Jesus answered, “My kingdom does not belong to this world. If my kingdom did belong to this world, my attendants would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not here.”
We know this line from John’s Gospel so well that the radicalism of its otherworldliness perhaps escapes us most of the time. We see Christ’s encounter with Pilate while knowing that Christ was about to fulfill the purpose of His incarnation by suffering and dying in reparation for our sins. When Christ says, “My kingdom is not of this world,” one can picture the glories of heaven and raise an eyebrow at Pilate’s belief that he truly stood in power as he “judged” his creator. We know that Christ only suffered at Pilate’s hands because He allowed himself to do so. Had He chosen to end it, in an instant He could have done so.
Yet as followers of Christ we are called to be like Him in being not of this world, but of His Kingdom, and if we think of Christ’s calmness and resignation in the fact of facing torture and death for a nonexistent crime in relation to ourselves, this idea of being of a kingdom not of this world becomes a whole lot scarier. It’s one thing to see Christ, secure in our belief in His divinity, responding to injustice and suffering with the statement that His kingdom is not of this world, but when we are faced with injustice and suffering our instinct is not to think of The Kingdom which is not of this world, but rather to fight back, to demand our rights, and if all else fails to complain and feel sorry for ourselves.
A while back I read this famous quote from the Stoic philosopher Epictetus:
Never say of anything, “I have lost it”; but, “I have returned it.” Is your child dead? It is returned. Is your wife dead? She is returned. Is your estate taken away? Well, and is not that likewise returned? “But he who took it away is a bad man.” What difference is it to you who the giver assigns to take it back? While he gives it to you to possess, take care of it; but don’t view it as your own, just as travelers view a hotel.
Epictetus wasn’t a Christian, and my first instinct was to see this quote as alien and almost inhuman in its detachment. As I thought about it, though, I realized that although detachment for the sake of detachment is not itself an aim of the Christian life, this view towards this world is pretty much exactly what we are called to if we are to be truly of Christ’s kingdom rather than of this world. “Is your child dead? It is returned,” sounds hopeless and inhuman if viewed simply as a need for utter detachment, but speaking within the context of this world all things (including our own lives and those of the ones we love) are but lent. They are not meant to be clung to endlessly in this world, but they are gifts which we must render freely back while placing out hope in the next. And certainly, the detachment from material possessions which Epictetus advocates should not be alien to a faith in which our Savior told His followers to sell all they had, give it to the poor, and then come follow Him. As Jake wrote this week in the second part of his series on the Beatitudes, the Church Fathers did not see material poverty as sufficient to be “poor in spirit” in the sense of the Beatitudes, but they did see it as a necessary prerequisite.
It doesn’t take much thinking along these lines to realize how very attached to the world one is — and in some cases for reasons which are tied up with trying to fulfill my vocation as a husband and father. I spend my fair share of time just worrying about the job, the house (and the mortgage that came with it), the cars, etc. And as for the kids — I’m certainly not just shrugging and saying, “Well, if something happens to one of them, I will only have given her back, not lost her.”
Compared to times past, in the last hundred years or so the Church has done a lot of thinking about the sense in which all vocations are calls to sanctity. There’s also been a certain emphasis on seeking a more just ordering of economic and social structures. Yet it remains the case that when we take on great responsibilities in this world, we almost invariably become more attached to it. For all the marriage and parenting have taught me a lot about caring for others more than myself, it has also given me very good reasons to amass and worry about and strive for an awful lot of material things, and to work hard to get more. Indeed, the fact that I’m doing all this for others probably makes me willing to go further than I would if I had only my own material well being to be concerned about. (Is it any wonder, in that context, that political leaders with the well being of millions of people on their minds are sometimes willing to go to very great lengths indeed to protect the countries under their care?)
I certainly don’t regret the relationships which tie me closer to this world, but it gives me all the more appreciation for the wisdom of the traditional connection between devoting oneself entirely to God and vowing poverty and chastity.