Faith
does not happen in a vacuum.
It
happens in the mix and muddle of human life.
As
Robert Frost said,
“Earth is the right place for love.
I don’t know where it’s likely to go
better.”
So
faith happens in our actual lives,
our private lives and our public
affairs alike.
But
both our private lives and public affairs
are driven by forces other than
faith.
This
past week the bishops of the Episcopal Church
have been struggling to sort out the
place of faith
in the national debate over
immigration.
That
debate is driven by quite different forces.
The
non-faith principles, which are not necessarily bad --
just secular --
are in head to head conflict.
On
the one hand, we have free market capitalism
which most Americans believe in.
Since
the rise of capitalism in the 17th, 18th, and 19th
Centuries,
it has depended on a freely mobile
labor force
– people able to go
where the jobs are.
Serfs
had to be able to leave the rural manors
to go to urban factories to make the
economy work.
On
the other side, we also believe in nationalism.
Nations
define themselves with borders
and protect the wealth inside the
borders
from those on the
outside.
The
Dominican Republic where there are jobs
guards its borders against Haitians
who come there for work.
The
same thing happens in France, Ecuador,
and numerous nations.
One
could interject facts and statistics to argue
for one side or the other
on the immigration
debate.
But
facts are the business of economists and sociologists.
Certainly,
people ought to learn the facts.
But
the Church is here to teach faith,
to uphold spiritual and moral values
which are the framework for what we
do with the facts.
The
voice of faith in the immigration debate is bigger than one issue.
It
speaks to our whole way of being in the world.
So
faith cannot say anything about immigration
that does not also say something
about
how we live our lives as
congregations and as individuals
in our families, our
friendships, and our daily work.
In
today’s Gospel, Jesus tells the story of the rich man and Lazarus.
It
does not say how the rich man got rich. It doesn’t matter.
It
does not say how Lazarus became poor. It doesn’t matter.
What
matters is the wall the rich man built to keep Lazarus out.
Lazarus
longed “to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man’s table.”
But
the wall kept him out.
In
the next life, Lazarus was comforted in heaven.
The
rich man was tormented in Hades.
We
don’t know why the rich man was tormented in Hades.
It
doesn’t say it was for his callous disregard of Lazarus.
That
might be -- it but we don’t know.
What
we do know is that the rich man wanted Lazarus
to come give him some relief, to
show him some mercy.
But Lazarus could not do it.
He
could not come to the rich man’s aid
because “a great chasm had been
fixed between them.”
The
unspoken point is that it was the rich man
who had fixed the great chasm, built
the wall,
locked the gate.
Now
he found himself on the wrong side of it.
This
Gospel lesson could say something about immigration.
Or
it could tell us about the gated communities
in which so many of us live. I do.
Or
it could say something about the walls of righteous rules
we use to hoard our own moral
superiority
from the folks on the
outside.
There
is a spiritual problem that keeps building walls.
It
built the Berlin Wall.
It
built the Great Walls of China and Peru.
It
built Hadrian’s Wall to keep barbarians out of the Roman Empire.
You
can look at them now and see it isn’t a successful track record
that keeps us erecting walls.
It’s
something inside us.
It’s
the same spiritual problem that builds walls around human hearts
to protect us from the vulnerability
of caring too much about
too many.
Jesus
keeps saying all through Luke
that we can build our walls,
but there is no guarantee which side
of the wall
we will wake up on
tomorrow.
Life
is a terribly uncertain proposition with lots of ups and downs.
Shakespeare
said that in most of his plays.
Frank
Sinatra said it in one of his classics:
“That’s life. That’s what all the
people say.
You’re riding high in April, shot
down in May.
But I know I’m gonna change that
tune
When I’m back on top in June.
I said, ‘That’s life.’”
The spiritual problem
that builds walls
is our notion that we can stop all that upping and
downing.
We think we can build a
wall to keep the workers out or the jobs in.
We think we can build a
wall around our families
to make them little islands of wholesome tranquility
in cities beset by crime, poverty, and
addiction.
But the walls don’t work.
Life is life and life
moves no matter how hard
we try to wall it in or wall it out.
The moral of the story in
Luke
is that walls imprison us.
They cut us off from each
other
and we need each other.
The stranger is the
unknown part of ourselves.
We cannot wall out risk
without walling out blessing.
To open the gates of
our hearts is to risk
caring too much for too many.
I don’t know what we
ought to do about any public policy.
Others know more about
economics and such.
But I do know that as
long as we have walls around our hearts
we will keep building them around our nation
and our neighborhoods.
We will wall ourselves in
and wall life out.
We began by quoting
Robert Frost,
“Earth’s the right place for love . . . .”
He also said,
“Something there is that doesn’t love a wall . . . .
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall . . . .”
