The Power of Forgiveness

The Church of St. Paul and Incarnation, Jersey City NJ

September 13, 2020

Year A, Proper 19: The Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Exodus 14:19-31

Psalm 114

Romans 14:1-12

Matthew 18:21-25

The Power of Forgiveness

            As you can tell from the gospel lesson I just read and from the title accompanying the service, today’s theme is forgiveness.

            But, before I get into that, I want to begin with a disclaimer.

            Forgiveness is very important – but it’s not the most important thing – and it’s definitely not as important as wellbeing, as personal safety.

            It is a tragic fact of life that many people suffer from physical, psychological, sexual abuse. The odds are that includes some of you.

            If it does, I hope you will reach out for help from someone you trust.

And, please know that Jesus’ call to forgiveness is not a call to tolerate an abusive situation.

            As Jesus says elsewhere, “I came that you may have life, and may have it abundantly.”

            Amen.

           

I’m going to let you in on a little-known fact about the Episcopal Church: just like Roman Catholics, we offer sacramental confession.

            It’s true!

 And, if you don’t believe me, you can look up the service in the Prayer Book. It’s called “Reconciliation of a Penitent” and it starts on page 447.

            For Roman Catholics, there was a time not so long ago when many people went to confession very regularly, in many cases they went once a week, making sure they were in a state of grace, which was necessary to receive Communion at mass.

            In the Episcopal Church the attitude toward confession can probably best be summed up as “all may, none must, some should.”

            I don’t know how many Catholics make confessions these days, not too many, I’m guessing. But, I can tell you that, based on my experience, almost no Episcopalians ask to make a confession – which is not surprising, but also too bad, because I know that a lot of us carry around some pretty heavy guilt, guilt that may require something a little more personal than the general confession and absolution that we offer here each week.

            Anyway, in my almost thirteen years of priesthood, I can count on one hand the number of times I have heard a confession. I mean, people tell me lots of stuff, of course, but only rarely do they ask for the formal rite.

            The first time was not long after I had been ordained. I was serving as the assistant at Grace Church in Madison. One day, someone (not a parishioner, not someone I had ever met) called and asked if there was a priest who would be available to hear her confession.

            I said yes and we set up a time to meet.

            Since at Grace a lot of people cut through the church to get from the parking lot to the office, I suggested we meet in my office, where it would be more private.

            As we sat across from each other I explained the service and then asked if she would like to tell me what had been burdening her.

            One of the interesting things about this experience is that I have absolutely no memory of what this person told me. I couldn’t and wouldn’t tell you if I did remember, but I actually don’t.

            And, for me that forgetfulness is a little taste of what God promises – not only to forgive our sins, but to forget them.

            Once this woman was done unburdening herself, we said the prayers and she made her formal confession and then…as I said the words of absolution and made the sign of the cross, something remarkable happened that I will never forget.

            It was like all of the muscles in her face suddenly relaxed.

            It was like her eyes suddenly came alive.

            It was like the light around her suddenly grew brighter.

            Somehow the lifting of shame and guilt didn’t just have a spiritual or an emotional effect, but it actually changed her physically.

            The person who left my office was not the same as the person who had entered.

            The power of forgiveness.

            If you were here last week, you may remember that we heard Jesus lay out a procedure for what to do when one person in the church sins against us.

Jesus says, first, go and speak to the person alone.

If that doesn’t work, take one or two others with you.

If that doesn’t work, tell the church.

And, if that doesn’t work, Jesus says, “Let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax collector.”

Which sounds a lot like this unrepentant person is to be cast out of the church forever – except that we know that Jesus has a special love for the outcasts of the world – and that we are commanded to share the Good News with absolutely everybody, to the ends of the earth – very much including the people the world sees – and sometimes we see - as not worth the trouble.

And now, we pick up right where we left off last time.

And, interestingly enough it’s Peter – who, as we know has a kind of hit-or-miss record – it’s Peter who realizes the implication of the plan that Jesus has laid out.

Peter realizes that Jesus’ plan is going to require a whole lot of forgiveness – and so he wants to have a better idea of just how much forgiveness he will be required to give.

Peter asks Jesus, “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?”

Now, let’s be honest, depending on the person and depending on the offense, forgiving someone seven times already sounds kind of above and beyond the call of duty, doesn’t it?

But, for Jews, the number of seven carried a sense of abundance and fullness. So, it seems that Peter has almost gotten it right, realizing that he and we are called to lots of forgiveness.

Which is hard enough. So, we can imagine Peter’s surprise and maybe even dismay when Jesus gives his answer, “Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times.”

Which can also be translated as seventy times seven times – and in Judaism the number seventy embodied infinity.

We are called to an infinite amount of forgiveness.

We are called to forgive because God forgives us.

In fact, we are called to forgive the way God forgives – over and over and, though it’s challenging, maybe even forgetting the particulars of how we’ve been wronged.

 And, the final little kicker from Jesus is that if we choose not to use the awesome power of forgiveness then God will not forgive us – which is truly something dreadful to contemplate, isn’t it?

And, just in case we still don’t get the point, Jesus offers a parable about an unforgiving slave.

We’re told that the slave owed his master ten thousand talents – that doesn’t mean anything to us today but back then it was an almost comically huge amount of money – kind of like saying he owed a gazillion dollars. Obviously, the slave has no hope of ever paying that back and so the master is ready to sell him and his family and his possessions but after the slave begs for forgiveness, the master relents and releases him from his enormous debt.

But then, in such a disappointing but so very human twist, this same slave who has received such great forgiveness refused to offer forgiveness to those with much smaller debts to him. And, when word of this un-forgiveness gets back to the master, he throws the formerly forgiven slave into jail where he will remain until his debt is paid, very bad news for the slave, since it will take forever.

And, Jesus issues one last, kind of chilling, warning: “So, my heavenly father will also do to everyone of you, if you do not forgive your brother or sister from the heart.”

            The power of forgiveness.

            I want to tell you that I’ve had a hard time with today’s sermon.

            It’s not just the disclaimer I had to issue at the start.

            Today, more than usual, I’m preaching to myself at least as much as I’m preaching to all of you.

            Because, the truth is, I’m not really in a forgiving mood.

            Maybe you can relate.

            I’m finding it hard to forgive leaders who clearly do not have our best interests in mind.

            I’m finding it hard to forgive so many in our country who have ignored decades of loud and clear warnings about the damage we were doing to our planet – and now, look, the West is burning. And, what is yet to come?

            I’m finding it hard to forgive the people I see every day who stubbornly refuse to wear a mask, who won’t social distance, who still think Covid is a hoax, and now, look, we’re still losing on average somewhere between 800 to 1,000 people every day, and so many of our teachers and students are stuck trying to teach and learn through screens, and we know that, as usual, it’s the most vulnerable who will suffer the most, falling even farther behind.

            And, maybe because now I spend more time than usual by myself with more time to think about the past, I find it hard to forgive myself for my own mistakes and poor decisions.

            So, the other day I was stewing about all of this – wanting to think about almost anything other than forgiveness - when the news broke about Bob Woodward’s new book on President Trump.

            Woodward, of course, became famous nearly 50 years ago for his investigative reporting on Watergate, the scandal that led to the President Nixon’s resignation.

            Anyway, thinking about Woodward got me thinking back to that scandal. And, I remembered Nixon’s farewell talk to members of his administration, just before he left the White House.

            Understandably, considering the occasion, it’s kind of a rambling stream of consciousness, a mix of gratitude, defensiveness, and self-pity – but there was one haunting, very revealing, line in there.

You may remember that Nixon was notoriously unforgiving and vindictive, famous for keeping an enemies list.

But, as he ended his presidency in disgrace he said, “…always remember, others may hate you, but those who hate you don’t win unless you hate them, and then you destroy yourself.”

It’s up to us to use the power of forgiveness – or not.

If not, Jesus says that God won’t forgive us – which is certainly bad enough.

But, it’s not only that.

If we choose not to forgive, the power of forgiveness doesn’t just somehow evaporate inside us. No, instead, it curdles into resentment, bitterness, hatred, maybe even cruelty – and, ultimately, self-destruction.

Just think of the ungrateful slave in today’s parable, locked up forever, paying a debt that can never be paid – think of Richard Nixon, losing the most powerful job in the world, forever stained by disgrace.

Think of so many unforgiving people we have encountered – maybe even ourselves, sometimes.

So, whether we’re in a forgiving mood or not, the stakes are very high.

God has given us the power of forgiveness - may we use it wisely.

Amen.

"Holy Ground"

“Holy Ground”

As the summer draws to a close, I find myself thinking back to all that we have missed during these long months of the pandemic. It has been such a strange, challenging, and frightening time. We have endured the sadness of being apart and somehow survived the anguish of losing loved ones without the chance to say goodbye in our usual way. Some of us have lost jobs and some are on the edge of eviction. At the same time, we have remained close to one another through frequent and fervent prayer, united in heart and faith.

I have missed gathering with you in our beautiful sacred space, praying and singing together, exchanging the peace, sharing Communion, enjoying coffee hour, and all of the many other activities that we took for granted. Out of all our special events, the Good Friday Stations of the Cross Procession has been the hardest to give up. I believe it’s our most important event of the year, drawing together the suffering of Jesus long ago and the suffering that occurs daily on the streets of Jersey City. If you have walked with us, you know that at each station we pray, we hammer a nail into a battered wooden cross, and, in one last gesture, we sprinkle Holy Water, symbolizing that God has restored holiness to the ground that had been profaned by our hatred and violence.

Holy ground.

Throughout history, people have sensed that certain locations are particularly holy – special places like islands, rivers, or mountains – places where God seems to be so present that we can almost step through the usual boundary between now and eternity. For example, two Sundays ago we heard the story of God appearing to Moses on Horeb, “the mountain of God.” It’s there on that holy ground that God reveals God’s name and announces that the cries of the longsuffering people have been heard, and liberation is about to begin.  

And then there are places constructed by human hands that have been made holy by what has happened there. After twenty years of deep connection, our old wood-frame Victorian church is my holy ground. When I’m in there, surrounded by walls washed by over 150 years of prayers, I feel close to the many who have gone before us. It’s there that I feel closest to God.

Today, on the nineteenth anniversary of the September 11 attacks, our minds turn to the holy ground of Lower Manhattan. In just a few horrific minutes, what had been a marvel of human ingenuity and engineering, a transportation hub, and a place of business, was transformed into an inferno of terror and heroism. Today it is holy ground where we remember the thousands of people whose lives were cut short by hatred and violence, and where we especially honor the valiant firefighters and police officers who raced into danger and sacrificed so much. For those of us who witnessed this catastrophe, the shock and pain will linger forever. Frankly, I still avoid the World Trade Center. And, even after all these years, on the rare occasions when I take the PATH train over there, I’m still momentarily surprised that the old station with its brown and gold earth tones is gone, replaced by something very different, sleek and white. I’m not sure if this was the architect’s intention, but whenever I walk through the cavernous Oculus with its marble floors and whitewashed walls, it feels like I’m in a mausoleum, walking through holy ground.

Over the past two decades, we have shed precious blood in unending wars and have had livelihoods and hopes upended by economic downturns. We have watched great American cities swamped by “once in a century” storms and, as we saw just a few months ago in Australia and see now in our own West Coast, many millions of acres of land containing innumerable trees, animals, and homes have been lost to wildfires. And, here in Jersey City, and all across our heavily armed country, there is the steady bloodletting of gun violence. Just the other day, a JCPD officer shot a 21-year-old young man. As usual in cases like this, the truth is in dispute. The police say he was pointing a gun at the officer. Community members have doubts and demand proof. This incident took place at the Salem-Lafayette housing complex – a place that our police chief described as “notorious” – a place where several of our parishioners live – and a place where we stop every year on Good Friday, remembering yet another act of violence, mourning yet another victim.

It seems to me that, as fire and rising tides, and poverty, racism, and violence continue to make more and more places nearly unlivable, as many of us refuse to take the steps necessary to stop the spread of Covid, and as we allow partisan politics to tear us apart, we desperately need to widen our vision of holy ground. Yes, we may sense that certain locations are particularly holy, either because of natural beauty or the lasting memory of prayer, suffering, and sacrifice. But, the truth is, the whole earth is holy.  As the psalmist declares:

The earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it,

the world and all who dwell therein.

(Psalm 24:1)

So, California’s magnificent redwood forests and the gleaming white PATH station and, yes, the glass-strewn streets around Salem-Lafayette are all holy ground. If the whole earth belongs to God, then it is all holy. In fact, there are no “bad neighborhoods,” no matter how “notorious” they may be. When we sprinkle Holy Water on places of violence on Good Friday, we’re just washing away a temporary stain on God’s good earth, restoring the holiness that sin had hidden from our eyes.

I don’t need to tell you that we are in big trouble. And I wish I could say that it looks like things will get better soon. But, if we are going to get out of this mess, if we are going to find our way to living the way God has always intended, then we must ask God to give us eyes to see the world as it was always meant to be, as it really is – to see the world and all who dwell therein, as holy and worthy of deep love and great care.

Liberation

The Rev. Thomas M. Murphy

The Church of St. Paul and Incarnation, Jersey City NJ

September 6, 2020

Year A, Proper 18: The Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Exodus 12:1-14

Psalm 149

Romans 13:8-14

Matthew 18:15-20

Liberation

At first glance, today’s Old Testament and Gospel lessons don’t seem to have much to do with each other.

We began with the Passover story, remembering this central event in the history of Israel, when the God of Liberation begins to set the people free from bondage in Egypt.

And in the Gospel of Matthew, we heard Jesus offer a plan for what to do when one member of the church sins against another.

But, hopefully not confusing matters, I want to begin with another story - one of my favorite gospel stories, found in both the Gospels of Mark and Matthew, with a few little differences.

            Since we’ve been reading Matthew, I’ll describe his version of the story.

            Jesus and his disciples are on their way to Jerusalem and for the third time Jesus tells his friends and closest followers what is going to happen to him in the capital city: he will be handed over and condemned to death, he will be mocked and flogged and crucified, and on the third day he will be raised.

            How to react to all of this?

            Like Peter last week, we might miss the essential news about rising to new life on the third day, and instead we would probably focus on the suffering, and, like Peter, we might even try to turn Jesus away from this path, hoping that the Lord would avoid such a terrible fate.     

Out of love and loyalty, we might even pledge to do everything in our power to prevent this prediction from coming true.

Now, a better reaction might be to simply remain silent, trying to absorb, trying to reflect on, everything Jesus has said.

But, I know many of you pretty well, so I doubt that any of us would see this prediction as an opportunity to jockey for a prime position in Jesus’ kingdom.

But, that’s exactly what happens.

Matthew tells us that the mother of James and John kneels before Jesus and says, “Declare that these two sons of mine will sit, one at your right hand and one in your left, in your kingdom.”

Jesus responds that they are asking for a life of suffering but in the end those prominent places in the kingdom are not his to give.

And then comes my favorite part: the other ten disciples hear this little exchange and they get angry with James and John.

I love this. It’s so human, right?

And, so typical of the disciples!

The disciples have been with Jesus for a while now, traveling from place to place, enjoying a front row seat for his teaching and healing, hearing and puzzling over all of the mysterious and challenging parables, and yet they still don’t understand that the ways of the world are not the ways of the kingdom – the ways of the kingdom are not the ways of the world. In the kingdom, it doesn’t matter where you sit – and, in fact, it’s probably better to be in the back.

Jesus calls them together and says, “You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their great ones are tyrants over them. It will not be so among you.”

“It will not be so among you.”

It’s important for us to remember that in the days of Jesus’ earthly lifetime, back during the first century, the Romans lorded it over Israel and the entire Mediterranean world.

There was no real concept of human rights or the inherent dignity of every human being.

Instead, the always-practical Romans preferred to let local leaders remain in place, so long as they collected the hefty taxes that were sent to Rome, and if they kept order. If taxes were not collected and if order was not maintained, everyone knew the Romans were perfectly willing to unleash great cruelty to remind everyone of who was in charge.

Crucifixion was a common occurrence.

So, there was certainly law and order, but not exactly peace.

This was the delicate and dangerous reality for the leaders of Israel and that’s why when they heard people hailing Jesus as “King of the Jews,” they knew they had to put a stop to this right away, or risk the wrath of Rome.

Jesus always offers a way very different from what’s on offer from the world. He says to the disciples and to us:

“It will not be so among you.”

So, how should it be among us?

Among the four evangelists, it’s only Matthew who offers us a detailed and practical map to show us how we are to follow the way of Jesus together as community, as the church.

As we heard, Jesus lays out a plan for what to do when one member of the church sins against another.

First, go and speak to the person alone.

If that doesn’t work, take one or two others with you.

If that doesn’t work, tell the church.

And, if that doesn’t work, Jesus says, “Let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax collector.”

Jesus liberates us from the world’s hard way of shame and quick judgment and cruelty.

Jesus, who is with us whenever we gather, liberates us – offers us a way that is patient and slow and kind, always ready to offer forgiveness, always holding out for reconciliation and healing.

And, even the business at the end about the offender being “as a Gentile and a tax collector” – on the one hand it sounds like they are to be cast out, but on the other hand at the end of the Gospel of Matthew, the Risen Christ sends out his disciples to the ends of the earth, charged with sharing the Good News with everybody, including, yes Gentiles and tax collectors and all the outsiders who are especially loved by Jesus.

Today, the Roman Empire is long gone.

And, fortunately, especially over the last century, people all around the world have agreed upon a clear vision of universal human rights, though, as you can see by just glancing at the news, we continue to fall far short of those lofty ideals.

Far too often the way of the world – the way of our country – the way of our state – is the way of shame and quick judgment and cruelty.

I was glad that so many of our parishioners – along with something like 2,000 other people - attended the New Jersey Together action on Zoom on Monday evening.

I thought it was very well done with a lot of information presented clearly and effectively, and some of our state’s most powerful elected officials at least saying all the right things.

Probably at least some people went into the action thinking that, you know, New Jersey, it’s a northeastern state, it must be a pretty progressive place – especially in comparison to more “backward” parts of the country.

And yet, it turns out that we have incredibly deep and cruel inequities here in supposedly progressive New Jersey.

For example, the median wealth for white families in New Jersey is $352,000 – the highest in the country, while median Black wealth is $6,100 and median Hispanic wealth is $7,300.

In New Jersey, currently 300,000 eligible drivers have their licenses suspended for failure to pay a fine or failure to appear in court – and we know that a license suspension often plunges people into a downward spiral of debt, unemployment, and worse.

And, I don’t even have to tell you about the wide racial disparities when it comes to who gets arrested and imprisoned in our state.

We’re not quite the Roman Empire, but still, even after all this time, so often the way of the world is the way of shame and quick judgment and cruelty.

But, just as in the days of old, the God of Liberation is at work – opening our eyes to see the many injustices all around us – helping us to recognize the many ways that people are virtually enslaved today - and calling us to be part of the great liberation.

So, maybe today’s Old Testament and Gospel lessons do share a common theme, after all.

Liberation

Jesus gives us a roadmap to making the church a place of forgiveness and reconciliation, a place where, as St. Paul writes, we owe nothing but love.

The church should be liberated from the ways of the world.

But, that’s not all.

 Jesus also sends out his disciples, sends us out, giving us the responsibility of helping with God’s holy work of liberation, to offer the world a different way, to use tools like New Jersey Together to set people free from what enslaves them today, doing our part to make the world a place of forgiveness and reconciliation and love.

May it be so.

"It Should Sound Like You're Praying"

“It Should Sound Like You’re Praying”

It’s been more than twenty years since Sue and I first walked through the red doors of St. Paul’s. That first Sunday, we were moved and impressed by so much: the beauty of the church, the warmth of the welcome, the authenticity of Fr. Hamilton’s preaching, the exuberant passing of the peace, and also the excellence of the music. Nothing in our background prepared us for the central role of music in the life of this church. Previously, I hadn’t given much thought to church music, hearing it as a kind of underscore meant to cover otherwise quiet parts of the service. That was definitely not the case at St. Paul’s! While the choir was quite good, I was even more impressed to see and hear that most people in the pews sang the hymns, maybe not always on key, but with reverence and joy. And, maybe most surprising of all, everyone seemed perfectly happy to sing every verse, no matter how long it took!

Over my years as a St. Paul’s parishioner, I came to know and love many of the hymns in The Hymnal 1982 and Lift Every Voice and Sing, gradually discovering church music’s power. However, not being much of a singer, I was content to offer just a quiet voice, easily drowned out (I hoped) by the rest of the congregation. That was more than enough for me.

When I was discerning a call to ordained ministry, I don’t think I gave much thought to my vocation’s musical aspects. But, when I arrived at General Seminary, I discovered that many of my classmates had sung in choirs for years, and some even had professional musical training. It quickly became clear that, musically, at least, I was way out of my depth. Occasionally at chapel services, what I had thought was my quiet singing voice would draw sideways glances from classmates. That was bad enough. Worse was the fact each of us seminarians had to audition with David Hurd, the brilliant, but (to me, anyway) pretty intimidating professor of church music (and organist, choir director, and composer). I remember waiting outside the classroom where the auditions were happening, listening as my classmates sang for him one by one. To my ears, they all sounded great, pushing my already high anxiety through the roof. By the time it was my turn, I felt like I was going to pass out. Professor Hurd asked me for my favorite hymn. In my moment of panic, I couldn’t think of even one hymn. As I looked at him blankly, he said, “If you don’t pick something, you’ll sing ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’.” I said that was fine, found the page in the hymnal, and we began.

I don’t think I made it through “glory to the newborn king” before Professor Hurd stopped playing, waved his hands in the air, and said, “I think we have a problem.” My stomach dropped. It felt like a waking nightmare. I was ready to be sent packing, but, instead, he patiently played notes, asking me to listen and try to match pitch. After I finally settled down, I was able to do that, and the professor concluded that I was not tone-deaf, just a really bad singer!

Over the next few months, Professor Hurd generously worked with me one-on-one, focusing on chanting, which I would need to learn for the final exam. At home, I spent hours chanting along with a recording of the Thanksgiving Over Water from the Baptism service. In the end, I did OK, though, despite David Hurd’s best efforts, I could never quite manage to chant the word “water” without a Jersey accent.

Anyway, I felt a great sense of accomplishment – and a great relief to be done. And, I remember thinking that I probably would never serve in a church where I would be required to chant.

Wrong. I began my ordained ministry as a deacon at Grace Church in Madison. I had never expected to serve in a large suburban church like Grace, a place with many vibrant ministries, most especially an extraordinary music program led by the brilliant Anne Matlack. The adults, teenagers, and children in the choir were amazingly talented, singing lots of different music so very well. In my first few months, I was dazzled by it all, but gnawing at the back of my mind was the knowledge that once I was ordained a priest, I would stand at the altar in front of the choir (not to mention the congregation) and have to chant the Sursum Corda and the Preface.

When that moment arrived, just as I was about to begin, I looked out at the faces of the choir, little kids to senior citizens, most of them watching me with what seemed like a mix of curiosity and encouragement. Then, I stretched out my arms, took a deep breath, glanced down at the altar book, and began to chant, The Lord be with you…

Later, Anne Matlack helped me finally lose my nervousness about chanting. More than that, she reminded me of what all church music is supposed to be about, reminded me of what the church is supposed to be about, reminded me of what I am supposed to be about. I forget how it came up, but one day she commented about my chanting, “It should sound like you’re praying.” In the years since, I have often thought of those words, remembering that, while hitting the right notes is important, my responsibility - and our task together - is to pray.

Of course, everyone who knows the incomparable Gail Blache-Gill knows that she sees her work as ministry. No one can hear her sing without also hearing profound prayers offered to God. For many weeks now, Gail has been organizing our first musical event since the start of the pandemic: the Sixth Annual Choral Festival of Peace. Each year, this gathering of our own musical talent, joined by choirs from near and far, has been a deeply moving event, truly music as prayer. This year, we won’t be able to be together in person. That’s too bad, but it also frees us from worrying about transportation, parking, and getting home before dark. And, by presenting this year’s festival on the church Facebook page, our whole extended congregation, stretching from here to California, will be able to join us!

So, please mark your calendars for NEXT Sunday, September 13, at 4:00 pm. Join us on our church Facebook page (Facebook.com/StPaulsJC) for a time of beautiful music that will open our hearts, helping to create desperately needed peace. It will definitely sound like we’re praying!