Irish Alzheimer's

Second Sunday of Advent 2015, Year C

The Rev'd Dr Richard Smith

You may have heard me mention that peculiar form of Alzheimer's that afflicts Irish people. (I’m half Irish, so I can attest to this.) It’s called  Irish Alzheimer's, and it’s when you can’t remember who anyone is except your enemies.

Over the years I’ve come to suspect it’s not just we Irish who have this particular affliction. It actually seems to afflict other ethnic groups as well.

And I think it’s what John the Baptist is trying to heal in today’s gospel. He’s trying to get us Irish, and other folks with this affliction, ready for our extreme makeovers.

We get seduced into identifying with sin, all the wrongs inflicted on us -- the humiliations, the hateful glances, and the mocking words. We identify ourselves as the victims of others’ wrongdoing, and this can take its toll on us.

I remember talking to a woman married for thirty years whose husband had hurt her deeply many years before. Over the years, that hurt had festered, turned into a profound resentment and bitterness that you could see in the way the lines had formed on her face. That bitterness had taken its toll, stolen her joy and her zest for life.

We can also end up identifying ourselves with the wrongs we ourselves have done -- the hitting, lying cheating, betraying we have done, the selfish choices we’ve made. “I’m the one who wasted all those years on booze and drugs.” “I’m the one who said those hurtful, angry words to the one I love the most.” “I’m the coward who remained silent when a co-worker made that racist or homophobic remark.” Identifying ourselves with our own sinfulness in this way -- this, too, can steal our joy, our passion and zest for life.

Soon we’re telling our life story in terms of our own worst moments, the blows received and blows given. We take on a victimhood from the wrongs of others; we wallow in guilt over our own mistakes. We identify, in other words, with the sin.

There’s a truth in all of this. We really have been mistreated by others, been victims of their wrongdoing. And we really have sinned against others, making them the victims of our own wrongdoing. These are simple facts. We can’t deny this.

The problem is that we come to identify ourselves and each other by these, our worst moments, defining ourselves by all the wrongs done to us and by us.

When we so closely identify ourselves with all the negative, we’ve unconsciously erected a such an effective barricade that God can’t get near us, can’t touch us. We can’t hear God speak to us the words he wants to speak, the words he spoke to Jesus: "You are my beloved child. In you I am well pleased."

Before we can let that love sink in, we have a few barricades to remove. We have to stop with the Irish Alzheimer's, stop identifying ourselves with our worst moments of either victimhood or guilt.

Which is where John the Baptist comes in.

John sees himself as a construction worker. He is building a highway for the arrival of the Lord. Whatever is an obstacle will be eliminated. If the road is winding, it will be straightened. If it is rough, it will be smoothed. If a mountain is in the way, it will be flattened. Whatever is needed to ease the Lord’s arrival will be done. (Shea, John. The Spiritual Wisdom of the Gospels for Christian Preachers and Teachers. Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 2004. 6.)

John is doing the preparation work, healing us of our Irish Alzheimer’s to make it possible for us to receive a still greater revelation, an extreme makeover. It is the revelation, the extreme makeover Jesus received the day of his baptism in the Jordan when he found he was unconditionally loved.

When a reporter asked Pope Francis who he was at his deepest core, the Pope leaned back in his chair, thought for a moment, then said, “I am a sinner who is deeply loved and forgiven by God.” The pope gets this right.

True, we’re sinners. Can’t deny it. But we’re not just sinners, we are redeemed sinners, we are children of God, deeply loved and forgiven by a God who is simply crazy about us.

That forgiveness, that redemption trumps everything else you want to say about us. That forgiveness enables us to own the evil inflicted on us and by us, and yet not be defined by it. We are sinners deeply loved and forgiven by God.

There’s a cliche within Christianity: “Jesus saves.” The question, of course, is “From what?” And we answer, “Well, from sin. Jesus saves us from sin.”

Sin is whatever separates us from God, erects a barricade, puts God at a distance from us. And when we say that Jesus saves us from sin, we’re saying that in Jesus, God overcomes that distance, draws close to us, just as we are, with all our wounds and whatever evil we may carry in our own hearts, embraces us just as we are, accompanies us on our journey. This is unconditional love; it’s what we savor in these Advent days, God overcoming the distance.

This unconditional love is transformative. It’s what brings us back to life. It makes for an extreme makeover.

One spiritual writer puts it this way:

I was a neurotic for years. I was anxious and depressed and selfish. Everyone kept telling me to change. I resented them, and I agreed with them, and I wanted to change, but simply couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried. What hurt the most was that, like the others, my best friend kept insisting that I change. So I felt powerless and trapped. Then, one day, he said to me, “Don’t change, I love you just as you are.” These words were music to my ears: Don’t change. Don’t change. Don’t change...I love you as you are.” I relaxed. I came alive. And suddenly I changed.! Now I know that I couldn’t really change until I found someone who would love me whether I changed or not.(De Mello, Anthony. "Don't Change." In The Song of the Bird, 67-68. Garden City, N.Y.: Image Books, 1984.)

This is how God loves us, this God who, by taking on our own human flesh, overcomes the distance, draws near, embraces us just as we are. This is what we celebrate in these days of Advent: God overcoming the distance, “saving us from sin”, leading us into an extreme makeover.

In the last few years, I’ve come to know a few ex-gang members. They had grown up in the gangs. They had been deeply traumatized by violence and abuse from an early age, and they went on to inflict violence and abuse on others through the gangs. I’ve asked them what made them decide to leave the gangs. “It’s a big step, often a dangerous one. What made you decide to leave?” They often tell me, “It all started when Ray Balberan asked me if I wanted to go out for pizza.”

Ray is an amazing Latino elder here in the Mission. Years ago, late on Friday nights, he went out to these young men and invited them out for pizza. Over pizza and conversation, he’d notice how talented they were, how smart and good they were. He’d point that out to them. No one had ever told them that before.

A few nights later, Ray would invite them to a movie. No one had ever paid this kind of attention to them before. Next thing, they’re all going on a camping trip, their first time out of the neighborhood.

Slowly, after all the relentless love they got from Ray, they started to change, to see themselves differently, to envision how their own lives could be different. Eventually they made the heroic decision to leave the gangs and start a whole new life.

This is how grace works. God is like Ray Balberan. God comes close to us -- isn’t put off by our own woundedness and our own sinfulness -- and loves us just as we are. This is transformative. It’s what saves us, brings us back to life.

And in this transformation, we can begin to hear what Jesus heard on the day of his baptism, “You are my beloved child. In you I am well pleased.” Even despite our own wounds and our own worst moments, we are beloved children of God, deeply loved, forgiven, cherished, redeemed.

This love trumps everything else about us. But before we can let it sink into our bones, we need to stop with the Irish Alzheimer's already! Stop identifying with our own worst moments. If we do this in these Advent days, the path is cleared.