September 11, 2011 Pentecost 13, Proper 19, Year A
Matthew 18:21-35
Where were you on September 11?
It’s one of those days that people of a certain age will always remember where we were when we first heard, and there aren’t too many of those.
Holden and I were on our honeymoon and had spent the day exploring Rhodes, Greece. We had returned to the cruise ship before it was set to sail. I was lying on the bed in our room, thinking about taking a nap, when Holden, who had been doing a load of laundry, came rushing in with the news of the first plane crashing into the World Trade Center. We turned on the TV in time to watch in horror as the second plane hit. Then to hear about the Pentagon, concern over possible explosions on the National Mall and at the State Department, and another hijacked plane that was unaccounted for, and finally the awful sight of those towers falling. We spent the rest of the afternoon glued to CNN along with the rest of America, trying to figure out what had happened and feeling like the world that we knew was disappearing before our eyes.
And it was, in a way. A recent poll in the Post said that 9 out of 10 Americans think that 9/11 changed the country in a lasting way. The loss of life was unimaginable and unforgettable. And we all know how much has shifted because of that day. Increased security procedures at the airport. Concrete bunkers outside the monuments. A new and disturbing (and hopefully now ended) government policy on torture. Long-lasting and devastating wars in Afghanistan and Iraq.
There was a lot that we saw that day, and in the days and years following that was beautiful too and that helped to restore our faith in humankind. The bravery of the first responders, people reaching out to strangers, increased conversation across religious and political lines.
But 10 years later, so much of what remains in our collective memory is the horror, the fear, the anger. I’m not sure how we can ever return to where we were. Everything we thought we knew about living in this world – our way of life, our optimism, our sense of power and security – fell along with the towers that day. We were left feeling more vulnerable, less in control of the present and more worried about the future.
And in many ways, it seems like things have been cascading ever since. Our financial and housing markets crashing, an international recession, a broader gulf between rich and poor than ever before, ugly partisan rancor, environmental degredation, famine and unrest in so many places in the world.
Holden jokes about his long term strategy involving a gun and $10,000 in gold stored in the basement.
But I can only hope, in the kind of hope that can find its footing only in something as sure as God’s eternal promise for us and not so much in anything that I can touch or point to, that hunkering down in fear and anxiety isn’t the best we can do.
We can’t go back and change anything that’s come before, and so I see two possibilities for where we go from here. They’re the same two possibilities that seem to exist whenever we’ve been deeply hurt by someone else.
Option A is to hope for a repeat of our Old Testament story from this morning. To wait for the angel of death that protected the people of Israel in their escape from slavery in Egypt and clogged the chariot wheels of Pharoah’s army in the mud of the sea so that they were all drowned even as they were trying to flee. To have the single-minded goal of seeking vengeance on our enemies. To guard ourselves and those we love as completely as possible, never mind the collateral damage inflicted (not just on our enemy but also on us and those we love and anyone else that happens to be standing nearby).
But look where that got the Israelites. Do you think they were ever able to drown out the wailing and lament of their blameless Egyptian neighbors when their first born sons were lost to the final plague? Could they ever erase the image of the countless Egyptian soldiers flailing in the waters after they’d crossed over in safety?
There’s an old Hasidic Jewish story about this passage. It describes the angels rejoicing over the deliverance of Israel at the sea: playing their harps, singing, dancing. “Wait,” said one of them. “Look, the Creator of the Universe is sitting there weeping!” They asked God, “Why are you weeping when Israel has been delivered by your power?” And the Creator of the Universe responded, “I am weeping for the dead Egyptians washed up on the shore – somebody’s sons, somebody’s husbands, somebody’s fathers.” I was reminded of that story when I read a quote in yesterday’s paper from Desmond Tutu, who was asked about the spiritual impact of September 11. Archbishop Tutu said that “[w]e failed the biggest test posed by the 9/11 outrage: In our anger and dismay, we failed to recognize our common humanity…. When we looked at the terrorists, we did not see ourselves.”
It is not enough to be in the right, to be sure that we have been wronged. At the end of the day, even the ultimately victorious Israelites were so full of doubt and distrust after all of their experiences that they rebelled against God and never made it to the Promised Land. Only a couple of the Israelites who lived as slaves in Egypt and made that exodus journey ever saw the Promised Land.
I think we’ve spent much of the past ten years mired in Option A and much of it has probably caused the Maker of our Universe to weep. And it seems to have brought us to just about the same place it brought the Israelites that were part of our story this morning. Full of visions and sounds that we can’t erase from our memories – the rows of faces that appear in the Post’s Faces of the Fallen, the visions of amputees in rehab at Walter Reed, distrust of our neighbors who look different than we do, continued fears and worry about the safety of our loved ones. We may or may not be physically safer now than then – it depends who you talk to. But we as a Nation do not seem to be healed, to be whole, to be at peace with ourselves. We are a long way from the Promised Land.
Which leaves us with Option B, which is a whole lot harder, but still gives me much more hope. Option B is to strive for what Jesus advises in our Gospel from Matthew for this morning. Peter asks Jesus how often he should forgive and throws up 7 as a possibility. Which, if you think about, seems like a pretty generous number. There are probably not many people outside our immediate families and very closest friends that most of us would continue in relationship with if we needed to forgive them so frequently. But Jesus shocks Peter by throws out his own number that is exponentially bigger. 77 times (or 70 times 7, depending on your translation). This number is so big that it might as well be infinite.
This forgiveness that Jesus is talking about isn’t an isolated act but an ongoing activity. Jesus knows that we humans, most of us anyway, are not terribly good at forgiveness. That we don’t always mean it when we ask for it or bestow it, and we don’t always want it even when it’s ours for the asking, or the granting. And so Jesus raises the stakes to 70x7 because he knows that, for us, once isn’t usually enough. We have to keep forgiving, keep trying to let go, keep looking for better solutions, for redemption and love. And eventually, over time – like prayer or love or service to others – when we do it often enough it has the power to transform us. Jesus turns forgiveness into a spiritual practice. And it’s a practice that is both modeled and enabled by our own experience of forgiveness by God. The bizarre parable this morning shows how closely tethered these two things are, or are intended to be. As we pray during communion “forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.”
That said, to be clear, I think it’s important to point out a few things that forgiveness is not, taken straight from last week’s reading that came just before the piece we get this morning from Matthew.
First, forgiveness is not denying or forgetting a harm done to us. Forgiveness is possible only when we acknowledge the negative impact of another person’s actions on our life. It is all about truth-telling. Last week we heard Jesus lay out a communal system for dealing with a wrongdoer, and it started with facing the person and naming the wrong, as incredibly difficult as that often is.
Second, forgiveness doesn’t mean that the person who harmed us isn’t accountable. Forgiveness is not an excuse or a permission for unjust behavior. Last week Jesus talked about how to go about seeking repentance from a wrongdoer.
And third, forgiveness doesn’t mean throwing precaution to the wind. It doesn’t mean inviting known terrorists to the White House without a metal detector or returning home to an abusive spouse or letting a bully pummel you. Last week, Jesus talked about having a system of community support for someone who is wronged, and we see that also in this morning’s parable of the servants, where the community steps in with the Master to prevent injustice to their fellow servant.
Forgiveness is all about what happens inside of us. It’s that first moment when we make the conscious choice to trade in our pride and sense of power for the chance to live again. And then it’s those next seven times, when we choose to let go of the resentment and pain that draws pleasure from our life. And the next seven, releasing the other from our desire for revenge. And so on and so on, until finally we find that we’ve broken the power of the wound to hold us trapped.
Today, the tenth anniversary of September 11, seems like a pretty good time to pick Option B and begin the spiritual practice of forgiveness. In just a minute, we’ll pray for those who were killed and injured on September 11. We’ll pray for the people who have been fighting in wars ever since. And we’ll pray also for our enemies and for a world of understanding and peace. And maybe it’s a good time to start thinking about the places in our lives where we need to heed Jesus’ call to the practice of forgiveness. Amen.
Matthew 18:21-35
Where were you on September 11?
It’s one of those days that people of a certain age will always remember where we were when we first heard, and there aren’t too many of those.
Holden and I were on our honeymoon and had spent the day exploring Rhodes, Greece. We had returned to the cruise ship before it was set to sail. I was lying on the bed in our room, thinking about taking a nap, when Holden, who had been doing a load of laundry, came rushing in with the news of the first plane crashing into the World Trade Center. We turned on the TV in time to watch in horror as the second plane hit. Then to hear about the Pentagon, concern over possible explosions on the National Mall and at the State Department, and another hijacked plane that was unaccounted for, and finally the awful sight of those towers falling. We spent the rest of the afternoon glued to CNN along with the rest of America, trying to figure out what had happened and feeling like the world that we knew was disappearing before our eyes.
And it was, in a way. A recent poll in the Post said that 9 out of 10 Americans think that 9/11 changed the country in a lasting way. The loss of life was unimaginable and unforgettable. And we all know how much has shifted because of that day. Increased security procedures at the airport. Concrete bunkers outside the monuments. A new and disturbing (and hopefully now ended) government policy on torture. Long-lasting and devastating wars in Afghanistan and Iraq.
There was a lot that we saw that day, and in the days and years following that was beautiful too and that helped to restore our faith in humankind. The bravery of the first responders, people reaching out to strangers, increased conversation across religious and political lines.
But 10 years later, so much of what remains in our collective memory is the horror, the fear, the anger. I’m not sure how we can ever return to where we were. Everything we thought we knew about living in this world – our way of life, our optimism, our sense of power and security – fell along with the towers that day. We were left feeling more vulnerable, less in control of the present and more worried about the future.
And in many ways, it seems like things have been cascading ever since. Our financial and housing markets crashing, an international recession, a broader gulf between rich and poor than ever before, ugly partisan rancor, environmental degredation, famine and unrest in so many places in the world.
Holden jokes about his long term strategy involving a gun and $10,000 in gold stored in the basement.
But I can only hope, in the kind of hope that can find its footing only in something as sure as God’s eternal promise for us and not so much in anything that I can touch or point to, that hunkering down in fear and anxiety isn’t the best we can do.
We can’t go back and change anything that’s come before, and so I see two possibilities for where we go from here. They’re the same two possibilities that seem to exist whenever we’ve been deeply hurt by someone else.
Option A is to hope for a repeat of our Old Testament story from this morning. To wait for the angel of death that protected the people of Israel in their escape from slavery in Egypt and clogged the chariot wheels of Pharoah’s army in the mud of the sea so that they were all drowned even as they were trying to flee. To have the single-minded goal of seeking vengeance on our enemies. To guard ourselves and those we love as completely as possible, never mind the collateral damage inflicted (not just on our enemy but also on us and those we love and anyone else that happens to be standing nearby).
But look where that got the Israelites. Do you think they were ever able to drown out the wailing and lament of their blameless Egyptian neighbors when their first born sons were lost to the final plague? Could they ever erase the image of the countless Egyptian soldiers flailing in the waters after they’d crossed over in safety?
There’s an old Hasidic Jewish story about this passage. It describes the angels rejoicing over the deliverance of Israel at the sea: playing their harps, singing, dancing. “Wait,” said one of them. “Look, the Creator of the Universe is sitting there weeping!” They asked God, “Why are you weeping when Israel has been delivered by your power?” And the Creator of the Universe responded, “I am weeping for the dead Egyptians washed up on the shore – somebody’s sons, somebody’s husbands, somebody’s fathers.” I was reminded of that story when I read a quote in yesterday’s paper from Desmond Tutu, who was asked about the spiritual impact of September 11. Archbishop Tutu said that “[w]e failed the biggest test posed by the 9/11 outrage: In our anger and dismay, we failed to recognize our common humanity…. When we looked at the terrorists, we did not see ourselves.”
It is not enough to be in the right, to be sure that we have been wronged. At the end of the day, even the ultimately victorious Israelites were so full of doubt and distrust after all of their experiences that they rebelled against God and never made it to the Promised Land. Only a couple of the Israelites who lived as slaves in Egypt and made that exodus journey ever saw the Promised Land.
I think we’ve spent much of the past ten years mired in Option A and much of it has probably caused the Maker of our Universe to weep. And it seems to have brought us to just about the same place it brought the Israelites that were part of our story this morning. Full of visions and sounds that we can’t erase from our memories – the rows of faces that appear in the Post’s Faces of the Fallen, the visions of amputees in rehab at Walter Reed, distrust of our neighbors who look different than we do, continued fears and worry about the safety of our loved ones. We may or may not be physically safer now than then – it depends who you talk to. But we as a Nation do not seem to be healed, to be whole, to be at peace with ourselves. We are a long way from the Promised Land.
Which leaves us with Option B, which is a whole lot harder, but still gives me much more hope. Option B is to strive for what Jesus advises in our Gospel from Matthew for this morning. Peter asks Jesus how often he should forgive and throws up 7 as a possibility. Which, if you think about, seems like a pretty generous number. There are probably not many people outside our immediate families and very closest friends that most of us would continue in relationship with if we needed to forgive them so frequently. But Jesus shocks Peter by throws out his own number that is exponentially bigger. 77 times (or 70 times 7, depending on your translation). This number is so big that it might as well be infinite.
This forgiveness that Jesus is talking about isn’t an isolated act but an ongoing activity. Jesus knows that we humans, most of us anyway, are not terribly good at forgiveness. That we don’t always mean it when we ask for it or bestow it, and we don’t always want it even when it’s ours for the asking, or the granting. And so Jesus raises the stakes to 70x7 because he knows that, for us, once isn’t usually enough. We have to keep forgiving, keep trying to let go, keep looking for better solutions, for redemption and love. And eventually, over time – like prayer or love or service to others – when we do it often enough it has the power to transform us. Jesus turns forgiveness into a spiritual practice. And it’s a practice that is both modeled and enabled by our own experience of forgiveness by God. The bizarre parable this morning shows how closely tethered these two things are, or are intended to be. As we pray during communion “forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.”
That said, to be clear, I think it’s important to point out a few things that forgiveness is not, taken straight from last week’s reading that came just before the piece we get this morning from Matthew.
First, forgiveness is not denying or forgetting a harm done to us. Forgiveness is possible only when we acknowledge the negative impact of another person’s actions on our life. It is all about truth-telling. Last week we heard Jesus lay out a communal system for dealing with a wrongdoer, and it started with facing the person and naming the wrong, as incredibly difficult as that often is.
Second, forgiveness doesn’t mean that the person who harmed us isn’t accountable. Forgiveness is not an excuse or a permission for unjust behavior. Last week Jesus talked about how to go about seeking repentance from a wrongdoer.
And third, forgiveness doesn’t mean throwing precaution to the wind. It doesn’t mean inviting known terrorists to the White House without a metal detector or returning home to an abusive spouse or letting a bully pummel you. Last week, Jesus talked about having a system of community support for someone who is wronged, and we see that also in this morning’s parable of the servants, where the community steps in with the Master to prevent injustice to their fellow servant.
Forgiveness is all about what happens inside of us. It’s that first moment when we make the conscious choice to trade in our pride and sense of power for the chance to live again. And then it’s those next seven times, when we choose to let go of the resentment and pain that draws pleasure from our life. And the next seven, releasing the other from our desire for revenge. And so on and so on, until finally we find that we’ve broken the power of the wound to hold us trapped.
Today, the tenth anniversary of September 11, seems like a pretty good time to pick Option B and begin the spiritual practice of forgiveness. In just a minute, we’ll pray for those who were killed and injured on September 11. We’ll pray for the people who have been fighting in wars ever since. And we’ll pray also for our enemies and for a world of understanding and peace. And maybe it’s a good time to start thinking about the places in our lives where we need to heed Jesus’ call to the practice of forgiveness. Amen.
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