Tests

Then when the Pharisees heard that the Sadducees had been silenced by him, they gathered themselves, ³⁵ and one of them, a Torah expert, confronted him with a test, ³⁶ “Teacher, which directive in the Torah is most important?” ³⁷ “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your being, and with all your way of thinking,’” he stated. ³⁸ “This is the first and most important directive, ³⁹ and the second is equivalent to it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ ⁴⁰ All the Hebrew Scriptures hang on these two directives.” ⁴¹ Then, while the Pharisees were still gathered, Jesus challenged them, ⁴² “What do you think about the Messiah? Whose heir is he?” “David’s,” they said. ⁴³ He said to them, “Then how did David, connected with the Life-breath, call him ‘lord’ when he said, ⁴⁴ ‘The Lord said to my lord, “Sit at my right hand until those who are hostile toward you are under your feet”’? ⁴⁵ If David calls him ‘lord,’ how is he his heir?” ⁴⁶ No one was able to say a word in answer to him, and from that day on, no one dared to question him anymore.
— Matthew 22:34–46 (LIT)
https://www.litbible.net/matthew-22#v34-46

I was once part of an ordination panel.

It was a group of pastors and lay people (one of each from each church represented) gathered together to determine if a candidate was acceptable to be ordained.

You could tell the candidate was nervous. Who wouldn’t be, being peppered with questions of theological weight and complexity? I remember that the candidate did well and was affirmed for ordination.

What I’m thinking about today is the kind of questions we asked him. The questions were all about theology, correcting and defending against heresy, preaching hard truth, and doctrine. It makes sense that you would want someone in charge of preaching and teaching to be orthodox… but…

What about the pastoral questions? Questions about how he would comfort someone in grief. Questions about how to sit in solidarity with someone’s pain. What about the questions about how to help someone heal from religious trauma?

These types of questions were absent, and looking back, I can see the glaring holes they left.

Theological questions can only get us so far.

But they are easy to fall back on.

Whenever I encounter someone who claims to be a Christian, I want to grill them for their theology, determining if they are a safe believer or not based upon the doctrine and theology they espouse. It’s honestly a fairly shitty instinct. But I was raised to believe that if you got your theology right, then you were a good Christian, orthodox, and a true believer, and some instincts die hard.

But questions about theology aren’t always loving.

Doctrine isn’t pastoral care, and theology isn’t shepherding the soul.

I’m not a priest or a pastor, so I can’t speak to the experiences of people who are. But, I am a spiritual director, and I know that one of the challenges I have found in my own experience of working with a spiritual director is breaking the shield of theological thought that I use to keep my soul protected from vulnerability.

When I enter into a spiritual companionship with someone, it would be easy to attempt to give them all the answers. But that’s not what soul care is about. Truth is, my answers may not be yours. Spiritual care is about moving beyond doctrinal language and theological walls and letting the soul speak to God, to listen to what God says, what we say to ourselves, and to explore the meaning of this spiritual conversation.

But we want theological certainties and answers. They are how we define who we can embrace and who we can exclude. They give us the people that are in and those that are out. Hard, fundamental, concrete answers to deep questions give us a feeling of superiority when we get them right. We become the arbitrators of orthodoxy because we know the answers.

The knights of orthodoxy came to test Jesus.

Jesus had just “silenced” the Sadducees and their “gotcha” question about resurrection. So, the religious leaders gathered, and one of them, a lawyer, a specialized student of Torah, stepped up to the microphone.

“Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?”

This wasn’t a friendly question or one that was given to invite conversation and wrestling with the text. This was a test. Was Jesus orthodox or not? Did Jesus have the right answers? Whose side was he on? Ultimately, this was a question that could determine if Jesus was someone the religious leaders could let be (especially as the people considered him a prophet at this point) or if he was going to be a problem of heretical proportions.

The lawyer set a test for Jesus. Out of all the commandments, what was the greatest?

Without blinking, Jesus tells those gathered, “Love God with the core of your being, your life force, and all your understanding. This is the first, the greatest commandment. And the second commandment is just like it. Love your neighbor as if you are loving yourself. Everything the scriptures say are wrapped up in these two commandments.”

Jesus doesn’t answer in order to pass the test. Jesus answers to speak the truth that God had woven into the law and the prophets: love God and love people is what is asked of us all.

Jesus wasn’t about to debate the commandments, tossing out ideas in hopes that it would appease the gathered religious leaders. Jesus simply told the truth. Loving God is the fits commandment, and the second is just like it. You can’t love God and not love your neighbor.

That’s why we care about the fascism that is taking over our country.

That’s why we protest the brutality and disregard for the law that ICE wields.

That’s why we vote in an attempt to get blatant corruption and racism out of our government.

That’s why we push for open borders and easier paths to documentation for all immigrants.

That’s why we give a damn about legislation against Trans folk.

That’s why we push for gun reform, for defunding the police, for harm reduction resources for addicts…

When we do things politically, we need to think about our neighbor because this is a tangible way we are loving them, and by doing that, we are loving God.

Voting for your neighbor’s good is loving God.

Mutual aid is loving God.

Cleaning your friend’s house when they are depressed is loving God.

Naming our white supremacy and patriarchy is loving God.

Standing and acting against rape culture is loving God.

Get the picture?

It’s not just about soup kitchens and backpacks. It’s what we choose to do with our time, our voice, our money. These are the tools we have in a capitalistic society to help people, and if we don’t use them to help people, we are failing to love God.

Jesus didn’t answer in order to pass a test, but his answer tests us all.

Faith isn’t about theology or orthodoxy. It is trust, and the question under all of this is do we trust Jesus to tell us the truth?

Are we asking hypothetical questions of God? Are we trying to justify our positions so we can retain a sense of superiority? Are we testing God and neighbor?

There’s plenty of theology to wrestle with. Hell, Jesus gives us a conundrum in the very next verses. But no matter what the answer is to Psalm 110’s riddle, what we know is this: whatever the Bible says, whatever theology teaches, whatever orthodoxy demands of us, first and foremost we are called to love God by loving our neighbor. On this hangs all doctrine, theology, orthodoxy, worship, liturgy, study, baptism, sacraments… everything that makes up the life of a believer hangs on loving God and loving your neighbor.

This isn’t a test.

This is the real thing.