Pure Gas

Before R’s parents reached the age where they don’t travel much, they used to visit us a couple of times a year. They drove a big old gas-guzzler, so they couldn’t do a round trip from Chicago without having to fill up their gas tank. My father-in-law was always determined to find a gas station that sold “pure gas” – which meant no ethanol. In a state like Iowa with ethanol subsidies and lots of corn, that was hard to find. For months afterward, whenever we compared our gas prices with Chicago’s, he would say “Is that for pure gas? I only use pure gas.”

Purity is not something I normally associate with gasoline, although perhaps I should; occasionally cut-rate stations illegally water down their gas to sell it more cheaply. Purity in food is a more common goal. We all want to be sure that our food doesn’t have any “unexpected” ingredients. Yet food purity is not just about what’s in it; there can be a moral quality associated with how it is produced. If you doubt that, ask someone who is about to buy free-range chicken if they’ve ever tried potted meat food product. (Yes, such a thing exists. I admit that one of my favorite foods, Philadelphia scrapple, is not far from it.)

The Apostle Paul had the moral quality of food in mind when he wrote his first letter to the Corinthians. Paul wasn’t concerned about the diet or living conditions of the food animals; he focused on the meat’s origin. In first-century Corinth, most meat came from animals sacrificed in pagan temples. Because temple dining areas, like modern parish halls, could be rented out for secular occasions, banquets might be held right next to where idols were worshipped. This scandalized some Christians who may have only recently converted from paganism.

Paul’s argument with the Corinthians was not so much about the meat’s ritual purity – he knew that idols do not have any real existence – but rather with those who cared nothing for anyone who might be offended. The “strong” ones thought themselves better than the “weak” ones because they had “knowledge” that the idols were nothing. They had impurity of motive. Rather than show off their knowledge, Paul wrote, they should refrain from eating such meat if it wounded the conscience of a fellow Christian.

Jesus dealt with a different kind of purity when a man with an “unclean spirit” crashed a synagogue service and accosted him. Typically for the Gospel of Mark, the spirit called Jesus the Son of God; no human will do so until after the crucifixion. Jesus rebuked the spirit and it convulsed the man, finally coming out. Today we would have a more naturalistic explanation for what happened, even though we still might say that the man was “out of his mind.” The success Jesus had amazed all who were present. They knew that there was some new power in the neighborhood, although they never did quite figure out what it was. This was only the first of many times that Jesus would purify someone considered unclean. With him, purity was contagious instead of the other way around.

My father-in-law wasn’t particularly interested in spirits or who cared about what he ate. He just knew he didn’t want any ethanol in his gas tank. I’m glad we don’t have that particular conversation any more, and I’m glad that there are agencies like the FDA to keep an eye on the food we eat. Yet I have to remind myself to be aware of how others interpret what I do, especially those things that are of little concern to me but may weigh on the consciences of others. And I especially have to work on discerning spirits, to know what comes from the Spirit of God and what does not. Both of those are essential to the life of faith. And both are a whole lot more important than what kind of gas I put in my car.

[Epiphany 4: 1 Corinthians 8:1-13; Mark 1:21-28. I recognize that connecting gasoline with these readings is a stretch, but we are having our annual parish meeting this Sunday, and I could not resist the temptation to use the title “Pure Gas.”]