The Slavery of Death: Part 28, Tapestries of Love

Before wrapping up this series, another picture of what all this looks like in practice along with some commentary regarding the relationship between love and the fear of death.

The example again comes from William Stringfellow, this time from his book A Private and a Public Faith.

How much or how often the churches are engaged in serving themselves instead of the world, that is, how far they have withdrawn from the ministry of the Body of Christ, are matters of practical consequence. For example, I had one day to fly to Boston to visit the Harvard Business School to give a lecture. I was late (some friends would say, as usual) in leaving my apartment to get out to the airport. Just as I was about to go, the telephone rang. I had not the will power not to answer it, in spite of my rush. It was a clergyman who was calling. "I have a woman in my office," he told me, "who is going to be evicted in the morning. Tell me what to do for her." I asked him a few questions and, it turned out, the grounds for the eviction were the non-payment of rent. The woman apparently had no money to pay her rent. She had, or asserted that she had, certain complaints against the landlord, but the complaints that she had were not sufficient, assuming that they could be legally established, to justify non-payment of the rent. They were no defense to the eviction, and if she wished to pursue them it would have to be done in a separate action against the landlord, apart from the eviction proceeding. By this time I was even more anxious about catching the airplane and said to the minister, "Well, sell one of your tapestries and pay the rent," and hung up and caught the plane.

On the plane I thought the telephone conversation over and thought perhaps I had been rude and too abrupt in answering the minister that way and I considered calling him back after landing to apologize. But by the time the plane landed at Logan Airport I had rejected that idea. My answer had not been rude or irresponsible. On the contrary, exactly what he and the people of his congregation, which does have several beautiful and valuable tapestries, must be free to do is to sell their tapestries to pay the rent--to pay somebody else's rent--to pay anybody's rent who can't pay their own rent. If they have that freedom, then, but only then, does the tapestry have religious significance; only then does the tapestry enrich and contribute to and express and represent the concern and care which Christians have in the name of God for the ordinary life of the world. The tapestry hanging in a church becomes and is a wholesome and holy thing, an appropriate and decent part of the scene of worship, only if the congregation which has the tapestry is free to take it down and sell it in order to feed the hungry or care for the sick or pay the rent or in any other way serve the world. The tapestry is an authentically Christian symbol only when it represents the freedom in Christ to give up any aspect of the inherited and present life of the institutional church, including, but not limited to, possessions, for the sake of the world.

This story illustrates many of the dynamics we have been discussing in this series. And as we can see, these dynamics affect both institutions, churches in this case, and individuals. The dynamic is the same for both individuals and the principalities and powers. Loving others often involves a diminishment of the self (or institution). And when survival fears are dominating we tend to put self ahead of others. We ask, quite legitimately, "If I do this for you what will happen to me?" And a church might ask, "If we do this for the poor what will happen to our church?"

What will be left?

In short, we see here how a slavery to the fear of death, a fear of our own diminishment, causes us to turn inward and away in an effort to protect the self from loss. We choose in the moment to live for ourselves rather than for others. This is why our slavery to the fear of death is the cause of Satan's hold upon us (cf. Hebrews 2.14-15), keeping us bound to sinful practices and failures of love.

To be clear, this isn't a call to sell everything and give it to the poor. Although for many Christians that is exactly what it looks like. But this isn't the focus of Stringfellow's story. The focus is on freedom. Stringfellow isn't saying that the church should actually sell the tapestry. He's saying that the church should be free to sell the tapestry. That selling the tapestry is a live and real option, always on the table. A willingness to give it way, let it go, to die to it. And that freedom is the key to everything we've been talking about in this series.

This freedom is the sign of the resurrection life, here and now. It signals the emancipation from the fear of death and victory over the devil. It means that in any given moment I am able to give my life for yours. Mostly in small ways, but even in the the biggest way possible, literally giving my life to save yours. That is the ultimate expression of love. As Jesus said, "Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends." And that, in fact, is how we know Christ loved us. And we follow his example:

1 John 3.16
This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers.

As we let this notion settle over us I'm guessing a fear will begin to take hold of you. It takes hold of me. What will happen to me if I were to live this way? The fear of death rises up within me and I draw back. My slavery to the fear of death suddenly becomes very real and apparent. I can feel its chains all around me, choking me and holding me back. And I know this to be the devil's work.

Wretched man that I am. Who will rescue me from this body that is subject to death?

There have been many within the Christian tradition who have achieved escape velocity from the fear of death. St. Francis, whose medal I wear around my neck, was one of those. In an instant he stripped himself naked and left it all behind. He was free.

Me? I've not reached escape velocity. I have a mortgage to pay. A family I need to support. I still work on self-esteem projects (e.g., How many books have I sold?) to feel meaning in the face of death. And St. Paul was right. These things make me anxious and preoccupied with the things of this world.

But I can struggle toward greater freedom, toward greater love. I can, moment by moment, allow the resurrection to move more fully and deeply into my life. And I cherish these small victories, hoping they come easier as I move further along the journey of sanctification, learning to become like Jesus in this world.

This series is not a call to sainthood, though it could be that. It is, rather, a psychological analysis about the path toward sainthood. About what is going on, moment by moment, in the Christian life. It is about the fundamental struggle involved in learning to love others. This series started with an inversion. We tend to think that sin is the cause of death. And no doubt it is. But we've been working in the reverse direction, death as the cause of sin--"the sting of death is sin" (1 Cor. 15.56). And this approach highlights the fact that our day to day struggles as Christians aren't really moral struggles. They are struggles with fear, fears of our diminishment and loss if we truly begin to love others. The fears cause the moral failures. "The sting of death is sin." That is the heart of the Christian struggle, the battle to overcome fear. To allow perfect love to cast out fear.

The goal of this series is simply to lay all this bare. To show, very clearly, what is going on in our day to day choices as Christians. How we are choosing either love or giving into fear. How we are always pitting self-preservation and self-esteem (the neurotic facet of self-preservation) against doing something for others. Will I sell my tapestry for you? Am I free to do that? Am I able to "die" to the tapestry so that you might live? Tapestries of time, money, patience, attention, care, advocacy, kindness, and welcome? Am I able to lower myself to wash your feet? Am I able to turn the other cheek? Will I take the last place at the table (be that "table" at home, workplace, church, or nation) so that you may have the first place? Am I able to empty myself, as Christ did, to take on the form of a servant? Even to the point of death?

Can I overcome my fear of loss, damage, diminishment--and even death itself--to love you?

This, I think, is what Paul was talking about in 2 Corinthians 4, the root dynamic of the martyrological identity. How he was learning to die--to undergo, in large and small ways, the diminishment of the self--in order to give life to others.

2 Corinthians 4.10-12
We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that his life may also be revealed in our mortal body. So then, death is at work in us, but life is at work in you.

That is emancipation from the slavery of death, living as if death were not. Those who are truly alive allow themselves, moment by moment and choice by choice, to be given over to death to love and give life to others. And in this sacrifice the life of Jesus becomes revealed in us. We have lost our life only to truly find it.

In this world, perhaps only for a moment today, we become like Jesus--the Resurrected and Deathless One--the One who conquered sin, death, and the devil.

Amen and Amen.

(Picture Note: the picture above is Mother Teresa meeting Dorothy Day, two pretty good examples of saints emancipated from the fear of death for the sake of the world.)