Love is not a warm smooshy feeling, but a decision, an action, and an orientation. (Listen.)
Perhaps you’ve seen About a Boy, which is really about two boys, or maybe more. One is twelve-year-old Marcus, growing up in precarious circumstances. The other is the beautifully named Will Freeman. Will is a man-child whose wealth has insulated him from other people, and from life itself. Yet through one of his most selfish decisions, he’s thrown into the path of young Marcus; and Marcus begins to make demands on him.
Will is not best pleased, shall we say, especially when things develop and he is challenged to take responsibility for this relationship. ‘No man is an island,’ says a sanctimonious friend. ‘She’s right, you know,’ says the uber-cool waiter standing over them. ‘No, she’s not, she’s wrong!’ shouts Will. ‘Some men are islands. I’m a bloody island. I’m bloody Ibiza!’
Paradoxically perhaps, I was reminded of this scene by today’s story. Jesus is teaching in the temple when some Pharisees come to test him. ‘Which commandment in the Torah is the greatest?’ they ask. He replies, ‘‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.’ (Matthew 22:36-40).
There’s a tendency among some Christians to portray Jesus as a friendly, harmless, spineless chap with boundary issues: perhaps because that’s about as deep as they have ever gone with love. But when Jesus talks love, he’s not referring to a mild benevolence. Nor is he referring to a warm feeling which might wash over someone, or a personal preference for connection, or something which simply happens. It’s not passive; it’s not smooshy. Instead, Jesus describes love as a commandment. That is, it’s a decision and an action, an orientation towards God and others that we choose.
But what decisions, what actions, are loving? In today’s text, Jesus describes love as the linchpin of the law and prophets; in the sermon on the mount, he sets out what fulfilling the law and prophets, i.e. love, actually looks like. That is, it’s the work of justice and peacemaking, confession and reconciliation. It’s sticking at committed relationships through thick and thin. It’s speaking truthfully, without prevarication. It’s refusing to retaliate when we are attacked, and choosing instead to love and pray for our enemies. And it’s sharing our material possessions so that everyone can thrive. (You’ll find all this in Matthew chapters five and six.)
Love like this is deeply countercultural. Seeking justice, working for peace, speaking truth to power, refusing to retaliate and wanting the best for our enemies requires courage and wholehearted commitment. The Israel-Palestine war, or any situation of colonization, reveals just how demanding this work is, especially for those with little to no power.
Indeed, there’s nothing meek and mild about it and Jesus himself, the embodiment of love, is passionate and even angry at times. He overturns the tables of the moneychangers in the temple; he confounds the legalistic gameplaying of religious leaders; he rebukes those who abuse their privilege and do not place love at the centre of their lives. He reveals an assertive and sometimes formidable presence as he touches and heals vulnerable people, identifies and casts out demons, names difficult truths, and challenges the powerful to turn towards the precarious, and thus towards God.
None of this, not even the anger, is incompatible with love. Instead, it shows that to love like Jesus is to be deeply involved. Jesus cares about people. He grieves; he reaches out; he goes into new territories and makes friends with strangers, even people who at first glance might seem opposed to God. He is frustrated and angered by stone cold hearts; he extends himself again and again for the sake of stranger, enemy and friend. And through it all, he holds onto the love that he knows to be true, even as it leads to conflict, persecution, and ultimately the cross. There’s nothing half-hearted about him, and this whole-hearted loving extension of himself is what he demands of us.
From time to time I am asked why the church in the West is falling apart. There are many reasons; but one, I think, is wealth, and the absence of love that this all too often engenders. Of course, there’s the gross institutional wealth which can utterly corrupt and divide. But at a congregational level, particularly in a place like Sanctuary which has almost no assets, our challenge is the wealth of the Australian middle class.
For all the cost-of-living grumbles, we live in great prosperity. We have our own houses and gardens and often multiple cars; we go on intercity, interstate and overseas trips; we have devices and streaming services galore; we eat three times a day and feed our pets well and have access to decent healthcare. It’s a caricature with more than a grain of truth to say that, when we need reassurance, we don’t call a friend; we pay for professional counselling.
And so, much more than we like to admit, we live for the most part independently. Our wealth means we don’t need each other in urgent, material, daily ways to share what we have to survive. And the things wealth buys—the privacy, the travel, the entertainment, the professional services—can distract us from our hunger for connection and insulate us from relationships. Like Will in About a Boy, we can be bloody Ibiza.
When I leave and Sanctuary closes, the easy path will be to retreat further into private life. It will be to walk away from the challenge of connection with the wider church. It will be to stick with familiar folk who are very much like ourselves, and to avoid the demands of anyone much outside family or professional relationships.
But the Jesus we meet in Matthew’s account requires more from us. He calls us to get involved with other people in ways which can make us uncomfortable. He expects us to stand with those who need a friend, and to speak up to those who would destroy them. He asks us to reach beyond human boundaries to bring together the precarious, the stranger, the weak, the shamed, the possessed and even the religious, drawing them into an ever-widening circle of care.
And to those who think all this is optional, Jesus is clear: There is no difference between this work and the wholehearted love of God. Implied here, and made explicit in Matthew 25: for Jesus, love of God and love of neighbour, especially the precarious and the vulnerable, are inseparable. And so, whatever happens, I hope and pray that the people of Sanctuary find a way to continue this work together.
So what’s the payoff?
The final scene in About a Boy finds Will in his apartment, flopped on a couch with his feet up. It’s Christmas. In former years, he has spent the day getting drunk and stoned and watching old movies alone. Here, Frankenstein is on the telly; Will raises a beer to his lips. But as the shot pans out, we see that this year things are different.
Around him, half a dozen people are bustling. Where formerly he was alone, now he has a tribe: young Marcus, a beloved Rachel, some profoundly irritating new friends, and even a virtual stranger whom he’s invited to the feast. Will has risen to the challenge. He has let his heart be cracked open by the demands and needs of others. It was slow, it was painful, even humiliating at times, it involved truth-telling, confession, repentance, and change, it hurt like merry hell—and he still has a long way to go. But right now he’s being called, for dinner is ready.
The banqueting table of heaven awaits. Ω
Loving God, again and again crack our hearts wide open: to each other, to the stranger, and to You: that we may feast at your heavenly table with an ever-widening circle of friends. In the name of Christ, guest, host and bread: Amen.
A reflection by Alison Sampson on Matthew 22:34-46 given to Sanctuary on 29 October 2023 © Sanctuary 2023 (Year A Proper 25). Photo by Ben Mater on Unsplash (edited). Sanctuary is based on Peek Whurrong country. Acknowledgement of country here.
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