Note: We do not advise using this illustration in a sermon. In fact, we strongly advise against it, but we thought it a great meditation for us clergy, considering subjects of Law and Grace. Here it it:
In Mary Gordon's novel, Final Payments, a book addressing the repression of many young Catholics of the 50s and 60s, a young woman named Isabel Moore has just buried her father after several years of illness, during which she was confined to his bedside. For several months, she flounders, trying to discover what she has the aptitude to do with the remainder of her life. She finally accepts employment as a social worker, going into homes to check on the welfare of ill and elderly people kept by individuals or families under contract to the social services department. One day she is visiting a Mr. Spenser, an 83-year-old man who lives his life in a bed. As she enters his room his teeth are out, and he's reading the Memoirs of Casanova. He is very polite, and offers to put his teeth in, but she says he need not. They talk with great ease and candor, for Isabel has been accustomed to conversing for hours with her father.
Mr. Spenser says that most people are kind to the elderly only out of guilt. Isabel asks if he doesn't believe in acts of pure generosity. He responds that he finds the very concept of purity rather "jejune." Isabel says he reminds her of a friend she loves but whom she cannot have because he is married and has a daughter. Mr. Spenser talks with her about love and tells her she is a beautiful woman. She doesn't think she is, but his insistence encourages her, and she thanks him.
As she prepares to leave, he asks a favor.
"Name it," she says.
"Let me see your breasts."
At first, Isabel says she can't. He wants to know why. She says merely because they are hers. But then she thinks: What could it hurt? She remembers the woman in The Brothers Karamazov who tells a priest she cannot give up an adulterous affair because "it gives him so much pleasure and me so little pain." She locks the door, unbuttons her blouse, loosens and removes her brassiere, and stands there.
Mr. Spenser says nothing. He looks, then closes his eyes.
"You have done me a great kindness," he says. "You have given me what I wanted, not what you thought I wanted, or what you wanted me to want."
Isabel dresses. They shake hands very formally. She unlocks the door and leaves.
Some may find prurience in this passage, but I sense instead a great depth of love and mercy, a recognition of our common humanity, an act of genuine and redemptive compassion. What law is operating here? The law forbidding sexual looseness, voyeurism, and lust? Or is that transcended, in Isabel's case, by the law of kindness and generosity? The latter, I would contend. There is more of the authentic spirit of Jesus in Isabel's act than in all the railing against sensuality and pornography by the Jesse Helmses and James Wildmons, and certainly more than in the stern judgmentalism of the Puritan community that condemned Hester Prynne in Hawthorne's novel.
And it is this higher law, the law of love and understanding, that must be identified and taught from our pulpits in the coming century. The media often understand this better than our churches, and their dramas frequently turn on the contrast between the hypocrisy of "good" Christians and the genuine kindness of instinctively well-dispositioned persons in the secular culture outside the church. This is not to say that Hollywood is a better gauge of morals than the church; however, the preacher can help to dispel the confusion parishioners feel by more consistently identifying Christ's position over against that of the legalists and by saying no to the Phariseeism that continues to plague the church from generation to generation.
