The least of these

The threefold Lenten discipline of prayer, fasting, and giving can and should have a purifying and clarifying effect. Prayer and fasting lead the soul to generous giving. Fasting and giving lead the soul to reflective prayer. The following is a personal story, covering the past 36 years or so.

I was a young man in 1973 when Roe v. Wade shocked the American culture. From the very beginning, I knew that was wrong, and must be reversed. But within a fairly short span, I let myself be cowed by more liberal thinkers into a broader way of viewing things. Restoring legal status to the unborn, while important, was just one of many equally important issues. We must not become too narrow-minded; we must not be single-issue voters and thinkers. That much was axiomatic.

I believe it was through prayer and fasting that I eventually came to consider more thoughtfully the essence of giving to the poor. The Gospel passage that grabbed me at some point was Mt.25:31-46. This well-known story tells of the return of the King at the end, how he separates the sheep from the goats, judges them on the basis of how they gave to the poor and needy, and issues this divine judgement: "...as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me." (Mt.25:40b RSV)

And who, I pondered, are the very least of my brethren? Who are the poorest of the poor? To whom should I be especially generous, so as to be found giving to the Lord Himself?

There are poor people right here, even in my home town. I must give to them, and so I shall. But - are they the very least? Well, those in third-world countries are certainly poorer. Are they the least? What about those who actually die in war or in natural disasters? Loss of life is certainly more serious than mere poverty. Are these the least?

You already know where this leads. I was eventually forced to see that there was no greater poverty than that suffered by those who were wholly innocent and also wholly defenseless. These little ones could not even raise their voices in a plaintive cry for help. These were the very least. Giving to these would be giving to Jesus.

With renewed clarity of vision, I was cowed no longer. Although often unfaithful, and frequently forgetful, I have since endeavored to make this a major focus of my life, liberal goats notwithstanding.

John's unwelcome light

In response to my complaints against the moral corruption of our culture and my own abysmal failures, someone recently remarked (not via a blog comment) that my 'dark mood' reminded her of John the Baptist crying out in the wilderness.

Leaving aside the nonsense of comparing my yelpings with the Baptist's prophetic fierceness, I was puzzled by the adjective 'dark'. Surely John was the opposite - a strong beacon of light in the midst of murky darkness. Of course, sometimes light is an unwelcome thing. The window that, at night, appears clean shows its hidden dirt when the morning sun hits it. I may prefer the illusion of darkness, and regret the light, which seems to make the window dirty. Likewise, John's light was unwelcome, exposing men's hidden, secret sins.

We like John pointing us toward Jesus, but we don't like him pointing out our sins; that seems 'dark'. The question is: can we have it both ways? Can John point us to Jesus without also pointing out our sins and our absolute need of a Savior? The present generation seems to demand this very thing... Tell me about the Good Shepherd, but don't tell me I'm a lost sheep. Tell me about God's infinite love, but not of his hatred for sin. Talk to me softly of pardon, healing, and comfort, but don't mention my need for repentance.

John, true beacon of light, doesn't offer such slick illusions. He offers light, which exposes our sins and points us toward Jesus the Savior.