September 14, 2014 – The 14th
Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 19A
© 2014 Evan D. Garner
Listen to the audio of this sermon here.
Forgiveness is a
spiritual exercise that may be harder than we think.
In last week’s gospel
lesson, Jesus urged his disciples to look for opportunities to forgive those
within the church who sinned against them. “Go when it is just the two of you
and point out the fault while you are alone. If that doesn’t work, take one or two
witnesses with you. If that doesn’t work, tell it to the whole church…” At each
step, the hope is that reconciliation might be possible. But Peter—who often
plays our part in the story—approached Jesus and asked, “Wait, how far does
this forgiveness stuff go? How many times are we supposed to forgive—as many as
seven times?” “No,” Jesus replied, “Seventy-seven times.”
What are the limits of
forgiveness? How far should forgiveness go? Our youngest child is at the point
where he likes to test the boundaries of what he can get away with. How many
times will we forgive him playing with his milk or throwing a toy against the
wall or turning the hose on outside? We might put him straight in timeout for
doing the thing he knows very well not to do, but, ultimately, there is no
limit to how many times we will forgive him. He’s two. How can you not forgive
a two-year-old for being a little spunky?
What about the addict who
tells you how sorry she is and begs for your forgiveness and support as she
tries to turn her life around? After her tear-filled speech, which leaves you
crying, too, she goes into your bathroom and steals another piece of your
jewelry so that she can sell it to get high? Do you forgive her again? What
about the next time? And the next? Seventy-seven times, Lord? Really?
Forgiveness doesn’t mean
stupidity. Sometimes the best thing we can do for an addict is to treat her
like an addict. And forgiveness doesn’t mean acting like nothing happened,
either. That would be too easy. There’s no spiritual exercise there.
Forgiveness means you looking at me and me looking at you and both of us
acknowledging what happened but living together in that place of stasis—that
place of shalom—that means neither
one of us is holding on to the past. That’s hard work, but it’s gospel work.
Every once in a while we
hear amazing stories of forgiveness—Pope John Paul II going into prison to
forgive the man who tried to kill him, a father taking the stand at a serial
killer’s sentencing to say that he has forgiven the one who killed his
daughter, the Amish community forgiving the man who walked into a school and
killed five girls before killing himself and embracing the shooter’s family at
his funeral. In cases like these, no one would think less of the victim who was
unable or unwilling to forgive. In our minds, those who have experienced
unthinkable tragedy owe no one anything. If they want to hold onto their grief
and anger, who could stand in their way?
Yet Jesus begs us to
forgive—even those who have hurt us the most. He asks us not to pretend that
the wrong has not occurred. He asks us to look our transgressor in the eye and,
fully conscious of what transpired, to offer a hand of forgiveness anyway. Why?
Because that is how God works. God knows all the wrongs we have ever committed
and all the wrongs we will ever commit, and still he embraces us and forgives
us. The real power of forgiveness is knowing the fullness of the hurt yet
offering love in response. That’s hard to imagine. That’s hard to understand.
And that’s the point. God is doing the unthinkable. God is reaching out to us
in nearly unimaginable ways. And the only way we can ever know what it means to
be forgiven like that is to offer forgiveness in the same way. Amen.
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