Here is a parable adapted from The Orthodox Heretic (Paraclete, 2009) by philosopher and theologian Peter Rollins. which invites us into deeper reflection on our Lenten journey:
In the center of a great city there was a spectacular cathedral cared for by a gentle old priest who spent all his time praying and caring for the poor. Because of the priest's tireless work, the cathedral became known throughout the land as a real sanctuary -- a place where all who come find a true welcome. To the priest, every stranger who visited was a neighbor in need and therefore the presence of Christ. His hospitality was notorious and everyone experienced the purity of his heart.
Early one winter evening, during a great snow storm, while the priest was in prayer, there was a loud and ominous knock on the cathedral door. "Boom, boom, boom..." it echoed throughout the corridors. The priest got to his feet and quickly walked to the entrance, since he knew it was a blizzard out there and thought this visitor would be in need of shelter.
When the priest opened the door he witnessed before him a terrifying demon, towering over him with huge, black dead eyes and stinking, rotting flesh. "Old man," hissed the demon, "I have traveled a thousand miles to seek your shelter. Will you welcome me in?"
Promptly, the priest intently welcomed the demon into the church. The hideous demon stooped down and stepped across the threshold, spitting venom onto to floor as he walked. Right in front of the priest, the demon began tearing down the various icons and fine linens adorning the sanctuary, all the while shouting blasphemies and curses. The priest simply prayed silently on the floor continuing his devotions until it was time to retire for the night.
"Old man, where are you going?," growled the demon.
"I'm going home to rest," said the priest.
"May I come with you? I too am tired and need a place to lay my head for the night," spat the demon.
"Of course," replied the priest. "Come over and I'll fix us some dinner."
The priest cooked them a simple meal while the demon mocked him and trashed all the religious artifacts in his humble abode. After dinner the demon turned to the priest, "Old man, you welcomed me first into your church and then into your home. Now, will you welcome me into your own heart?"
Of course," said the priest, "what I have is yours and what I am is yours."
The honesty and warmth of these words stopped the demon cold, since by giving everything the priest had kept the very thing the demon wanted to take: his compassion and hospitality. So the demon fled with defeat, never to return.
No one knows what actually happened to the demon after this encounter. But, the priest? Well, he just got into bed, drifted off to sleep, pondering what form his Christ would take next.
At first glance, this seems to be a simple story about the moral importance of kindness. Yet, the more I dig deeper and continue reflecting on this parable the more it transforms into a call pushing me to the very edges of my Christian faith. It beckons my gaze to the limits and conditions of love and hospitality.
Many speak about the "unconditional love of God," which surely seems to be demonstrated allegorically here in this parable, the kindly priest embodying the limitless, unconditional compassion and welcome of God's Kin-dom, even in the face of the worst in this world. Yet, this story brings to our attention the many ways in which we simply don't (or simply aren't able yet) live out the radical love of God as imaged in the life of Jesus Christ. What or who are the "demons" in our lives, those things, events, people, etc. that are so hard to love and welcome into our lives as Jesus did?
At the same time we know that the Kin-dom love of Jesus isn't about agreeing with everything and everyone we encounter. This love isn't even really about being nice all the time. Jesus recognized times when he needed to wake people up to God and the way of the Kin-dom by being rather biting in his critique of people and the systems of oppression in which they were complicit (e.g., overturning tables of money-changers and those buying and selling doves - Mk. 11:15–19, Mt. 21:12–17, Lk. 19:45–48; Jn. 2:13–16). There were times he even came to the point of calling them names to roust them out of their complacent slumber -- "fools" (Mt. 23:17), "hypocrites" (Lk. 11:44), "vipers" (Mt. 23:33), "whitewashed tombs" (Mt. 23:27). It is possible to love people without always agreeing with them or condoning morally reprehensible behavior and activity.
Even so, this parable stetches us beyond our comfort zones and beyond the fuzzy warm feelings of what it means to live inclusively. None of this is easy. Love is not always easy.
The question remains for me: To what extent am I personally and are we as the church (the Body of Christ) collectively able to welcome those who are different from and maybe even have views that are hateful or contemptible to us? What are the limits and conditions of our inclusivity and welcome?
The apostle Paul tells us, "For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord." (Romans 8:38-39)
Jesus Christ shows us that God's Spirit calls and empowers us to continually find new ways of loving others, enacting God's love, even when we dislike their views or conduct. Indeed, we are not called to ignore inequality and injustice, but rather advocate for equality and justice in the name of Jesus. And, the love of God in Christ refocuses our vision to see through these realities into the core truth of imago dei -- that each and every one of us as a human being is a beloved child of God with integrity and self-worth.
May we more fully live into this spiritual insight during our Lenten walk.
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