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In the
midst of researching a sermon on the relationship between
forgiving and forgetting (which I have yet to preach, because
I have yet to figure it out), I stumbled on a sermon with
the fascinating title, "Forgiving Your Ex" ... as
in "former spouse," "prior partner," that
kind of "ex." Since I have no "ex" to
forgive (or forget), I was able to read the sermon with more
curiosity than passion. Which is not a luxury available to
a lot of you, given your closeness to the issue and the rawness
of your wound.
Prior
to writing the sermon, the preacher consulted several divorced
folk in his flock, asking: "How goes it with you in this
matter?" But when he got done listening to their answers,
he almost didn't preach the sermon. Because the persons he
consulted either weren't able to forgive ... weren't ready
to forgive ... saw nothing to be gained by forgiving ... or
didn't want the church adding to the guilt they already felt,
by asking them to forgive. Some had a litany of complaints
a mile long. Others had a pool of pain a mile deep. On to
which they wanted to hold ... at least for a little longer.
So the
preacher pondered: "Isn't there some level at which this
could take place ... a beginning for forgiving, if you will?"
Eventually he found one. But not at the level of specific
grievances ("you hurt me ... you hit me ... you cheated
on me ... you walked out on me"). People still found it
hard to forgive those. But, in a more generic sense, he found
that divorced men and women were able to forgive their "ex"
for not meeting their expectations:
You
weren't what I expected. Being married to you was not what
I expected. Life, in the years we shared it, was not what
I expected. But since I played a part in creating those
expectations ... or even changing them, midstream ... I can't
hold you totally responsible for everything that happened.
I wanted you to be "x." You turned out to be "y."
Maybe you always were and I just missed it. Which I regret.
But I can't hate you for it.
Stay with
this idea for a minute. Expectations are powerful things.
The more expectations we hold ... and the higher we hold them ... the
greater our capacity for disappointment when they go unmet.
Consider simple things like concerts, plays, movies ... even
sermons. People tend to complain more about them, when they
have great expectations concerning them. And I have seen Methodist
preachers fail in a new assignment ... not because of anything
they did, but because the gap between who the Bishop sent
and what the congregation sought was so great, so as to be
unbridgeable.
Holding
onto that thought, jump with me to Allegheny College, our
United Methodist school in Meadville, Pennsylvania. Zero in
on Ford Chapel at the heart of the campus. It is jammed to
the rafters with 550 people (which is 100 more than the chapel
is built to hold). People are crowding into the pews, sitting
on the sills, lining the walls and overflowing the balcony.
There are students, faculty, administrators, and people from
the town. There are young and old, male and female, black
and white. The act of overcrowding only adds to the excitement,
generating a feeling that something truly electric is about
to happen.
The occasion
is Black History Month on Allegheny's campus. The speaker
is to be Rosa Parks, fresh from the pages of history. On this
day, she is a stooped-over, frail-looking woman, nearing her
80th year. But when she was 42, she was the department
store clerk in Montgomery, Alabama, who got on the bus at
the end of her working day and more or less fell into one
of the front seats.
Later
she was to recall that day, saying that she was simply too
tired to acknowledge or accede to the demand of the bus driver
to "move on back." Or maybe it was the "N"
word (from the driver's lips) that stiffened her spine. But
as history records, she didn't "move on back." Her
act of defiance surprised her as much as it did the driver.
It was unintended and hardly conscious. As she has said so
many times since: "I didn't get on that bus intending
to get arrested. All I wanted to do was go home to my family."
But she
was arrested. And, hearing of her situation, other blacks
in Montgomery decided they were tired, too. Sick and tired
of taking so many things, from so many folk, for so long a
time. Thus began the boycott. "We won't ride your buses,"
they said. A young Baptist preacher came from Atlanta to lead
them. And the rest (as they say) is history.
That's
the Rosa Parks that people jammed Ford Chapel to see. When
she arrived, reports Don Skinner (the chaplain of Allegheny),
she was escorted down the center aisle. The audience rose
as one, erupting into spontaneous applause. Whereupon, she
began to speak ... retelling her story ... reliving her frustration ... relating
her dream.
But Rosa
Parks was not a lecturer. Her delivery was hesitant ... her
voice, soft. Occasionally she wandered from her outline or
would begin a story, only to forget its point. Chaplain Skinner
reported that a strange reaction set in. There was a slow
but steady attrition of the audience. People began leaving ... some
early, others late. Some left alone. Others, by twos and threes.
Those departing were neither noisy nor rude. They simply got
up and left. On their faces could be seen a uniform look of
indifference. Just minutes before they had been part of an
audience that was barely able to restrain itself. Now they
were like detached persons, strolling through a crowded airport
without recognizing a soul.
Skinner
added that it appeared as if students were the only ones leaving.
He wondered why. One obvious explanation was that of age.
These students were not alive when Rosa Parks boarded that
bus. The name "Rosa Parks" triggered nothing emotional
within them. The word "Montgomery" triggered nothing
emotional within them. Even Martin Luther King triggered nothing
emotional within them.
But then
a second explanation came to the chaplain ... one that made
better sense. These students, he reasoned, brought a heightened
expectation of what a historical figure ought to look like ... sound
like ... be like. Granted, Rosa Parks was not a riveting lecturer
or spellbinding orator. But it was not a flaw in her presentation ... or
her personality ... that caused the students to walk out. It
was a flaw in their expectation of her.
They expected
her to be brilliant ... scintillating ... articulate ... charismatic.
Even "controversial" would have made them happy.
Theirs is a generation which has been led to expect the spectacular.
Theirs is a generation addicted to hype. "What did they
expect?" the chaplain wondered.
So he
asked them. Many of them expected a cross between an 80-year-old
black Rambo and a grandmotherly version of Martin Luther King.
Virtually all of them expected a sermon that would rattle
the chapel windows and shake the chapel pews. They expected
a tongue lashing from history, coupled with a visualization
of the Promised Land from theology. Instead, what they heard
was a little old woman, reflecting the weariness of her 80
years. If only they could have seen a movie about Rosa Parks,
instead ... one starring Whoopie Goldberg as Rosa and George
C. Scott as the bus driver.
You know
where this is going, don't you? Of course you do. That's why
I like preaching here. Your lights come on quicker than other
people's. You have already figured out that we are going to
Bethpage (literally, "Beth-pagee" or "house
of figs"), where another rider is about to begin a journey.
But this journey will take place by donkey rather than by
bus. First, however, we have to back up. More to the point,
we have to go north. Our goal is to set ourselves a context.
Jesus
is with his disciples in Caesarea Phillipi. Today, this is
as far north as you can go and still be in Israel. It is north
of Galilee. It is north of the Golan Heights. It is at the
base of Mount Hermon. It sits at the intersection of Israel,
Lebanon and Syria. But, in the time of Jesus, Caesarea Phillipi
is virtually a pagan city. There are few Jews there.
Jesus
suggests a round of 20 questions. First question: "Who
do men say that I am?" Answers abound. Some say "Elijah."
Others say "Moses." Still others start naming prophets.
"Let's go to the second question," says Jesus. "Who
do you say that I am?" Whereupon Peter answers: "The
Christ. That's who you are. You are the Christ, the son of
the living God." To which Jesus says something that sounds
like: "Good for you."
Which
means that the secret is out. And you know what happens to
secrets, once they are out. They spread. That's what happens.
And the New Testament ... especially Mark ... has this big thing
about secrets. Not just any secret, but the big secret. The
Messianic Secret.
Now you
need to know something about the Messianic idea. Classical
Israel was looking for a Messiah. They held three basic expectations
about what the Messiah would look like when he came. Over
time, these expectations became braided together, like the
strands of a pigtail. First, the Messiah would be a great
prophet. Second, the Messiah would be a great priest. Third,
the Messiah would be a great king. But, by the time Jesus
came along, these braided expectations had been laid aside
in favor of a more expedient (and political) one. The new
Messiah would have profoundly political leanings and would
identify himself with the revolutionary movement aimed at
the liberation of Israel from Rome. The new Messiah might
even serve as the rallying point for a "coup."
Times
were tense. Roman rule was oppressive. Roman taxation was
outlandish (often exceeding 80 percent of income). False messiahs
were turning up under every rock. Most of them were dealt
with immediately ... and severely. Don't lose sight of the
fact that even John the Baptist ... who was as apolitical as
they come, living as a recluse in the desert ... was imprisoned
and beheaded. People were hungry for a very different kind
of food. Therefore, the identification of Jesus with the current
Messianic expectation would have spread like wildfire. There
would be no way to keep it quiet.
This is
why the conversation at Caesarea Phillipi becomes "charged,"
when pierced by a word from Jesus saying: "I think it
is time we go to Jerusalem." Why go to Jerusalem? I mean,
really, why go? I love James Fleming's answer. Why does Jesus
go to Jerusalem? Because Jesus knows that you can't save the
world from a safe address. My oh my, doesn't that say it all?
Down through
Galilee they go. East of the Jordan they go. Over the river
at Jericho they go. Then they cross the Judean wilderness,
heading for Bethany. They reach Bethpage where they borrow
a colt. There's a great deal of Jewish nationalism caught
up in this "colt" business. Jesus rides toward the
city. Palm branches are stripped and strewn. The palm branches
are yet another symbol of Jewish nationalism. But both the
"branch" and the "colt" are safe symbols.
The Jews will know them. But the Romans will miss them.
Once inside
the city gates, the authorities suggest that Jesus rebuke
his disciples. He refuses. The children keep on singing, just
as children of revolutionary movements are always encouraged
to sing, shout and throw stones. For the leaders of revolutionary
movements know that reigning authorities will be reluctant
to arrest (or shoot) a child.
What,
pray tell, is going on here? Does Jesus understand all of
this? Could Jesus be playing into this? Is it possible that
Jesus is feeding this? Or is it only when Jesus gets to Jerusalem
that he is overwhelmed by the paradox of the hour, finally
realizing that the Messiah the people want cannot be reconciled
with the Messiah that God wants. Is that why he weeps over
Jerusalem, because he realizes the utter impossibility of
holding his dream in the same hand with their dream? Could
it be that he knows, only then, that he will never be the
one they expect to see?
And you
know what happens next. He comes down the center aisle. They
give him a standing ovation. Then quietly, over the course
of the next few days, they walk out in little groups of twos
and threes.
Sometimes
we do not get what we expect. We do not get charisma and confrontation.
We do not get hype and hullabaloo. We do not get the spectacular
coup d'etat ... or even the less spectacular coup de grace.
Sometimes all we get is quiet courage that stands in and steps
up. Sometimes the faith is kept simply ... in obedient ways ... to
an exalted authority ... at an elevated price.
Last week
I asked you (in the middle of a sermon): "Who tells you
who you are?" This week I would ask you (at the end of
this sermon): "Who pulls your chain?" Or, if you
don't like that phraseology, then
Who
constitutes the audience that attracts your attention?
Who
populates the constituency that arranges your agenda?
Who
plays the fiddle that calls your tune?
For in
this modern era of finger wetting ... field testing ... focus
group polling ... and up-the-flagpole running ... I doubt that
many of us know who pulls our chain until we check the polls
and crunch the numbers. "Vox Dei - Vox Populi."
The voice of God has, for all too many of us, become indistinguishable
from the voice of the people.
I was
ruminating on this last Wednesday when I heard Alan Frank
of Channel 4 tell Mitch Albom of WJR that his television station
was going to reposition the Jerry Springer Show from the 4:00
p.m. time slot to the 10:00 a.m. time slot, so as to distance
it from the eyeballs of children and teenagers, sitting in
empty houses and channel surfing for sick adult behaviors
to alleviate their boredom.
I thought
to myself that bumping Jerry Springer was a good call. Not
just because of the sex. Not just because of the violence.
But because of the absurd pretension that the people on his
show represent normality. For today's TV set is a modern cultural
icon that baptizes as it televises, leading impressionable
people to believe:
if
it's on television, it must be real.
if
it's on television, it must be important.
But notice
what Alan Frank said in announcing the change. He said: "We
looked at the numbers and (overall) they were great at 4:00.
Jerry was great at 4:00. The audience was great at 4:00. The
`deliverables' for the 5:00 news were great at 4:00. The advertising
dollars were great at 4:00. But our most loyal constituencies
were feeling squeamish about showing Jerry at 4:00. So we
bounced him back."
Great!
But don't you wish he'd said ... intimated ... whispered ... even
hinted ...
that
in a world where there are far more negative role models
than positive,
that
in a world where people already know how to scream, shout
and interrupt, but few know how to reason,
that
in a world where fighting is done at the drop of a hat,
but forgiving is done seldom, if ever,
that
in a world (from the White House on down) where it is more
exciting to light someone's fire for an hour, than warm
someone's heart for a lifetime,
that
in a world where sanity takes a backseat to spontaneity
... and where few of us have ever met a gratification we
were willing to delay,
... that
bumping Jerry was more "right" than it was "savvy,"
and that there are times when serving the public good means
more than counting the public's noses ... or even banking the
public's dollars.
One of
the things you have got to like about Palm Sunday is that
Jesus rides into Jerusalem and takes a poll of one. And when
he gets his answer, he remains true to it and lives by it.
Which is why I want to stick within shouting distance of Jesus ... not
so that he can meet my expectations, but so he can help me
meet God's.
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