The Church of Christ: Yesterday and Today . . .

THE CHURCH AS A SENSITIVE COMMUNITY

Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.—Mt. 5:5

In turning through a portfolio of pictures of Pablo Picasso, I was impressed by one that showed his face twisted in agony as he looked upon some untoward situation. The photographer explained that it was a candid shot, taken when the artist suddenly came upon a scene of human suffering. The picture revealed the soul of an artist, one who struggles to capture his innermost feelings upon a piece of rude canvass. Robert Frost says something about “unless the heart of a poet breaks . . .”

The soul of the church should be something like that. In looking upon Picasso’s anguished face or in reading Frost’s troubled poetry, one has to say, He cares. The world must see this as it looks into the face of the church or as it hears its message, or better still as it sees those actions that speak louder than words. If the church is not a sensitive community, it can hardly bear Christ’s likeness. Isaiah saw the Messiah not only as a suffering servant, but as “a man of sorrows,” one ready to be “pierced for our transgressions, tortured for our iniquities. “

If any picture of Jesus in scripture is clear, it is that he is one who cares and cares deeply. It was something that went far beyond sympathy, and even empathy does not seem to describe it. It was apparent to all troubled souls that Jesus cared, and so they found their way to mm. Be always had both time and heart. No one bored him and no problem was too slight. Children, women, the poor, prostitutes, and even the lowly publicans and lepers found grace and acceptance in his presence. He was sensitive to poverty, disease, injustice, loneliness. Isaiah saw him as having been “assigned a grave with the wicked, a burial-place among the refuse of mankind,” which was consistent with his life in that he ministered as quickly to society’s outcasts as to anyone else.

Most people of his day threw stones at lepers if they came too close, but Jesus both welcomed them into his presence and ministered to their needs. While most Jews were careful both to thank God that they were not a woman and to make sure that they did not so much as speak to one in public, Jesus not only initiated conversations with these non-persons but accepted them as his companions. Even his disciples could not find time for a noisy gang of kids and were content to shew them away, while Jesus not only found time but saw in them the likeness of the kingdom that he had come to reveal. And who was more despised than the publicans, those tax-gatherers that dared to fellowship official Rome? Jesus not only entered into their homes and dined with them, but was able to see the Spirit of God in them as much, if not more, than in those who rejected them.

The story of Jesus is one of a sensitive world, even if it was a religious world. Religion is often not only insensitive but even cruel and calloused. It was “righteous” men who dragged a girl from her companion into the presence of Jesus, charging her with sin. It was of course the proper thing to do, for she was guilty of adultery, and was by all means beneath them. But Jesus was more impressed with their sins than with hers. His invitation was an unlikely one for a rabbi or preacher: “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.” Some-how they picked up his radar and realized that he knew of their sins even more than they knew of those of the girl they accused, and so they excused themselves, one by one, and interestingly enough, from the eldest to the youngest.

What was there about him that was so different? His sensitivity. Not that he was self-concerned, but that he took people seriously. That poor girl must have seen it, once again alone with a man, a young, handsome man, but one so unlike any that she had ever met before. His interest in her was differ-ent from what she had been used to. He wanted her without wanting her body. It may well have been with a touch of humor that he asked her what had happened to her accusers (as if he didn’t know!), for he went on to say what might be paraphrased as: “We can’t have court without as many as two or three witnesses, so I suppose I’ll have to, dismiss this case!” My, my what a liberal he was! And what thoughts she must have had when she heard him say, “Neither will I serve as a witness against you. Go and sin no more”!

What she saw in Jesus is what the world must see in us. The compassion evident in his face and demeanor must have been something else. We are to thank God for the picture that comes across in scripture, however limited it may be. Thank God for Mt. 9:36: “When he saw the multitudes, he was moved with compassion for them, for they were like sheep without a shepherd, harassed and helpless.” And thank God for the story of Jesus and the widow of Nain, who appears in scripture bearing her son to his burial. “When the Lord saw her his heart went out to her.” (Lk. 7:13), an incident that says so much about Jesus. He was out there in the world of heartache and grief, and he was sensitive to what he saw.

And there’s that beautiful passage that is known mostly for its brevity, Jesus wept. The presence of death and anguish touched his heart. He had the power to act positively amidst the human predicament, but not before he wept. Maybe it is this that the world needs to see in the church. Action to be sure, but let it not be without tears. We call Jeremiah the weeping prophet, and not without reason, for he felt deeply for God’s people: “My eyes must stream with tears, for the Lord’s flock is carried away into captivity” (13:17). We may well need weeping prophets and for the same reason. We can somehow take all too lightly both the secularism and the party ism in the church. Another prophet addressed himself to that: “You who loll on beds inlaid with ivory and sprawl over your couches, feasting on lambs from the flock, and fatted calves, who pluck the strings of the lute and invent musical instruments like David, you who drink wine by the bowlful and lard yourselves with the richest of oils, but are not grieved at the ruin of Joseph” (Amos 6:4-6).

The prophet names our sin: amidst our comforts we are not grieved in the face of ruin.

Perhaps we have lost our sense of awe in the presence of God and nature. If Plato could say that philosophy begins in wonder, it is not amiss to suggest that religion begins with concern. Three books should inspire us: the book of nature, the book of human nature, and the book of God. And these in turn should motivate us not only to know more and more but to serve in building a better world. We must be more sensitive to the implications of corporate worship. It is a bad sign when we sing hymns with but little thought of the words and break bread as a matter of common-place, not to mention allowing our minds to wander as we pray to the Father. Sermons are often spoken with a hands-in-vest manner and listened to only halfheartedly. We have lost the sense of urgency in both worship and ministry. Truth must be vital to us, especially in reference to easing human misery.

Concerned believers reach out to the world around them with warm hearts. They may not be of the world, but they are in it, and they are to love it as God loved it and gave His son for it. They may not necessarily be political animals, but they are sympathetic to the political processes, realizing that the powers that be are ordained of God. They will be as quick to pray for a President in trouble as to loll in the frivolity of destructive criticism. They will be out in the world where the action is—its schools, homes, businesses, institutions—and will not withdraw into a parochial world that is safe and untainted. They will feel human suffering at the gut level and put forth a warm sound. Light and salt are figures that Jesus used, but light is to be turned on in dark places and salt preserves and saves only when applied.

We have our outcast society as much as Jesus did. Many of our aged ones are well nigh forgotten, turned over as they are to the government and homes for senior citizens, largely ignored by kin and the church alike. It is to our shame that the government is looked to for succor more than are the saints of God, and who can expect any real feeling in what the government does? Oppression, loneliness, rejection, poverty do not take the same dress in every age, but they are always with us. Even boredom can be terribly burdensome and we all have it in us to be part of the answer to that problem.

In that beatitude Jesus tells us what he wants the church to be: Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted. This is so different from worldly philosophy, which tells us to forget our troubles and not to be bothered with other people’s. To that worldly standard Jesus says, expressing the idea in other terms: “Woe to you that laugh now, for ye shall mourn and weep.” The believer’s stance before the world is not to be giddy and jovial, but rather that quiet joy that is sensitive to the crucial issues of human existence. We are to be mourners, not in a physical sense, but in terms of being gravely and deeply concerned for man’s predicament.

This means we must be more sensitive of the gravity of sin, our own as well as the world’s. Our sense of sin may well be defective, which causes a shallow idea of joy. We are to mourn in the face of our own helplessness and sinfulness, realizing that there is no hope if we are left to ourselves. And we sorrow for a world that knows not God and honors not His son.

As a sensitive community we are sorrowful but not morose, serious but not solemn, sober but not sullen. And so our joy is that in Jesus we find our sufficiency. Though “a man of sorrows” Jesus endured the cross “for the joy that was set before him.” He is our comfort, which he promises us, but comfort has meaning only to a community that is acquainted with the raw edges of life and mourns for a world yet unredeemed.—the Editor