5 The apostles said to the Lord, “Increase our faith!” 6 The Lord replied, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.
7 “Who among you would say to your slave who has just come in from plowing or tending sheep in the field, ‘Come here at once and take your place at the table’? 8 Would you not rather say to him, ‘Prepare supper for me; put on your apron and serve me while I eat and drink; later you may eat and drink’? 9 Do you thank the slave for doing what was commanded? 10 So you also, when you have done all that you were ordered to do, say, ‘We are worthless slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done!’ ”
Luke 17:5-10 (NRSVue)
I envy people who can open the Bible and find balm for their weary souls. Sometimes I find that, but usually I encounter a challenge: a challenge to my comfort, my privilege, my ego. Rather than feeling strengthened by scripture, I come away uncertain or unsettled. Sometimes frustrated. Sometimes irritated or saddened.
For the most part, what I’m really reacting to when I feel these things is the obvious and perpetual gap between the biblical mandate for justice and righteousness, and the realities of our world—which is, of course, one of the things biblical writers have been trying to point out throughout history. When we read scripture, it is natural to feel outraged or broken-hearted by the ways in which we are still not living as the beloved community to which we are called.
Other times, though, I feel challenged by scripture because the scripture itself does not live up to the justice and righteousness I want it to reflect. This odd text from Luke is one of those times.
In verses 1–4 of this chapter, the disciples have been told by Jesus that they should be vigilant about not causing others to sin, and, conversely, that when people repent they should be forgiven over and over again (or, as my Nana would say, “umpteen times.”) The disciples, seeming a bit overwhelmed by this teaching, ask Jesus to increase their faith. Jesus is not particularly sympathetic to their plight and suggests that size doesn’t matter. Faith is not about amount, but quality. Teeny-tiny seed faith is enough to move mountains or uproot trees, if it’s the right kind of faith. Whether or not the disciples want to relocate rock formations or dig up mulberries is beside the point. Jesus is arguing that quality faith—potent faith, integral faith—has immense power to transform things that seem unchangeable.
Unfortunately, to make this point, Jesus suggests that what is really needed is for disciples to do their duty like slaves. The minuscule but formidable faith that has the potential to usher in God’s kin-dom is illustrated here through a metaphor about slavery that emphasizes simply doing what is expected without question. To make matters worse, Jesus’ final word is that we should not anticipate receiving gratitude for doing what we should be doing in the first place.
That’s where this passage loses me.
Biblical scholars do not seem to like these verses any more than I do, and many go out of their way to explain them away. A common response is to note that Jesus uses metaphors and stories that appeal to the context of his hearers, and just because slavery existed in Jesus’ day, we should not take these verses as an endorsement of slavery. This is a good first step, because it allows us to interpret our own context differently than that of Jesus. Just because something was happening when Jesus was alive doesn’t mean it must continue to happen now. The trick, of course, is determining which things Jesus said and did were purely “contextual” and which remain applicable today.
This text also poses a theological conundrum. Traditional Christology claims that Jesus is without sin. In modern practice, we often equate Jesus being without sin to “Jesus never did anything wrong,”—or, even worse, with assuming everything Jesus said and did was equally good. This assumption makes discerning textual meaning even more thorny. It is frighteningly dangerous to believe that being “sinless” means never erring or changing, and then to apply that frame to Jesus as a model to follow. Is making a mistake sinful? What about misspeaking, or misunderstanding? What about changing one’s mind? Does being “without sin” mean never regretting anything, or getting everything right on the first try?
For this passage, concluding that Jesus cannot make mistakes leads to some troubling conclusions, because Jesus a.) acquiesces to a social norm related to the ownership of human beings, b.) uses that social norm as an example of faithfulness that is demonstrated by unquestioned behavioral requirements in an unjust system, and c.) suggests that a show of gratitude is unnecessary if adherence to norms was required to begin with. None of these align with who we understand Jesus to be in other parts of the gospels. Yet, in an effort to take the Bible “seriously,” we’re stuck trying to make sense of them anyway.
When we assess texts like these, it is crucial to unravel unnamed presumptions—like what it means that Jesus was “without sin”—from the interpretations we offer. To assume Jesus never misspoke and always said the right thing contradicts the Bible itself. We know, for instance, that Jesus learns and grows throughout the gospels (Luke 2:52). He accepts correction and redirection (Matthew 15:21-28). And he rejects the mindless obedience to unjust laws that masquerades as faithfulness (Luke 14:1-6).
Christians who want to take the Bible and their faith seriously need tools to make meaning out of seemingly contradictory or problematic texts. But we also need to give ourselves permission to critique the texts—and even the words of Jesus—when they are out of alignment with larger biblical trajectories of love, grace, and justice. Some might be concerned that such critique makes the scripture say what we want it to say rather than being willing to receive its plain meaning. Others might feel that weighing sayings of Jesus against each other or minimizing the importance of some over others makes it impossible to see any of them as authoritative or useful. In truth, these outcomes sometimes happen. But the alternative is to shoehorn in nonsensical interpretations of an imperviously perfect Jesus whose words must be twisted to make them make sense side by side, and whose distorted meanings can cause actual harm—especially when isolated from a larger whole.
As we contextualize Jesus’ specific teachings within the larger trajectory of the gospels, we also need freedom to assess our own contexts to discern what meaning is most important—or harmful—to teach and preach at any given moment. As the United States and many other nations around the world find themselves awash in rising authoritarianism, unraveling and naming our assumptions becomes even more critical. It is not required that we teach the most harmful version of a text just because “it’s in the Bible.” In fact, this seems antithetical to larger Christian values of love for the vulnerable and those who might stumble. This text in particular could easily be used to affirm unquestioned loyalty to a “master,” regardless of whether that fealty has any connection to larger Christian convictions (and if I were a white Christian nationalist, that’s exactly how I’d use it). The lenses of love, grace, and justice can be applied to our own choices to speak into, out of, and even against the text as it has been given to us. We can hold the text itself to the higher standards of God’s kin-dom.
Imaginative compassion is a skill worth cultivating in this moment. When we interpret difficult texts like this one, we can sometimes unveil our assumptions by viewing the biblical writers, characters, and even ourselves, with compassion and imagination. We imagine how the scene played out with real people, not caricatures or impervious perfected automatons, in hope that we might see the situation and its players anew, and in congruence with the transformative power of God’s kin-dom. I like to compassionately imagine that what happened next in this story from Luke went something like this:
“The disciples looked at Jesus in stunned silence.
“Then Jesus said unto them, ‘Okay, that wasn’t my best moment. I really am trying to stop using offensive language like that. I could definitely have done that better. I probably need a sandwich and a nap.’
“And the disciples said, ‘Yeah, that was quite the problematic illustration there. But hey, it’s cool. We forgive you for the brain fart. Forgive seven times a day, right? And we get what you’re saying about taking responsibility for our actions and trying to do the right thing.’
“And Jesus replied unto them, ‘Yep. That’s the point. We all keep learning and growing, and we need each other to do so.’
“And Jesus continued to increase in wisdom and in years, and in divine and human favor.” (becoming a parallel to Luke 2:52).
