Nobody Likes to be Told What to Do
Angelo Dundee was an old school boxing coach who died about ten years ago. He was the son of Italian immigrants who grew up in the 1920’s and 30’s in South Philly. In his prime, he became Muhammad Ali’s trainer and cornerman, but along the way, he also coached greats like George Foreman and Sugar Ray Leonard.
There’s a story that one day Angelo was trying to get Ali to adjust his technique. Angelo had noticed that Ali was jabbing when he should be bending. But Angelo couldn’t just say that to Ali. Ali had such a colossal ego, that if Angelo was too direct, Ali would get mad and stubborn. So Angelo would praise Ali for bending, as if he really had, and let Ali think it was his idea.
Nobody likes to be told what to do. There’s a whole genre of sit com plots where the family has a really good idea, but the grouchy dad is skeptical, so they come up with a scheme to trick the dad into thinking it was his idea all along.
Parents enjoy trading stories about ways they trick their kids into thinking chores are fun: you make up a funny song or a game about putting your toys away, and young kids forget they’re cleaning up their room.
Sometimes, working in a high school, I’ll have a student who is hoping to get recruited to play a sport in college, maybe win a scholarship for something like cross-country or volleyball. This happens often enough that the NCAA has a website about helping students position themselves so that they are attractive to coaches. One of the things on that website is an article about “how to be coachable.” It’s trying to warn against being a talented kid, but with an ego, a hard heart. If a student won’t let himself be coached, he puts a ceiling on his achievement. Apparently it’s enough of a problem that the NCAA thinks we need an article about how to receive criticism in a healthy way, to take on board feedback, and learn to improve.
This is fallen human nature, isn’t it. We don’t like to be told what to do. Especially in this culture, we’re stubborn, we’re proud, and we idolize self-sufficiency. And so we handicap ourselves, putting limits on who we can become. If we’re lucky, there’s an Angelo Dundee in our lives, who can coax us out of our cages.
In all the most important things in life, the Church is supposed to be our coach. Holy Mother Church has two thousand years of wisdom about how to live and encounter God, for real, at a deep and transformative level. But we don’t like to be told what to do. Speaking as a convert, it took me twelve years from first sensing the presence of something sacred in the Eucharist, to actually converting. Part of the reason I dithered was because I knew that if I became a Catholic, I’d have to change my life and be humble in the face of tradition and authority. And nobody likes to be told what to do.
The church scandals of the last fifty years don’t help either. At the top of the list, we look at the way the pope and the bishops have handled the abuse crisis, and not only do I not want to be told what to do, but of all people, I especially don’t want those guys telling me things. Everyone gets that.
But we can’t let that be an excuse. In today’s Gospel, it’s Jesus himself saying “repent and believe.”
It’s not the bishops, it’s not our parents, it’s not an ex who treated us badly, it’s not a fantasy argument with whomever that we rehearse in our mind. No. Today, it’s Jesus looking us in the face.
This year, for the rest of ordinary time, we’re going to have Sunday readings from the Gospel of Mark. Today it’s chapter one. Today we hear the first ever recorded words from Jesus’ lips: repent and believe. It sets the theme for the rest of the gospel: repent and trust, repent and follow, repent and let yourself be coached.
In today’s Old Testament reading, the people of Nineveh get the same message. Jonah comes to them, delivers the word, and they wake up. They fast, put on sackcloth, and change their lives.
Today’s Psalm – same idea. “Teach me your ways,” we sang at the refrain, because when we are at our best, we confess that we need to be taught, to be coached. The last stanza in the Psalm repeats the word “humble” twice: the Lord teaches the humble his ways. Not the proud, not the indignant, not the quibblers, but the humble: the ones with the Lord as their coach, these are the ones who will learn his ways.
Today’s epistle reads at first a little paradoxically: let those with wives live as if they didn’t have them, let those who weep live as if they did not grieve, let those who buy things live as if they did not own, etc. But St Paul is coaching us about spiritual detachment. Marriage, family, financial security – these things are good, but they are ephemeral. They can be taken away, or, if we cling to them too tightly, they can become idols. They are blessings, we give thanks for them, but we never possess them as entitlements. Even our grief and sorrows – we feel them, we live through them, but we don’t let them harden our hearts, for when we grieve with and in the Lord, we somehow find room in our hearts for a greater and new love.
All four readings converge on this theme: a spiritual life depends on detachment, humility, and being coachable. The good news is that we can ascend and meet God. When Jesus says “repent and believe,” it’s an invitation to humility and listening.
Have you ever wondered what Jesus meant when he said, later in the gospels, that to save our lives, we have to lose them. I think with today’s readings, we’re on the scent. Standing before all that is sacred, what a great gift it is to be humble, to let down our guard, to be childlike and penitent. Standing before the Lord and his love, what a tragedy to be wary and aloof, to be possessive and protective. Blessed are the meek, for they are coach-able. When we are shiny and successful, or cynical and bitter, we’re tempted to think we can make it on our own. But do you know the Leonard Cohen song – cracks are how the light gets in?
Think about the structure of a Mass. We begin each liturgy with a short but real confession, admitting our sinfulness and embracing our littleness. Then we listen to the Word, letting ourselves be coached. Only now, at this moment, humble and instructed, do we approach the Eucharist and intimacy with the Lord.
