Love at Arm's Length--April 2, 2020

Love at Arm's Length--April 2, 2020

[Jesus said to his disciples:] "But now I am going to him who sent me; yet none of you asks me, 'Where are you going?' But because I have said these things to you, sorrow has filled your hearts. Nevertheless I tell you the truth: it is to your advantage that I go away, for if I do not go away, the Advocate will not come to you; but if I go, I will send him to you." [John 16:5-7]

It is hard to understand how "going away" can be a sign of love.  It is hard to watch someone else "go away" and tell you it is for the best... and it is hard to be the one who is "going" and to have to say it. That's true whether it's for a long time apart, like watching kids graduate and go off to college or move out, or move across the country, or even for just a work day, as little faces press their noses against the glass of the front windows to watch you leave for the day at work.  

There is something that pulls at us to want to be in the same place with those we love.  We want to be with them when they are scared, or with them when we are scared.  We would rather be in the hospital able to wait with loved ones than to have to stay away for fear of contagion.  We would rather be able to see our friends face to face rather than on screens, or through masks, or just to trade words with them in email and text messages.  It is hard to wrap our minds--or our hearts--around the notion that "going away" could be the most necessary shape of love sometimes.  And it is hard to believe the paradox that sometimes a person's absence is actually a way their love can be most present for us.

Of course, if we give it a moment's thought, it does make sense that there can be times when the best way to love people is not to be literally with them, but to have to "go away," whether for a long or short time.  Most grown-ups with kids that I know don't go to their jobs simply for the sheer fun of it, but in order to earn money that feeds the family and puts a roof over their heads.  Most parents I know don't choose to wash dishes after dinner rather than sit on the couch with their kids to watch TV because the dirty casserole dish is so luxurious and inviting, but because serving is often what love looks like.  For that matter, every soldier worth their salt  that has to go off to war does it, not because they think it will be fun, but because they love people back home and wish to protect them.  The people I know whose jobs have been deemed "essential" go, despite their anxiety about being exposed to the virus, because they care about their community, about their family, and about being able to provide for others.

And with those things in mind, maybe we can see more easily than we thought at first how absence really can sometimes be for the good of those we miss--how "going away" or "keeping your distance" really can be the form love has to take from time to time in life.  Maybe what we hadn't considered was how deeply we are loved by Christ Jesus that he felt that sorrow himself, and was willing to endure it anyway.

That's part of what makes this kind of love so painful and also so poignant. If you are the one who has to be away--whether to go to work, to serve in a public duty, or to keep your distance to prevent sickness--you not only have to have the wisdom to see that you need to be away from those you love, but you have to find the strength to make the hard choice to do it.  And you have to be willing to bear the pain that you might be perceived as the villain rather than the hero for doing it.  There were plenty of times when my kids were younger that I was held at the front door for another round of, "Why do you have to go to work, Daddy?" And in those moments, you have to learn how to be willing to absorb the pain of not being with the ones whom you love, and to be willing to bear some of their hurt and anger than you are the one leaving.  Those moments are hard enough--but to imagine Rabbi Jesus telling his closest friends that he was going, because death was in store for him...that's more than I could handle.

Jesus, however, always keeps his clarity about why he is doing what he is doing.  He knows that the path of love doesn't always mean doing the things that other people "like" or want him to do... and the path of love doesn't necessarily (or even very often) mean doing what is fun or easy.  And this is one of those times, as he stares down the reality of the cross, that he knows he is going to have to leave his closest friends, willingly, and to bear the lost and confused looks on their faces as he does.  

But he goes anyway--he does it, because he is strong enough to go away, strong enough to bear his friends being upset over the situation and maybe blaming him for it, and strong enough to put their well-being over their good feelings.  And maybe that is the real measure of self-giving love: that you are willing to do what is best for the beloved, even if neither you nor those you love "like" it, because it is what brings them to life, or preserves their life.  Doing the thing the other person wants, just because they want it, is honestly a pretty easy thing to do--you get brownie points for it, and you get to pat yourself on the back.  But the harder thing is to do what you know is for the well-being of someone you love, even if you feel more like a heel than a hero for doing it.

This is an important part of what the Passion of our Lord is really all about. Jesus was willing to put distance between himself and us--like getting strung up a few feet in the air above us all while he was nailed to a cross--and to do it, not while we cheered and appreciated what he was doing for us all, but while the world mocked him, turned its back on him, and assumed he was a fraud or a criminal for staying up on that cross instead of coming down.  Part of God's sacrifice at the cross is that God risks us mistaking God for the villain--God runs the risk that we'll misunderstand Golgotha and assume that an angry deity needs to be fed with blood sacrifice and demands a pound of flesh in order to arbitrarily waive the punishment for sinners, or that Jesus must really be a false messiah because he lets himself get killed rather than zapping his enemies with lightning from his fingers or laser-beams from his eyes.  At the cross, and even in the hours before Good Friday as Jesus prepares his friends for his departure, Jesus bears the burden of loving us from a distance, even when we don't understand and think him wicked or aloof for keeping that distance.  Jesus bears the cross and this farewell to his friends, not because he is too weak to find another way, but because he is strong enough to bear this one--even if we find ourselves pressing our faces against the glass and wondering, "Why do you have to go?" as he takes each step away from the door.  He is willing to risk that we will accuse him of staying at arm's length, because we do not see that is the shape of the crucifixion... which is to say, it is the shape of love.

This is how you and I are loved, dear ones.  This is what it is to be loved by the God we meet at the cross.  Any old deity can earn praise and favor for doling out a good harvest or answering someone's prayer like a genie granting a wish--but it takes a strong sort of God indeed to do what is best for preserving our lives, even when we don't understand or like it, and even if we think God is abandoning us as it happens.  That is how strong Jesus is--he is strong enough, wise enough, and loves fiercely enough, not to have to be seen as a hero, but to love us from the distance we need at the moment, even the distance of six feet up off the ground on a cross, or six feet in the ground as he bears death for us.

Remember today how you are loved--even if it doesn't feel like it sometimes or if we don't like the shape it takes.  Remember today, too, that sometimes we are called to love people at a distance, because that is their real need, even if not our preference.  

Remember how you are loved.

Lord Jesus, love us in the ways you see that we need it, even if we do not understand or like it.  Raise us to fuller life in the places we are mired in death.  Thank you for loving us as we need, even if not in the ways we think we want it.