OK, did you notice how inappropriately this morning’s gospel reading ends? “And in anger his lord handed him over to be tortured until he would pay his entire debt. So my heavenly Father will also do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother or sister from your heart."
OK, lighten up! For God’s sake, we’re celebrating a wedding here today. What’s with the harsh and threatening words? What’s with this talk about torture? (I mean, I know these guys met 35 years ago in a leather bar, and they might know a few things about a certain kind of torture…. But still!) Can’t we just lighten up?
This is the gospel reading assigned in our lectionary to this Sunday of the year, and, to be honest, I thought about swapping it out for something a little less harsh, something a little more joyful in keeping with the occasion. But on reflection, and even later after discussing this reading with Richard and Daniel, I decided to keep it, because I think it has a lot to say about marriage and, in fact, about any life lived in communion with others. Let me tell you why...
First, a word about the context in which this passage appears. It follows last Sunday’s reading about what to do when another member of the church hurts or offends you. In that reading we were given a procedure, a set of steps, aimed at reconciliation. Many centuries later these steps were echoed in the Truth and Reconciliation process that Archbishop Tutu presided over in South Africa.
First you have a one-to-one conversation to get the issue out on the table.
If this doesn’t arrive at an understanding and a true reconciliation, then witnesses are brought in to mediate the dispute, to sort out what happened and recommend what can be done to bring things back together.
If this doesn’t work, the larger church is brought in to bring the two people together, probably using more formal and authoritative structures.
If even this does not work, the offending person is seen as someone in need of outreach to bring them back into the fold. In Jesus’ words, they should be seen as tax collectors or Gentiles, people who were special objects of the community’s relentless care.
This is the context for today’s gospel, and it presents one side of the equation of reconciliation. You don’t simply sweep an injustice under the rug. You confront it and work it through in the hope of achieving reconciliation.
Here is how Desmond Tutu described the thinking behind South Africa’s later version of this gospel strategy:
Forgiving and being reconciled to our enemies or our loved ones are not about pretending that things are other than they are. It is not about patting one another on the back and turning a blind eye to the wrong. True reconciliation exposes the awfulness, the abuse, the pain, the hurt, the truth. It could even sometimes make things worse. It is a risky undertaking, but in the end it is worthwhile, because in the end only an honest confrontation with reality can bring real healing. Superficial reconciliation can bring only superficial healing.
So that’s what we heard in last week’s gospel, this strategy for reconciliation.
And in today’s gospel, Peter responds to all this with a practical question: What happens if a brother or sister offends me over and over, how many times must I forgive? He suggests seven times--more generous than what the religious leaders of his day suggested. For them, the max was three.
Peter here is asking about the limits of forgiveness. The same question many Americans still ask all these years after 9/11. At what point is it OK to strike back, to even the score?
Peter is ready to retaliate; he just wants to know when.
Jesus replies that we must forgive not seven times, but seventy-seven times--meaning you never stop forgiving. It’s an ongoing part of your practice, something you do everyday, perhaps every hour.
When someone has hurt us, it often leaves a wound and a painful memory. Over time, the pain from that wound can return, that painful memory can bubble to the surface again and again.
And each time we feel the pain of that wound once again, each time we become aware of that recurring memory, we have a choice to make. We can choose to dwell on it, picking at that wound, turning that painful memory over and over in a downward spiral of sadness and anger and depression. When we go this way, it is not God who is torturing us. It is we who are torturing ourselves by feeding this heavy darkness in our hearts.
We can choose to go this way. Or we can choose to let go, to move on, to forgive.
Sister Helen Prejean, in her book Dead Man Walking, writes about a man whose son was murdered. When he arrived in the field with the sheriff's deputies to identify his son, he immediately knelt by his boy's body and prayed the Lord's Prayer. When he came to the words: "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us," he realized what a profound commitment he was making. He later told Sister Helen, "Whoever did this, I must forgive them." Though it has been difficult not to be overcome by bitterness and feelings of revenge that well up from time to time, this man said that each day, for the rest of his life, he knows he has to pray and struggle for forgiveness. Not seven times, but seventy-seven times.
Jesus extends his teaching about forgiveness with a story about how to become a forgiving person. We become forgiving this by allowing ourselves to receive forgiveness. This is something the unforgiving servant in today’s gospel never got…
The master had forgiven his overwhelming debt, but this servant never really let that forgiveness in, never let it transform his heart. How do we know this? By watching how he treats a fellow servant who was indebted to him. He seizes him by the throat, demands that he pay up. Even after the other servant falls down and pleads for mercy, he has him thrown into prison.
If this first servant had fully grasped how profoundly he himself had been forgiven by his master, if he had allowed himself to experience the full force of that forgiveness, it would have transformed him, making him forgiving toward his fellow servant.
Because forgiveness is something that flows. It flows first into us from God and from others, and then it flows through us to others. The person who really knows how to forgive is the one who really knows what it means to be forgiven. The one who forgives little has not really allowed herself to be forgiven.
Once a reporter asked Pope Francis “Who are you? Who are you really, at your deepest core?” Francis sat back in his chair and thought very hard for a few moments, then he said, “I am a sinner who is deeply loved and forgiven by God.”
That’s how he understands himself and his deepest identity. A sinner loved and forgiven by God.
If it’s true that forgiveness is something that flows, then maybe it’s no surprise that the word most frequently spoken by this man in his sermons and talks is “mercy”. Francis knows very deeply what it means to be forgiven, and that forgiveness flows through him, and makes him in turn merciful to others. Forgiveness flows.
A word about marriage. This sacrament is custom-designed not for gods or angels but for human beings. Without at least some degree of forgiveness, marriage becomes a long-term endurance contest. But with forgiveness at it’s very core, a marriage can conquer any obstacles life may throw at us.
“Forgiveness, “ Henri Nouwen writes, “is the name of love practiced among people who love poorly.” He goes on to say, “The hard truth is that all [of us] love poorly. We need to forgive and be forgiven every day, every hour increasingly. That is the great work of love among the fellowship of the weak that is the human family.”
The fellowship of the weak. I like that. It’s a great term for the church that Jesus is describing in today’s gospel. It’s also a great term for marriage. A fellowship of the weak in which we all love poorly, in which we must all be forgiven and forgive.
A friend once told me a metaphor for marriage. It is like a particular kind of rock polisher. It’s a cylinder that spins around and around at very high speeds. Into the cylinder you drop the rocks, and they collide and crash into each other. It’s a violent way to polish stones. But at the end of the process, the stones are truly and exquisitely beautiful, precious gems, a sight to behold.
That’s kind of how marriage is, this very human fellowship of the weak in which we crash into each other, saying things we never thought we’d hear ourselves say--sometimes words beautiful and loving and romantic, but also at times words of deep pain and hurt and anger. Sometimes it involves confrontation, hard conversations, maybe a little counseling. But the miracle is that in this sometimes turbulent way, we and our spouses and our marriages become beautiful and exquisite.
Don’t take my word for it. Just look at a few of the elder couples in this room: Liz and Ed, Leah and Cecil, Stoner and Darryl, Jack and Judy.
You see what I’m saying: In and through this sometimes turbulent fellowship of the weak we call marriage, we become beautiful and exquisite.
Forgiveness. It’s an essential part of this rapidly spinning and profoundly joyful, sometimes giddy and sometimes turbulent way that we humans love.
After 35 years, Daniel and Richard know a lot about these things. And today in this liturgy of commitment we lift them up and say thank you for speaking to us about God through your life together through the ups and downs of all these years. And we say congratulations, and may all your love and joy and forgiveness continue to flow for you--and for us--for many, many more years.
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