Humility Makes You Better

It's called "synderesis." A Greek word meaning, "to guard closely." Saint Jerome is given credit for inventing, coining synderesis as a doctrine. But it was Thomas Aquinas, Bonaventura, and then Dante who made synderesis an important theological theory.

I stumbled upon synderesis recently.  I was unaware of it.  My lack of exposure is most likely because the Reformers, or more specifically, John Calvin rejected it.  Tossed it in the pile of all things medieval theological foolishness.  And there was some foolishness.  Mostly he rejected synderesis because it relies upon our effort, our will, our desire.  The Reformers were all about God's work, God's desire, God's will.  Our will, our desire, being so corrupt and prone to evil was not something you should rely upon.  Synderesis is all about our desire, and most important, our ability to always desire the good.

              Imagine there is a place in you, let's call it the heart of your heart; think core of your being maybe; the essence of you.  We might imagine there is in all of us a sense of being one person.  This is what Jerome imagined as synderesis, and this is what Aquinas and Bonaventura developed, this heart of your heart; they considered this eternal, the essence of life eternal, a place in us uncorrupted, never ruined by sin, never destroyed by evil, a desire for good we sense, but can never really understand.  We know it's there; we just don't know how or why.

              John Calvin basically said, no and yes.  Was there such a place, yes; is there yet such a place still, no.  In a moment of mystical union, an ecstatic experience we can glimpse this place, this sense of God. Experiencing such is a gift of God, work of God, will of God.  But always ever in you?  No.  In a sense he said, you can't get there from here.

              Synderesis is the opposite perspective.  Aquinas, Bonaventura said, it is very much there.  This image of God in us, the most eternal of all memory, the part of the soul never destroyed, it's there.  We can cover it; forget it; lose any sense of it. But the will to desire the good . . . ever in us.

              I feel obliged when contradicting basic tenets of Reformed faith, I feel obliged to note the contradiction out loud. Understanding the concerns of Calvin and often pulled down by the cynicism of our violence, hatred, deception, I understand Reformed theology here, but respectfully I don't agree.  There is a part of us, call it the image of God, eternal memory, a sense of goodness beyond what we can make or destroy or even understand.  This is in us.

              This was the key for Bonaventura: synderesis was a place beyond understanding. This place, memory, image is not reserved for the mystic or the saint or the ecstatic.  It is a place we can all find.  All of us can be lifted beyond darkness.

              Before we consider how medieval theologians applied the notion of synderesis, and even better how Dante described it, let's look at our lesson from Luke today. 

              This reading can be taken as practical advice.  Take the lowest seat, chose humility, and you won't be embarrassed. No one enjoys shame.  Be patient; let honor come to you.  No one likes a braggard.  Good advice.  The second part, be generous to the poor, good advice as well.  Invite your friends to dinner, of course.  But also invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind.  If you invite your friends, they will invite you to dinner.  Good.  But invite the poor and you have invited God.  And what a good day when God invites you to dinner in return. 

              Strangely things get a bit transcendent in our reading.  Jesus speaks of a resurrection of righteousness.  The image of resurrection seems strange when compared to pragmatism, his practical advice.  Yet there is a moment in generosity where we can feel uplifted, right?  Haven't you ever felt good, felt the presence of love or joy when you were kind, compassionate?  We don't do it for that reason.  True.  But haven't you felt a sense of being lifted beyond the brokenness of life, better, even if it's just a moment?  Right?

              Bonaventura would say, "ahhhh, you encountered the place of goodness, you were lifted beyond understanding and intent, to a place of purity.  Synderesis." It was not a big moment or a transcendent moment of sublime experience.  It was dropping off a can of soup for the food pantry.  Yet in the moment of humble compassion we feel lighter.  Weight, the weight of the soul, is key to synderesis and we will get to how love is a weight, but before we leave the lesson of Jesus just a bit more about humility and compassion.

              The practical advice of Jesus, humility and generosity make you better, this is good advice.  But we can also see the advice as an invitation.  When Jesus gives advice, he is also inviting the crowd, his disciples, us to walk toward our heart of heart.  The great example of this is the first six beatitudes in the Sermon on the Mount.  Jesus invites his disciples to become poor in spirit, to lose their sense of self, to become humble, meek.  Meekness is a kind of door where we then hunger and thirst for righteousness, give and receive mercy, and finally, become pure in heart and see God. 

              The first six beatitudes are a path from humility to purity.  Medievals would say, this is the path leading to the heart of the heart, the sense of goodness beyond understanding.  Humility is practical, true—take the lower seat to avoid shame; but humility is also the way unto God, to see God face to face, what Jesus calls the resurrection of the righteous.  Hence in our reading today we have a good way to live on earth as well as the door unto heaven as it were.

              The key to this door to heaven is what Bonaventura called "the weight of love."  Bonaventura was an Italian monk who lived in Paris in the 13th century, he was a Franciscan, a leader, theologian. Known as the Seraphic Doctor because of his meditation on the seraphim, the angels with the six wings. His famous work is the Soul's Journey into God.  As you might imagine synderesis was key to this journey; the experience of goodness, the eternal, where we desire only the good, the lifting of the soul beyond darkness to light, this was his life's work, describing this.

              The key to the journey was weight, the weight of sin and the weight of love.  As you can imagine and have assuredly felt, sin is a weight, much like gravity, forcing us down, keeping us down.  We are pressed down by evil.  You can hear this when people say, you are bringing me down; I am feeling very low. This guilt is heavy, weighing on me. You can hear the opposite with love, beauty, goodness.  We are lifted up.  The weight of love and beauty is why we sing, why there is a prelude and a postlude.  If you are in a choir, you are most likely a member because the robes are so stylish.  No.  You are here to be uplifted, to experience the moment where your voices harmonize, and the harmony transports you.  Right?          

               Bonaventura described this as the weight of love lifting us unto God, unto the heart of the heart.  Again, this is a sense, a feeling, a desire.  Jesus said, blessed are the pure in heart for they will see God.  In our reading he says, sit in the lower seat and wait to be elevated, to be lifted by honor; feed your friends, but also feed the poor and you will be blessed, resurrected by righteousness, goodness. 

              Synderesis, medieval theologians, Paris in the thirteenth century can seem remote.  Just as six-winged angels and love being a weight lifting the soul unto God can be esoteric, or worse, unimaginable.  I get it.  I am ever worried about bringing doctrines into sermons.  But this one is so beautiful.  It's beautiful and common, every-day.  Every day we can be lifted, uplifted.  Can't we?  Be it a vision or a sound or a taste or a touch suddenly we have a sense of grandeur, glory, what Jesus infers as honor.  To be lifted up.  Humility and compassion in the smallest, most mundane ways can draw us unto a sense of the divine, the resurrection of the righteous.

              A century after Bonaventure in Italy while living in exile in the coastal city of Ravenna, the Florentian poet, Dante wrote a really long poem.  The poem had three parts, the Inferno, the Purgatorio and Paradiso.  Each of the three were offered as considerations, meaning something written by starlight. 

              The poem begins with Dante being lost.  He was exiled from his home and suffering the shame of being an outcast.  He was not just shown to the lower seat, he was shown the door.  In his anguish Dante says the ancient Roman poet Virgil came to him and invited him to take a journey through hell, then purgatory, and he was given the promise if he made it that far, another guide would take him to see heaven.  In many ways, Dante's long poem is simply the six beatitudes of Jesus where we move from poverty of spirit to the pure of heart where we see God.

              This poem has two unique features.  First it was written in Italian, or more precisely the dialect of Tuscany which would become modern Italian.  In many ways Dante was a precursor of the Reformation in how he gave theology and poetry to the people in their own language as opposed to Latin.  The other unique feature is the claim of synderesis.  Virgil tells Dante after they have left purgatory, you heart is free now, your heart can guide you.  In other words, you have purity of desire.

              To see this freedom we need to remember how Dante's journey in purgatory begins.  An angel comes to Dante in the antechambers of purgatory, before they head into the rings of penance where the seven deadly sins are purged from the souls not ready for heaven.  An angel comes to Dante and carves letters into his forehead, seven "p"s.  Each "p" representing one of the seven sins.  So marred, Dante begins the journey.  And then with each ring, as they move beyond each place of penance, one letter after another will disappear.  Emerging from purgatory, Dante's forehead is now clean.  In this moment Virgil turns to Dante and says, now, you can follow your heart, you can trust your desires because they have been freed from wrong desire, synderesis.

              I will never forget the first time I read those lines of Virgil, his declaration of freedom.  They are so beautiful and powerful.  Yet, when I first read them, I must confess, I turned away.  I thought, impossible.  To have a heart set free, to have a heart desiring only the good, impossible.  And there are yet times when I want to say to Virgil, you claim too much. Hearts cannot be so free.

              Then, especially then, I remember our reading today.  The practical advice, the simple acts of humility and generosity.  They are not beyond us; they are how we live.  I don't like to sit up front so this is an easy one for me.  And I love to cook for any who would like to eat.  So again, not hard.  In the ease of this moment though I remember the weight of love, the lifting, uplifting power of love and beauty and goodness.  We can desire only the good, we can sense the presence of God in us, the heart of our heart.

              Take the least seat is good advice, but it may also be the door to the kingdom of God.  Amen.