The Persistent Widow

Today’s gospel reading, the so-called parable of the Persistent Widow, occurs near the end of Jesus’ journey to Jerusalem and immediately follows his teaching about the coming of God’s kingdom. Despite the shift to the topic of prayer, the eschatological thread of the previous passage is sustained. In brief, it offers the imperative of persistently and actively relying on God, even in the face of insufferable injustice.

The parable itself focuses on a widow dealing with a judge in a corrupt judicial system. The widow repeatedly approaches the judge in pursuit of justice to no avail, and, the judge, equally persistently, ignores her pleas. The judge ignores the law and the prophets, which unambiguously include provisions to ensure that widows, orphans, the poor, and resident aliens do not become victims of exploitation.[i]

Jesus’ audience, would have found the judge’s lack of action particularly scandalous. Notably, however, this widow strongly resists such exploitation.

Like other widows before her, such as Tamar, Ruth and Naomi (not to mention other heroines throughout history), Luke’s widow takes matters into her own hands. And her persistence in pressing for justice is such that the judge characterizes her actions as those of a boxer.[ii] In the original Greek, the judge comes to fear that the widow will give him a black eye (hypopiazo) [iii], a boxing metaphor. And let us note that Paul uses exactly the same word when he writes, “so I do not run aimlessly, nor do I box as though beating air.[iv]

English translations quench the humour Luke has infused into this scene; a humour which pokes fun at the powers that be, “lampooning and upending the unjust system stacked against widows, orphans, immigrants.”[v] The equivalent of modern-day political cartoons, which use humour and satire to make their point.

The conclusion of the parable touches on the character of God and the nature of faith. “God is … not like this reluctantly responsive judge. If anything, God is more like the widow in her own relentless commitment to justice.”[vi]

OK. That was the nuts-and-bolts bit; but there are many rabbit holes to explore.

Last week, Desiree reminded us that in-between-spaces are spaces of transformation. And if you have ever been down a rabbit hole, you would know that it is chock full of them. More like the mythical labyrinth built for King Minos of Crete by Daedalus, the mythical Greek inventor, architect, and sculptor. Daedalus became a symbol of wisdom, knowledge and power.

Behold the inner life of an introvert. The rabbit hole I happened upon started with the term “persistent prayer”, thence to meander through Thessalonians, Isaiah, Kings, a Psalm,  and finally the Book of Wisdom. Thus: (Paul)[vii] Pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances. … Do not quench the Spirit– (Isaiah) [viii]  A bruised reed he will not break, and a dimly burning wick he will not quench; he will faithfully bring forth justice – (1 Kings)[ix] But the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence – (Psalm 46) [x] Be still and know that I am God.

The thread I followed started with prayer without ceasing and arrived at stillness and silence, with justice neatly book ended in between.

Of course, we encounter silence in everyday life, say, in response to unwelcome news of one sort or another. News of the death of a loved one always renders me silent, as do the associated memories; the silence at the end of a really good concert or play speaks volumes about our collective awe and appreciation; and sometimes we are silent simply because we do not know what to say or do.

The common factor in these kinds of silence is a loss of power. For example, how do I normalise the knowledge that I’m going to die, or that someone I love is going to die, or that a loved one has died? I cannot. The human trait is to try to “do the right thing” in response to critical moments in order to stop them being critical.

But such attempts to control or domesticate critical situations diminishes our humanity, reinforcing a false self, rather than accessing our true self and beyond. As Rowan Williams[xi] pointed out, if we wish to develop and grow as human beings, then we must accept moments when we are taken beyond the familiar and the controllable. True humanity welcomes silence as an in-between space, if you like; a space of learning, wisdom and growth.

I often find pearls of wisdom in unlikely places. My latest source is one of the Percy Jackson novels I am currently bingeing on. They were published around ten years ago, so if you have grandchildren, you may know them. In a modern world inhabited by the mythical Greek gods of yore, Hestia, the goddess of the hearth who is responsible for domesticity, the family, the home and the state, says to Percy, “Not all powers are spectacular. Sometimes the hardest power to master is the power of yielding.”[xii]

It is more than profitable then, to yield to the experience of silence that leaves you with nothing to say, “the experience of helplessness about who you are, the experience of death and suffering, or [the] experience of extraordinary depth and beauty,” being up against what cannot be mastered and managed. Ultimately, “everybody is silent in the face of the utterly unmanageable, which is God.” [xiii]

As with Jesus when he was silent before Pilate, our silence becomes a place in the world where the mystery of God is present. We literally become a place where the mystery of God happens.

“Good liturgy is about silence.”[xiv] Increasingly, the church at large has felt a kind of anxiety about silence; an urge to fill up the apparent void elicited by silence; to clutter up the beauty of liturgy with needless activity. You have only to listen to a monastic community singing the compline service to appreciate the value of silent spaces in liturgy. Like white spaces in the printed word, silent spaces in the liturgy reveal depths of meaning otherwise unremarked.

A lot of liturgical reform is a response to this discomfort with silence. Trim it; it’s too long. It’s difficult; so we must explain it. I don’t understand it; so we must simplify it. But in doing so much of our church has lost sight of the ways in which the slow pace and the carefully chosen word, however mysterious, have their own integrity and their own effect.

Again, to quote Williams, “Coming out of liturgy and saying, ‘Did I do that?’ is a perfectly proper experience. Something happens that nobody in particular has done.” And I am delighted to say that that is a frequent experience of mine in this place.

Somewhere, Thomas Berry remarked that our own interior life began when the universe began, that we are further elaborations of a spirituality that was there from the beginning. So, I conclude with the last place of my introverted rabbit hole meanderings – a little bit of Wisdom.

For while gentle silence enveloped all things,  and night in its swift course was now half gone, your all-powerful word leapt from heaven … [xv]

Doug Bannerman © 2022

[i] For example, Exodus 22:21-25; 23:6-9; Deuteronomy 24:14, 17-18; Isaiah 1:17

[ii] Brittany Wilson op cit

[iii] the verb hypopiazo (ὑπωπιάζω) literally means “to give a black eye”.

[iv] 1 Corinthians 9.26

[v] F. Scott Spencer Salty Wives, Spirited Mothers, and Savvy Widows: Capable Women of Purpose and Persistence in Luke’s Gospel (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2012), 292-93.

[vi] Op cit Brittany Wilson

[vii] 1 Thessalonians 5.17-19

[viii] Isaiah 42.3

[ix] 1 Kings 19.11-13 

[x] Psalm 46.10

[xi] Rowan Williams “Encounter in the Face of Mystery: God is the Encounter we cannot Control”, see https://www.christiancentury.org/article/critical-essay/silence-face-mystery

[xii] Rick Riordan Percy Jackson and the Last Olympian (Penguin Random House/ UK 2018) p92

[xiii] Op cit Rowan Williams

[xiv] Ibid

[xv] Wisdom 18.14,15a