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Matthew 18: 21–35
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May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable
in your sight, O Lord our strength and our redeemer. Amen |
Every year, the anniversary of 9/11 allows me to reflect on where
we are as a nation. Maybe that’s something you do, too. And last
Friday on the 19th anniversary, I expected we would observe the day
pretty much as we have in years past – with a solemn recitation of
names of those who died at each site, read out by family members and
punctuated by bells – all to remember a day that brought us
together as a nation, and changed our way of life forever.
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Certainly, September 11, 2001 did that for most of us. We all, still,
remember where we were the moment we first heard and saw those planes
crashing into the twin towers. We all learned to appreciate the first
responders who courageously rushed toward the danger to save
others – rather than away from it to save themselves. And I think
we all remember the days of holy awe that followed – all over the
world – as people flocked into churches to pray, trying to make
sense of what had just happened, asking God for light in those dark days.
So yes, 9/11 is a day we will never forget.
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But this year there was no way we could commemorate the day exactly as
we have in the past. This year the threat of corona virus has forced us
to avoid large gatherings of people – especially in churches,
where in other years we have held memorial services. Instead, it’s
the corona virus itself that has changed our perception of things,
our view of ourselves. Just like the events of 9/11, it has made us
aware of our own vulnerabilities. It has made us grateful for the first
responders – this time the nurses, doctors and EMS technicians
who’ve courageously come forward to help. But it has also
highlighted the plight of the poor among us, who have suffered the
worst casualties in this pandemic. Suddenly, those of us who have
adequate food, shelter and healthcare are aware that many of our
neighbors do not.
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And, of course, this year it isn’t just the pandemic that has
seized our national attention. That eight–minute, forty–six
second film of one man snuffing out the life of another caught
everyone’s attention. Suddenly we all understood the cries for
justice and mercy around us. Maybe, just maybe we’ve all begun to
realize that something has to change . . . and
the change might have to begin in us.
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In fact, what we’ve experienced is the same kind of sudden
reversal Jesus was always pulling on his disciples. “Jesus,”
the disciples cry, “dismiss this crowd so they can go off to some
nearby village and find something to eat.” “No, you
give them something to eat,” Jesus replies. And then proceeds
to show them how it is done.
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Or, on a day when the disciples are shooing children away from Jesus
as he teaches, he says, “Hey! Leave those kids alone!
They’re the Kingdom’s pride and joy! In fact, unless you
accept God’s Kingdom in their kind of simplicity, you’re
the ones who will never get in.” (Luke, 18:15–17,
paraphrased.)
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So this morning, maybe you’re not surprised to hear Jesus at it
again, turning the tables on someone. And this time it’s Peter on
the receiving end. Peter has been listening to Jesus describe the
surprising ways God looks at things – where the little, the least
and the lost are favored ahead of the rich and privileged. And probably
in an effort to show Jesus that he’s understood the lesson, he
asks, “Jesus? How many times do I forgive a brother or sister
who hurts me? Maybe seven?” And in this he’s no doubt
thinking that’s a pretty good offer, since in those days even the
strictest rabbis taught that forgiving someone — as many as three
times — was a generous plenty.
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But Jesus isn’t interested in putting a limit on forgiveness.
It’s a free and joyful way of life he’s teaching, not a
grudging way of limits. So he responds to Peter using a figure of
speech everyone in those days recognized, because it comes straight
out of one of the foundational stories of the Hebrew scriptures. He
quotes Lemech, a descendent of the murderer Cain. Lemech, a tribesman
who lived by blood revenge, boasts that he plans to avenge wrongdoing
with unlimited violence. In a passage from Genesis that scholars call
the “Song of Swords” Lemech sings, “If Cain is avenged
seven–fold, truly Lemech seventy–seven fold.” That
phrase “seventy–seven fold” is used only once in the
Old Testament – to describe Lemech’s violent way of life.
But here in Matthew, Jesus uses the phrase to shock Peter, to remind him
that a life of violent retribution is not the kind of life Jesus has
called him to.
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Instead, Jesus is calling Peter – and by extension all of
us — into lives of unlimited mercy and forgiveness. He’s
reminding us that love and forgiveness have their own power, especially
when we invite God into the transaction. Whether the injury has been
done to us or to someone close to us, we’re to let it go – and
with it our pride, our injured dignity, our sense of entitlement. And
when we do — out of the tragedy, out of the sacrifice — God
restores the harmony. He brings transformation.
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Now you might think it’s a bit of a stretch to apply these lessons
to situations as varied as 9/11, the Covid pandemic, police
brutality and people’s indifference to the plight of the poor. But
the more I thought about it, the more I saw that any act of
violence, any trauma, any careless cruelty has a way of
destroying the precious web of relationship that holds us all together.
Conversely, any act of mercy, any gesture of kindness, any word of
forgiveness begins to reconnect us . . . to
each other . . . and to God.
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So the choice is ours. We can go the way of Lemech, endlessly wreaking
vengeance all around us for any wrong we think has been done to us. Or
we can follow a way of forgiveness – and become the peacemakers
this world so desperately needs.
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Amen
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