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O'Malley's Best The Privilege of Serving I'm not a fan of "Jesus Christ, Superstar." It so over-emphasizes Jesus' humanity at the expense of his divinity, that Jesus ends up scarcely human, and surely not male. All he does is screech-or at best merely whine-like a beaten dog, reeling from scene to scene incapable of comprehending the unfairness of life (much less accepting it), never coming up for air from his swamp of self-pity. And of course in the script of the original stage version, there's no indication the actor who plays Jesus takes a curtain call. Jesus doesn't come back. Well, if Jesus doesn't "come back," then I say t'hell with him. The story's utterly stupid: a namby-pamby do-gooder, who wants nothing more than for us to be nice to one another, allows himself to be executed by a pack of power-hungry sadists. And that's that. So? This All-Time Nothing is worth the considerable efforts of Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber? I mean, get real. But there's one moment in "Superstar" I can really buy-at least in the movie. Jesus is trapped in what looks like a great white salt cave, in a blazing light, surrounded by rancid lepers. They're pawing at him, forcing themselves on him, demanding his attention, smothering him with their need. And at least to me, Jesus seems to hold onto his composure, gritting his teeth against aversion and fatigue. But it finally bursts out of him, and he screams "Leave me alone!" I can understand that, resonate to it, be grateful to grasp that Jesus sometimes got fed up, too. But what makes the difference from all the rest of the "Superstar" moanings is that, at least in that episode, Jesus really fights to maintain his calm control, holding his temper, dominating within himself all the self-absorption that's part-and-parcel of being authentically human-that invitation within our species to master and transform all the crabby, snappish, defensive narcissism humanity shares with the other animals from whom God called us to evolve. In this episode of the gospel, Jesus shows it. He's just come from the synagogue where he's cured the demoniac. Then he cures Peter's mother-in-law's fever. And after they've eaten, when most people begin to let go of the day, the "rest of them" begin to arrive, brought by their relatives after their work. And the yard fills up, like that epic scene in "Gone With the Wind" of wounded lying wherever the eye happens to drift. And when Jesus finally finishes, he goes off exhausted to pray and rest. But in the morning, they by-God "manage to track him down" with the unsurprising news, "Everybody's looking for you." There's no indication in the spare prose of the gospels that, "Jesus groaned and heaved himself to his feet," or "he sighed," or "he blew the air from his lungs and set his jaw." No. Just "Okay, let's move on to the neighboring villages." And there, I think-simple as it seems--is what it's ALL about, what we were born to do, "what God wants of us," what will make us happy. To engage in the lifelong process of evolving a happy, meaningful, purposeful human being out of a baby who arrives here nothing more than a healthy little animal-with a puzzling "human potential" no other animal ever had. Think of our human call another way. The last few weeks we've been subjected to stories about the ACS of New York. I never knew that meant Administration of Child Services, but recently we've heard stories so evil they defy the capacity of the mind. Mothers (the source and symbol of life, reassurance, protection) ignoring their babies tied to chairs, drowning in the bathtub, scalded to death. Perhaps other animals are that callous to their own young, but they're not common. These women-and the studs with whom they share space-have brains and bodies like other animals, but they are sufficient evidence, all by themselves, of the existence of the human soul. The inhumanities which the very lack of an operative soul within them allows them to perpetrate make the difference between humans and all other animals utterly undeniable. They manifest what we are made for by the obscene degradation of humanity they've degraded to. There's no more trustworthy cliche than: Life is difficult. And I believe it's difficult for a reason, to invite us to rise to the challenge of our imperfections. To forge the dignity to cope with life's unexpected and unmerited sufferings with more than brute endurance. To validate the presence within us of the Spirit that God breathed into us at birth. Jesus shows the way in this passage. He embodies what we so blithely speak of when we use the words "being there for them." Attentive, ready, and willing. As with all of us, Jesus' actions speak. They say, "It's okay. I'm here for you. It's all right. You're not alone." It's what good mothers say by their resolute return to the same diapers, the same carrots, the same dust-covered shelves. It's what good fathers say: "No, no, go back to sleep. I'll get up and change her." It's what good children offer their parents when the report card demonstrates their gratitude. It's what clearly separates good nurses and doctors from "health-care givers," what separates teachers from "schoolmasters." Understanding the privilege of serving. There's also a tiny lesson embedded in that story. When Peter's mother-in-law came out of her fever, she didn't lie back, fanning her brow. She hiked herself up, tied her apron back on, and "began to wait on them." If Jesus took on the task, day after day, there must be some greatness in being an everyday servant.
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