Owe nothing to anyone, that’s how this morning’s Epistle begins. St. Paul just prohibits being in debt, and that’s it! No mortgage for a house or a business; no loan for a car or boat or RV; no deferrals for taxes; no owing the hospital for necessary treatment. Owe nothing to anyone. It seems very clear and uncomplicated; even so, I doubt there are very many of us who live by it, or even try to live by it, these days. It’s not that we interpret this teaching metaphorically; we just dismiss it as irrelevant in the modern world. Which, I would argue, is actually fine.
But for those who feel guilty about it, I might be able to offer you some contextual help. In the previous verses, St. Paul instructs the church in Rome, not about their mortgages, but about how they should relate to the Roman state. The church in Rome was composed of both Jews and gentiles in roughly equal numbers, but all of them were ambivalent about their relationship to the state. St. Paul advises them, indeed commands them, to be model citizens:
“Pay everyone what is owed: tribute [τὸν φόρον] to whom tribute is due, taxes [τὸ τέλος] to whom revenue is due, fear [τὸν φόβον] to whom fear is due, honor [τὴν τιμὴν] to whom honor is due,” (Romans 13:7).
Jews in the congregation might have heard overtones of the Torah in the last two categories: fear the LORD and honor your parents. Roman law and culture also had fairly clear expectations for citizens, and Paul advised them to be diligent in observing them. But that was not enough. Paul wanted them to be socially and financially unencumbered so that they could do their real job: loving other people. Because, as he says in v. 8, “Owe no one anything, except to love one another, for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law.” He doesn’t say that paying Roman taxes and so forth is unimportant; he says that you should take care of it speedily so that you can get on with obeying the real Law, God’s Law, of loving your neighbor.
But what happens when, inevitably, someone in the church commits an infraction? That’s the subject of this morning’s gospel. The Greek text is more explicit than the NRSV that we just finished reading; it sets the dispute in a family relationship: the offender is “your brother.” The NRSV’s use of inclusive language is warranted because the sinner could just as well be a sister as a brother, but I do think we miss something by losing the family metaphor. “If your brother (or sister) sins, go and reprove him (or her) when the two of you are alone. If he (or she) listens to you, you have regained your brother (or sister).” If you are unsuccessful at restoring concord, then try again taking two or three witnesses. If even that doesn’t work, then take the problem to “the congregation.” The purpose of this is not to shame or to hurt, but to repair damage to the family and restore the relationship.
In any case, though, supposing that your sibling refuses to go along with the congregation’s correction, then what does it mean to treat him or her as a gentile and a tax collector? Well, there are lots of stories in the gospels about Jesus’ treatment of gentiles and a tax collectors. At the risk of dating myself here, WWJD, what would Jesus do? And that’s not an idle speculation, because Jesus promises to be among us and that God would fulfill our prayers. What kind of prayers? When I was growing up I thought you just asked for something in prayer and God would do it as long as you got your friend to join you! “O Lord won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz,” right? Nah, what we’re praying for is restoration for an estranged family member.
How do I know this? Because the context demands it. Remember that story about Peter asking Jesus how often he has to forgive his brother, and Jesus says not just 7 times, but 70 times 7. Yeah, that story comes next in Matthew’s narrative. This isn’t a gospel reading about sending sinners to hell; it’s about persisting, trying again and again and never giving up, until we have become reconciled. Which, come to think of it, is a pretty good image of what God does, too.
Like God says through His prophet Ezekiel:
I take no delight in the death of the wicked, but rather that the wicked turn from his ways and live! Turn back, turn back from your evil ways, for why would y0u die, O House of Israel! (Ezek 33:11; my translation)
Pope John Paul II once described our culture as a culture of death. I see his point. God wants human beings to live and flourish, but we seem to be hell bent on killing, even killing ourselves, and God’s Earth. It’s a self-destructive way, a way that God entreats us to abandon: Turn back, turn back! Why would you die, O house of Israel?
But I’m a good guy. Surely I’m not one of the sinners, am I? I obey the law, pay my taxes, I mostly stay out of trouble, and what not. I recycle, and I leave no trace. So I’m good, right. Well, I need to do all that, of course, but it’s not enough to make me good; at most it’s a precondition for goodness. Here’s what Jesus and Paul both say, and many wise people besides. Love one another; loving another fulfills the Law.
