Simone Weil, that eccentric and brilliant woman, said once, rather famously, that it was “more useful to contemplate our stupidity than our sin.” Contemplating sin risked pride, she said; admitting failure due to “sheer stupidity,” on the other hand, the bad results of our plain mediocrity: “No knowledge is more to be desired,” she wrote. Because it’s more humbling, she thought, more irrefutable.[1]
She thought it virtuous, essential to education—the contemplation of one’s stupidity, one’s failures. Far more valuable than celebrating achievements, contemplating mistakes made a person focus upon reality; it cultivated what she called “attention,” that is, the ability to see things clearly—oneself, one’s neighbor, and ultimately God. Which, she said, was essential to love: being able to see things clearly and humbly—everything—stupidity and sin, beauty and grace.
Very quickly, we’ve reached something which is today controversial—the idea that in the raising and education of children contemplating stupidity and failure is valuable, and the suggestion that, perhaps, a culture of pure, uncritical affirmation won’t always lead to a culture of love and happiness. But that’s not what I want to talk about today, however interesting that is. The point, very simply, I want to make is that, generally speaking, I think Simone Weil was correct. It is valuable to recognize and admit one’s “stupidity” and failure, one’s mediocrity. Because it’s part of being a mature person, a full-fledged human being. And it’s part of being a Christian too.
Wendell Berry said once that it’s the “first responsibility of intelligence…to know when you don’t know or when you’re being unintelligent.”[2] If we can keep from getting our feelings hurt too quickly, we can see the wisdom of this. I always think of it in terms of sports or learning a skill like playing the piano. If a player never listened to his coach when he or she pointed out his or her mistakes; if a player never admitted his or her failure, then, most likely, that player wouldn’t play very much. And that’s because, besides being obnoxious, such a player probably wouldn’t be any good.
Think of Tom Brady watching film after a football game. He’s probably not looking for highlights to make himself feel good; he’s looking for mistakes in order to learn. Which is a big reason Tom Brady is Tom Brady, because he understands, as Simone Weil did, that contemplating one’s mistakes, one’s “stupidity,” is actually quite valuable. Because how else can you learn and improve? It is one of the secrets of excellence. It’s something you’ll find in all the greats.
It’s what comes to mind in light of this passage from Luke’s gospel, these rather embarrassing stories about the foolishness of the disciples and would-be disciples. First, the disciples, having run into opposition, ridiculously ask Jesus if they can call down fire on the Samaritans. Jesus, of course, rebukes them and moves on quickly, barely wasting time on such a stupid request. It’s an embarrassing little vignette, a glimpse of the pettiness of the disciples, pettiness we can sometimes still find in Christians today.[3]
But then there are the would-be disciples. These are they who would like to follow Jesus, but on their terms and in their way. They talk a good game, say all the right things: “I will follow you wherever you go.” But they don’t really mean it. “[B]ut first…” they say.[4] But first: that’s their problem. They want to follow Jesus; they want to be Christians, or at least say they do. They just don’t want to go all in; it’s not a real priority for them. “I’ll follow you, Jesus, but let me keep my mouth shut at work. I’ll follow you Jesus, but let me not lose social standing. I’ll follow you Jesus, but let me not do anything for the good of others or the good of the Church. Just words, please; I’d like my relationship with you to be only a matter of words, maybe a sacrament or two, not action and certainly not sacrifice.” Again, it’s an embarrassing picture, a picture still painted by too many of us today.
Which is why we should hear what Jesus said to them, that they’re not “fit for the kingdom.”[5] Violent, half-hearted, half-committed, talking a good game but not backing any of it up: they’re not “fit,” Jesus said. Like Peter, bravado and all: “Lord, I am prepared…[No] Peter, before the cock crows…you will deny three times that you know me.”[6] That is their stupidity, their mediocrity, their failure. Jesus is just speaking plainly to them, telling them the truth. “No, it doesn’t matter what you say, you’re not fit. Your discipleship is deficient.”
This must’ve been hard for them to hear. But it was what they needed to hear, because it was true. Which is, for us, the simple point and the serious challenge. What do you think Jesus would say to us? What would he say to me and to you? Are we fit for the kingdom? Are you fit for the kingdom? Am I? I don’t know I want to know the answer, but I know I need to know. “No knowledge is more to be desired.” That’s the lesson today, the hard invitation. Do you want to know if you’re fit for the kingdom, or do you not want any sort of criticism at all?
It is a good thing to recognize our unfitness for the kingdom, to see and admit and confess our sins, our stupidity, our failure. Not in order to beat ourselves up, of course, and not because it’s simply the plain truth; but because it puts us in place to pray for grace. Which, beyond the point, is the gift. And that’s because the one calling us unfit for the kingdom is the same one who will make us fit. He just wants us to be honest about the grace we need. And that’s because he is merciful but not fake. And because he loves you more than you can possibly imagine.
So, let’s admit it, we good Catholics, that we’re not as fit for the kingdom as we think we are. And then together let’s beg for the grace we need. Because it’s grace for us; it’s just that it’s free but not cheap at all. Amen.
[1] Simone Weil, Waiting for God, 109
[2] Wendell Berry, The Way of Ignorance, 60
[3] Luke 9:52-56
[4] Luke 9:59-61
[5] Luke 9:62
[6] Luke 22:33-34
© 2019 Rev. Joshua J. Whitfield
