Persistence, in and of itself, is not a virtue. One may persist in doing good; another may persist in doing evil. We do not know, from this parable, whether the widow’s lawsuit was just or extortionary; we know that the judge didn’t care. We know, too, that God does care: that God so loves each piece and person of this world as to give God’s life to us, and for us. We see, throughout the Bible, throughout the holy scriptures and the story of our salvation how persistent God is in mercy, in justice, in love.
So we might consider that what we persist in is at least as important, much more so, than how insistent our persistence is.
In fact, we might consider that the theme of the parable and the other readings we hear today is less about the holy grind itself, and more about what it is we are hoping to achieve by persisting in prayer, being faithful to our bible study, refusing to lose heart when justice does seem delayed, or far away, or out of reach.
Because that is the itchy grain of sand that lies beneath this pearl of a parable, isn’t it? Jesus, for once, tells his disciples exactly what it means, and he tells them, he tells us that God will not delay long in administering justice to and for those who cry out for it, that God will be swift to come to their aid. And we see all around us people crying out for justice, for aid, for peace, for dignity, for humanity. And we wonder how long it will really take for justice to be done, for peace on the earth, goodwill to all who are made in the image of the living, loving God.
And some may wander away, looking for justice elsewhere, even inventing their own story, even if it is but a shadow of the joyful justice of the kingdom of heaven.
There was an image going around the internet a couple of weeks ago of a man in a crowded arena, a man dressed in fine clothes and shouldering a cross. But the cross had training wheels on the bottom, so that it simply trailed along behind him. There is a difference between persistence and performance, persistence and pretence, persistence and parody. We cannot invent new ways of carrying the cross to make it easier to wait upon the justice and mercy of God.
Some of you perhaps read the columns of David French – I do only occasionally, but one caught my eye this week. He pointed out that every real renewal of the Spirit begins with repentance. Our faithfulness to prayer and to the promises of God begins not with the condemnation of others – fake justice, rooted in self-righteousness and revenge – but in the quiet soul-searching that brings us alongside the Holy Spirit, praying right along with us in sighs too deep for words.
Paul tells Timothy, and Jesus tells his disciples, to remain faithful to the hope that God has set before us, believe in the promises that God has made to us, that God is good, and that God’s justice is worth waiting for.
I can always be wrong, but it seems to me that this parable, and Paul’s advice to Timothy, is less about being stubborn, right or wrong, and more about being persistent, resilient, faithful, steadfast – that’s a good biblical word, right? – steadfast in our pursuit of the justice and the mercy and the promises and the love of God. Because God is not slow to compassion, nor late in administering mercy, nor unmoved by the cries of God’s people, nor lacking in love. God forbid that we should make such accusations.
But we, we human people, made in the image of God, but as in a glass, darkly, we are a bit slow, to be honest, to grasp the full implications of the commandments to love God completely, and our neighbours, friends and enemies alike, as if they were ourselves. As if they mattered as much as us, deserved as much as us, hurt as much as us.
You’ve heard it said that prayer is not about changing God, but about changing us. That, I think, is what this parable and these teachings are about. God is not slow to love every piece and person of creation; so let’s pray persistently and consistently and robustly and resiliently until we are changed into God’s likeness, and enabled and equipped and encouraged to act in God’s image and will, and in solidarity with those crying out to God for the justice that is mercy.
That means, dare I say it, that what we do in here, praying together, reading the scriptures together, taking Communion, truly ingesting God’s grace together, is so that we might be changed in order to change the world. What we do here doesn’t stay here, but showing up faithfully here is what keeps us from losing heart, what keeps us from losing our way, what keeps us from wandering like lost sheep, bleating in the wilderness that is this world.
There’s a story by Graham Greene[1] that has always stayed with me, about a village where the doors remained open and the lights on, and the fire lit, even while it appeared empty. The story explained that one winter some years earlier, a stranger had come into the village, looking for shelter, but all of the houses were locked. The inhabitants were all at church, since it was Christmas. When they returned to the village and found the stranger frozen to death, they understood the difference between performative and transformative religion; religion that builds a nativity scene and religion that makes room at the inn.
What happens here is not performative, but practical. We are participating in the apostles’ fellowship and the prayers, we are participants in the saving grace of Jesus at the Table and on the Cross. We persist in this so that when we are let loose into the world, we know what Jesus looks like, we know the promises of God when we see them, and we are able to come alongside those who cry out for mercy, and pray and stay with them, that this world might be changed, and without further delay.
Amen.
[1] Graham Greene, “A Visit to Morin”, in Collected Stories (Viking Press, 1973)
over the water 