In Luke 19, the "chief among the publicans" Zacchaeus makes the declaration before Jesus (who has chosen the "sinner" Zacchaeus from the crowd and deigned to be hosted by him) that he will give half of his goods--presumably obtained by his profession as a tax collector--to the poor. In addition, Zacchaeus declares that he will restore fourfold to anyone he has swindled. Jesus declares that, "This day is salvation come to this house, forasmuch as he also is a son of Abraham."
In Luke 23, "one of the malefactors which were hanged" with Jesus declares his own sinfulness and also the innocence of Jesus, and says, "Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom." "And Jesus said unto him, Verily I say unto thee, To day shalt thou be with me in paradise."
I will return to these episodes later, but for now suffice it to say that these episodes speak (in as clear a manner as is usual in the Scriptures) of a benediction from Jesus to the effect that real, eternal salvation --or at least a momentary status of earthly eligibility for that real, eternal salvation--is possessed by the characters I mentioned above. The tenor of those interactions will be important to us later.
We reckon that there are limitations to our thoughts. We forget things. We make unwarranted connections between things. We shove some things aside and fixate upon others. We embrace what satisfies us emotionally, and we shrink from what frightens or repels us. We habituate ourselves to what is familiar to us. None of these considerations are all that surprising.
Unfortunately, neither is it all that surprising that we--each, individually--reckon that we possess a discrete cognitive self that thinks things. To be possessed of multiple personalities, or, to be more germane to this topic, to be possessed of multiple internalized personages, is (as we reckon) to be psychologically disturbed. We can entertain internalized debates, but we reckon this latter distinction among communicating internal voices to be an intellectual tool, a representation of opposing thoughts phrased in contrasting--perhaps inchoate--statements. But to say that the voices of multiple personalities debate inside of us is the language of insanity, or at least intellectual instability.
What, however, are we to make of the "stability" of a mind that concludes one thing one moment, and then (upon recall of a forgotten consideration) arrives at a completely opposite conclusion the next moment? And what are we to make of situations in which we forget something as a convenience to our psychological placidity, and then recall that same something when in the extremity of some distress? The same Gospel of Luke (chapter 15) has the Prodigal Son as one who "came to himself" squatting in a distant pigsty (or "came to his senses" while squatting, or some such.) We must reckon in humility just what it is that each of us calls our "selves," and, if we are really to confront the implications of being created creatures under a creator God, we must reckon that this same humility will--of frightening necessity--cast us down before looming prospects of insanity (or its ilk) and demon-possession (or its ilk.) "Ilk" is a term I use because I really don't know what I'm talking about--and neither does any creature not God.
What is important here to us is for us to consider how the above might compare to the actual architecture, and actual implications, of Jesus' teachings in the Gospels. Are we really disjointed, wavering, apparent "selves" that--properly understood--are momentary critical masses of congregating thoughts, masses composed in part of sentiments that arise we know not where, masses deprived in part of sentiments that seem lost to us (or that have escaped us unnoticed?) If we are really to think about the God we are not, does not the apparent proximity of this overwhelming idea crush--as if by pressure of an intangible ether--any notions we might have of what we think we understand, any notions of what it is of ourselves that is doing the ostensible understanding?
Certainly Jesus does not think we really understand anything, as the two examples above demonstrate. Zacchaeus' declaration that he will give half of his to the poor is admirable, but it is not associated intrinsically with him being a "son of Abraham." And as for paying back the swindled fourfold? Unless Zacchaeus is intending to defend his practices before the Roman authorities (which seems scarcely consonant with the "son of Abraham" designation) and is intending to insist on at least fourfold compensation to anyone adjudged to have been wronged by Zacchaeus, then one must wonder how he can make good on his vow. Any other of the "sons of Abraham" from which he has wrung taxes can join in a virtual class action that would amount to Zacchaeus owing fourfold of all he has collected (or eightfold, if he manages to disburse half his wealth to the poor before the lawyers get to it.)
Zacchaeus is babbling. We all babble--and in matters of religion there is, moment by moment, only more or less babble from us. Even our most sober moments of theological reflection are infused with babble, and we do Jesus a disservice when we refuse to give our treatments of religious topics the skepticism they deserve. Unfortunately, we are overcome often by our fierce desire to have simplicity and clarity, even when they are least likely to be had. Witness the bizarre craving for simplicity and clarity that is evident often in treatments of The Good Thief on his cross.
The only thing that seems clear to the Good Thief is his own (and his companion's) guilt juxtaposed against Jesus' innocence. Just how the Good Thief arrives at this certainty of Jesus' unfair punishment (when he himself was probably being tormented in some dungeon during Jesus' trial) is unknown to us, but this is a Bible "story," after all. It is what is simple about this story that is important. The Good Thief knows that he is guilty of sin, and he knows that he must make supplication to heaven for forgiveness. As it is (and as I have described before), the thief's plea of "Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom," could be a dying, desperate person's petition to any of the apostles destined to rule over one of the twelve tribes of Israel. That Jesus responds with, "To day shalt thou be with me in paradise," is reassuring, but this reassurance is not contingent upon any hair-splitting over when the "kingdom" will be realized (or, indeed, contingent upon any later New Testament eschatology.)
Zacchaeus and the Good Thief speak, like all of us, out of imperfect understanding and out of imperfect grasp of the nature of each of our own momentary congregations of sensations, impulses, proclivities, and memories that constitute our "selves." This is the necessary predicate of attempting to understand anything, and I have presented it here most particularly because it will bear on our treatment of the first part of John, which is of course so reflective of Genesis themes.
And Genesis describes us as made in the image of God, the God who says of that which he alone can create, "Let us make." God is the quintessential co-existence of the singular and the plural. We can call the "Let us" phraseology the "plural of majesty" if we like, but we ought at that very moment of utterance to be caught short by how presumptuous we have been. Why is the God who is greater than the very concept of unity to be denied overlordship of the concept of plurality, as though in the purview of God the apparent conflict would be insuperable?
And if we are made in the image of God--imperfect in quality, as we assume prudently--are we not conglomerations of singular and plural? How many times must we be admonished to be single in our devotion to God, before we will recognize that a multitude--a malleable and transient multitude--of sinful self-parts strain individually and in confederations to seize control of that supposed whole, individual "self" who we enshrine in our conceits?
Our thoughts, like the babblings of the tax collector and of the thief, are convocations of disparate voices within ourselves, and our "selves" are congregations of many person-like parts, some as innocent (or at least as little-worn) as our infant selves, some as familiar as our various day-to-day self-conceptions, and some as alien--or we hope as alien--as the crouching shadows in the Genesis mist.
No comments:
Post a Comment