Manrique, here it is— the big day.
After all the planning, after all the anticipation, after all the anxiety and chagrin that maybe this day would never come for you and you’d be left, alone, to be a canine version of a crazy cat person— after everything— the big day is finally here. And I only have one last pre-marital question for you.
Manrique, here it is: What are you thinking!?
What in the world are you thinking? How can Serendipity be your favorite romantic comedy? It’s bad enough that rom-coms are your favorite genre, but Serendipity isn’t even in the Top 3 John Cusack romantic comedies. Someone who prefers a soapy rom-com like Serendipity might not be able to appreciate a scripture text like tonight’s, but surely an english major like Tricia can discern the paradox in the passage— the paradox that we see the most high God by looking down. Maybe it takes an english major to savor the irony that the most high Lord reveals himself to us as the most low.
Like Manrique taking off his tool belt, this son of a carpenter takes off his outer robe. He stoops down on his knees. The fingers that crafted the universe bear callouses like Manrique’s, and, no longer content to paint the cosmos, they wash our feet painted with dirty and stink and sweat.
And when Jesus stands up, a bowl of brown water beside him, he says he’s just given us an example.
Jesus tells us in Matthew’s Gospel that the two greatest commandments in the Law are to love God and to love our neighbor as ourselves.
The problem though—
The Bible also says that Christ is the end of the Law and its commands, including that bit about loving God and neighbor like we love us.
It’s not that love isn’t important in the New Testament. The apostle Paul tells the Romans that all of the ten commandments are summed up by loving others while St. Peter writes in his own letter that loving others covers a multitude of our sins.
But if Christ is the end of the Law, then is the love commended by Peter and prescribed by Paul the love commanded by the Law? Is it the same love like we love ourselves love?
Notice what Jesus says here, notice exactly how he puts it: “A new command I give you (this is something different). Love one another as I have loved you.”
NOT as you love yourself.
Love one another as I have loved you.
Christ is the end of the commandments, even the greatest commandment.
Christ is the end of a love that need not go further than self-love as the standard.
The old commandments are over and done. Christ has given us a new command, and it’s no wonder Peter didn’t want God washing his feet. The way he has loved us is nothing like the way we love even ourselves. Jesus broke bread with those he knew would betray him with a kiss. Three times he forgave Peter who cheated him on thrice. He gave his life not for the good but for the ungodly.
The golden rule and all the rest are bygones from a covenant Christ has closed with his cross.
The good news is that Jesus isn’t a liar. He really does give us a burden that is lighter of obligations. The bad news is that the only obligation attached to Jesus’ yoke is what Christians call grace, which is a lot less amazing when you’ve got to give it.
Because, by definition, everyone to whom you give it is undeserving.
Love like this, Jesus says.
The apostle Paul summarizes that sort of love by saying that in Christ God was in the world not counting our trespasses against us. The new command isn’t to remember to love another as we love ourselves; the command of Christ is to love that remembers to forget the sins sinned against us.
Not to quash the mood— a life lived with another exposes the worst in us. Marriage would be hard enough if the love we talk about when we talk about love was the love of the Law, love with self-love as the standard. Unfortunately, it’s even harder. It’s a love that leaves the ledger book behind and— take it from any married person here— those ledgers would have plenty of ink spilt in them if we could hold on to them.
By your “I do” you’re pledging “I won’t” when it comes to the tit-for-tat score-keeping by which we game the rest of our lives.
Forgive but don’t forget goes the cliche, but for Christians, especially in Christians caught up in a marriage, there’s no distinction between the two, for forgiveness just is forgetting— forgetting to count the slights and sins suffered by way of the other.
This is the new law of love Jesus commands.
This is the love you pledge one another in his name.
Bride and groom not only forsake all others from their hearts, they forsake also the calculators we all carry around with us— the ones we covet in order to balance the credits and debits we’ve accrued between us.
Without a calculator, you’ve no recourse but to take each other at your word that all will be forgiven and forgotten.
In other words—
As it is with the Beloved’s unconditional promise called the Gospel so it is with your beloved’s unconditional promise called Marriage. There’s nothing for you to do in response to it but trust it.
And just as in the preached word of the Gospel, from this day forward, God is present on the lips of your every “I do.”
Today your marriage becomes a manger for the Word of God.
Therefore, there is no other clearer way of imitating the love revealed to us in Jesus Christ than in the divine amnesia you promise to practice on each other everyday.
This new command of Christ— a love that forgets how to count— henceforth it makes your marriage more of a ministry than any soup kitchen or service project. And it means you will never have any holier vocation than the grace you bestow with your daily “I do” to the (often) undeserving other.
This new command—
This way of grace-giving is in no way a guarantee for happily.
But it is the way the two of you together become a parable of the One who is Ever After for all of us.