Mine, and says Ours, it makes the transition from the narrow, constricted, individual life to the truly free, truly personal, truly creative spiritual life. Granted that at times of spiritual upsurge and renewal, which tend historically to occur in association with or in the aftermath of critical junctures either in national life or in individual lives or both, there is a legitimate need to be good to ourselves, to take care of ourselves, and to find something that will keep us grounded if not high and dry spiritually when the hurricanes of life strike. But a spirituality that concentrates primarily or solely and exclusively upon meeting our own needs, even the need for a closer and more personal relationship to God, is in danger of crossing the thin line that separates mature faith from magic. I came upon an example of this the other day when I read of a woman in Biloxi, Mississippi, standing knee-deep in water in the living room of her house ravaged by Hurricane Katrina. She pointed to a crucifix on the wall and said, “It was supposed to keep my house safe. I guess it let me down.” This essentially extractive and utilitarian approach to religious faith, with its “What-has-God-done-for-me-lately?” attitude, only serves to show that what the playwright Ibsen, in his Peer Gynt, called “the Emperor of Self” has preempted the place of God in one’s life. Such a spirituality rules out any association with those who are not like us, who are different from us, who do not think as we think, believe as we believe, act as we act, and have a view of the world and of God that does not correspond with our view. In other words, if I hold to this understanding of spirituality, if I view God as little more than a celestial valet whose job is to do my bidding, I cannot possibly be in a position to take seriously, much less act in accordance with, the words of the Apostle Paul to the Christians in Rome, as recorded in the scripture lesson tonight. Don’t owe anyone anything. Don’t hurt anyone unnecessarily. Love your neighbor as yourself. This way you will fulfill the law of God, which is the law of love. I think it is important to realize that when Paul uses the word neighbor he is not just referring to someone like oneself. He is referring to someone who may be quite different from oneself, who nevertheless is neighbor. He is referring to the one who is the “other.” Martin Marty, to whom I referred earlier, reminds us that pluralism in American society is a reality that is not going to go away. We will have to decide as individuals and as a nation how we are going to live with and relate to people who in more ways than ever before are different from one another politically, religiously, racially, ethnically, economically, and in terms of how their lives are ordered and lived. According to Marty, it will take something other than mere tolerance to avoid the lethal conflicts that occur when people are threatened by the other, the different. He calls for hospitality, an attitude of welcoming that reflects openness and teachableness. To love one’s neighbor is to welcome the stranger, the alien, the one who is foreign by virtue of being other, different. This, I believe, is what Paul is talking about in his words to the Christians in Rome, a city that had its own share of pluralism. To love the alien as we love ourselves is to love and accept that part of ourselves that we don’t like and think of as being “not me.” One of the most difficult things for us to do is to accept that which is crippled, flawed, or imperfect and alien about ourselves rather than deny the reality or be defined by it. When Jesus was led by the Holy Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted, he was being led to an encounter with the one who was completely other than Jesus. No one could have been more other to Jesus than Satan. Though Jesus remonstrated with the Devil and did not buy what Satan was selling or trying to give away in return for Jesus’ loyalty and obedience, Jesus nevertheless engaged in the dialogue, the conversation, and treated Satan with the respect due a formidable adversary. It was the Devil that left Jesus finally, not Jesus the Devil. Jesus did not try to destroy Satan, who for a time in that wilderness was his neighbor. Presumably he could have, but he didn’t. Don’t hurt your neighbor, wrote Paul. Rather, love your neighbor. Did Jesus love Satan, therefore? You could say that. “Love,” wrote American satirist Ambrose Bierce in his The Devil’s Dictionary, is “a temporary insanity curable by marriage or by removal of the patient from the influences under which he incurred the disorder.” Years ago a popular song posed the question, “What is this thing called love, this funny thing called love?” The word funny, of course, means humorous, amusing, or comical. At the same time, used in a colloquial way, the word funny can be used to mean suspect or even deceitful, false, and counterfeit, as in the expression “funny money.” But it can also refer to that which is strange, beyond our comprehension, or partakes, as Bierce suggests, of a kind of insanity, something that doesn’t quite make sense according to our criteria. Perhaps that is why we have so much trouble with this thing called love as set forth in scripture, including God’s love toward us. “What wondrous love is this that caused the Lord of bliss to bear the heavy cross for my soul,” as the American folk hymn puts it. It’s insane. It doesn’t make sense. We don’t love others, our neighbors, if we idolize them as though they were gods, attributing to them qualities of perfection and power only properly ascribed to God. We don’t love others, our neighbors, by demonizing them and leaving no room to acknowledge the possible redeeming qualities that may be present in them. We don’t love others, our neighbors, by utilizing them, relating to them only as things to be used and then discarded when no longer useful, in much the same way that we discard a Kleenex tissue once we have used it. I read recently of a well-known novelist who forced himself upon his younger sister in an incestuous sexual relationship, later used her to foster his literary career, and then in a barely veiled manner exposed her in one of his writings. He told an interviewer, “For me she scarcely existed. She was never important.” We don’t love others, our neighbors, when we either fail to hold them accountable when they hurt others or refuse to be reconciled to them when they assume responsibility for their actions. We don’t love others, our neighbors, when we allow racism and classism and other forms of prejudice and stereotyping of others to make them either invisible to us or objects of our scorn, our neglect, or our violence. It is important for us not to delude ourselves into thinking that individually or as a nation we are free of racial and class prejudice and discrimination. The discrepancies between the funding of and the conditions in urban schools made up mostly of African American and Hispanic students and those in the suburbs where most of the students are white, to say nothing of what has been occurring in recent days in the areas of this country most affected by Hurricane Katrina, are graphic indications that we are far from free of such attributes and actions. In the Bible, love is thought of more as an action to be done than as a feeling to be felt. It requires hard labor at times and great intentionality and commitment. It involves a determination to do the loving thing needed for the sake of the welfare of others, even when I don’t feel like doing it and may even dislike or be repulsed by others. We do love others, our neighbors, when we accept them as less than perfect human beings and commit ourselves to their ultimate welfare in whatever way we are able. We do love others, our neighbors, when we allow for differences and relate to those differences not as barriers that can easily be transmuted into weapons used to destroy one another but as potential bridges over which we can come to meet one another and as possible gifts that we bring to one another so as to edify one another and thereby enrich the relationship. We do love others, our neighbors, when we can be grateful for and to one another and find ways appropriately to express that gratitude rather than to take one another for granted. And we do love others, our neighbors, when we offer those who have hurt us what theologian Reinhold Niebuhr claimed is the highest form of love, namely, forgiveness. For because we are flawed and finite human beings, sooner or later and in one way or another, we will hurt others and be hurt by others. When that occurs and the hurt is minor, we may be able to shrug it off and go on. But when the wound is deep and the pain severe, one doesn’t forgive as though flicking a piece of lint off one’s clothing. Forgiveness, under those circumstances, is costly. The cross of Christ reminds us of how costly. This table before us reminds us that what we receive freely of God’s forgiving grace is the result of a love that suffered and suffers still. “Love your neighbor as yourself. Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore, love is the fulfilling of the law.” A number of years ago, well-known comedian Eddie Cantor told of an experience he had once when he was doing a benefit to aid children who were seriously or critically ill or who were learning how to live with severe physical limitations. In the midst of one of his routines, he spotted a little girl in a corner at the rear of the hall. She was seated on a step, her elbows on her knees and her face and head in her hands. Her demeanor was one of abject sadness. When Cantor finished his routine, he jumped off the stage and headed straight for the little girl. Kneeling down in front of her, he put his finger under her chin and tilted up her head. As he looked into her tear-filled eyes, he said, “You look so sad, darling. Is there anything I can do for you?” Eddie Cantor said that the little girl looked at him and uttered two of the saddest words he had ever heard. She said, simply, “Love me.” Amen.