Call of Duty

The Queen is an incredible movie that documents a struggle between duty and compassion as the royal family wrestles with the public's desire for national recognition of the death of Princess Diana. Helen Mirren plays an Oscar-winning performance as Queen Elizabeth II, who will not tolerate the lowering of the British flag to half-staff while the royal family is in Scotland (the flag only flies when the family is present). Meanwhile throngs of masses from all corners of Britain and even from other countries gather at Buckingham Palace to leave flowers for Diana, creating a visual statement that cannot help but well up remorse for the sorrow of the event.

Flashback about 2000 years: a Galilean named Jesus begins his ministry as an unorthodox teacher at the age of thirty. While more knowledgeable of doctrine and scripture than any other Rabbi in the history of Judaism, he abandons any preconceived notions of duty as a spiritual leader, choosing to dine with tax collectors and prostitutes, heal lepers, and speak with non-Jews.

A teacher sits in a classroom of fifty ill-mannered students, one of whom is crying. The student next to him called the boy a name that is not worth repeating, upsetting him. Already overwhelmed by the events of the day and the possibilities of interruptions, the teacher asks the student to go to the principal's office, where he sits for two hours waiting for his mother to pick him up.

Where does one draw the line of duty? At what cost does the need for love of the individual outweigh the need for leadership of the whole?

In Jesus' time the Pharisees represented orthodoxy and uprightness, a pillar of religious strength for others to turn to for guidance. To become a Pharisee, one had to be deemed worthy. The position had to be achieved, but also required a certain quality. Whatever this quality was, Jesus lacked, because he certainly did not become a religious leader. However, the Gospel does not fail to point out that Jesus could certainly make the cut. As a boy, he had visited the temple and baffled the religious leaders of his day.

The antagonist of the movie The Queen is surprisingly not alive. Princess Diana represents a character that is foreign to the royal family. She refused the crown, despised elitism, and cared very little about the things the royal family treasured so much. She is somewhat of a black sheep, not unlike the Messiah-to-be, Jesus.

But look at the teacher in the classroom. She is not one to be despised. Neither is the queen, neither are the Pharisees. They are aware of their duty. They are aware of the way that things are done and should be done. Shouldn't they?

Jesus has no sympathy for the Pharisees, calling them names, accusing them of damning his people, and confronting them in their own temples on doctrine. It is there religion that separates them from God, ignoring the needy and shunning the unrighteous.

Can you blame the Pharisees in their stoicism? They have good intentions, seemingly. They surely believe that they are doing God's Will. But God rejects them. Why?

Arrogance.

Stoicism is rooted in arrogance, a sin that seperates the individual from God and His intentions. One in a position of leadership tends to immediate jump into defense when a crisis arises, immediately removing oneself from emotion in order to take control of the situation. This is an experience I am all to familiar with, always leaping to the rescue of the broken, not through healing, but through problem-solving. A Pharisee will tell you what a sinner is doing wrong and how to reach salvation. Jesus will meet you where you are, hold you, and then stay with you until you are ready to follow. Both lead. One succeeds.

Jesus represented change, because nobody's perfect. The British monarchy may have stood for hundreds of years, but that doesn't mean that tradition doesn't have cracks. How can God mold a pot that refuses to be broken? The arrogance of a stoic prevents itself from being contradicted, justifying itself in order to cope with the fear of stepping out of a leader's comfort zone. A teacher may risk a short moment of anarchy for the sake of sympathizing with a crying child. A Rabbi may risk scandalizing his peers to reach out to his fellow Jews who long to understand their God. A queen may cross a single boundary of tradition in order to comfort a distressed people.

There is a missing ingredient that is difficult for a stoic to possess: sacrificial love. There are many loves, and sacrificial love is the one that overcomes fear, arrogance, and comfort. Duty is a stumbling block.

Imagine talking to Jesus about the importance of duty. How insignificant it must be to him! Did he even hesitate to touch the lepers and dine with prostitutes?

I recently read how Princess Diana walked into a retirement home and immediately walked over to the most distressed looking elderly wheelchair, holding her hand and talking with her for many minutes before any sort of publicity was present. Why can I not reach this point, to instantly love? To abandon any sort of hesitations?

What duty am I serving myself to hold back and prevent love from overtaking me? How can I change the way I have made myself?