Sermon:
April 18, 1999

Scripture:
Luke 23:32-43

If the popular emergence of Dilbert has taught us anything, it is that humor can be found anywhere ... even in corporate America. But it wasn't Dilbert who recently sent me a compendium of the ten best things to say to your boss if caught with your head down, sleeping at your desk. I won't share them all, but among them are these:

They told me at the blood bank that this might happen.

Whew! Somebody must have substituted decaf for regular.

Thank God you got here in time! I must have forgotten to recap my whiteout.

I wasn't sleeping. I was merely meditating on our corporate mission statement and envisioning a new paradigm.

Still, the very best thing to say when caught, head down, catching forty winks;

... In Jesus name, Amen.

But the real problem most of us have is not nodding off when we should be working, but remaining awake when we should be sleeping. Not all of us are lucky enough to drift off to dreamland within minutes of hitting the pillow. Sometimes it takes hours. For which there are many causes. Too much coffee after dinner. Too much excitement before bed. Too much worry over what is past. Too much worry over what is coming. A garlic and anchovy pizza. Any number of things can keep us awake.

Including the 11 o'clock news. All those fires and murders ... rapes and robberies ... schemes and scams ... busts and bombings ... corruptions and cleansings ... coupled with yet one more investigative report on sexual molestations by childcare workers, or cockroaches in the kitchens of four-star restaurants. Taken collectively, there is a numbing quality to their endless quantity, which induces not only sleeplessness, but helplessness. Even on the sports reports, there seem to be more strikes than strikes ... and more scores than scores (if you know what I mean.) What's a body to think? What's a body to do?

To paraphrase the old hymn, "the wrong is oft so strong." What's more, it keeps coming at you. Sometimes you have to turn it off and tune it out. Consider the high burn-out ratio among those who do front-line duty against drugs and crime. Police officers have a particularly hard time keeping perspective. Some adopt the very postures they oppose. Those are the corruptible ones. Others lose faith in the basic goodness of humankind. Those are the hardened ones. My friend, Fred Timpner, left police work after ten years on the street, trading it for a career in management and personnel. Fred was a darned good cop. But concerning his decision to leave the force, he mused: "I still liked the work. I still could do the work. But I didn't like what the work was doing to my head. My thinking was getting all screwed up. It was getting so I couldn't see the good in anybody."

Another friend, Bob Bough, tells me that people who work in the chemical addiction field experience the same thing. Ten years is a long time to stay in that business. Twenty years is an eternity. It gets to you. You've got to take a break. You've got to walk away. Because if you don't put some distance between yourself and the job, you will be consumed by the overwhelming negativity of the very thing you are fighting.

"But though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet." How fervently we sing that. How deeply we'd like to believe that. But it doesn't always ring true. Sometimes, in the ongoing struggle between good and evil, it seems as if evil has all the advantages. Evil is industrious, while virtue is often apathetic. Evil is cunning, while virtue is easily conned. Evil is often profitable, while virtue is said to be its own reward. Evil is attractive and exciting to the senses, while virtue tends to be pedestrian and colorless.

Several years ago, the New Yorker carried a cartoon in which two middle-aged women were discussing a married couple seated near them in a restaurant. Said one of the women to the other: "Oh, she's such a perfect saint. But he's much more interesting." Commenting on the cartoon, Bill Muehl was led to observe: "Most of us quietly suspect that the saint is some kind of traitor to the human race, while harboring a sneaking respect for men of evil reputation and women of easy virtue."

That may be a bit strong. But it does occur to me that outlaws, bandits, hookers and pirates have always provided storytellers with some of their most appealing characters, just as television argues, week after week, that "good people" are dull, and "bad people" are fascinating.

What's more, evil is destructive. And destruction, by its very nature, is quick and easy. Compare that with the effort required to accomplish the good, which is often laborious and slow. Contrast destruction and creativity. Six children may labor for hours, building an intricate sand castle on the beach. It takes but a matter of seconds for a strong-legged bully to kick it to smithereens.

A painter can spend a year creating a masterpiece. A committee of art patrons can spend another year raising the funds to purchase it. A museum curator can spend a third year moving it from wall to wall, seeking the perfect way to display it. But one angry man with a concealed knife in his trench coat can slice it into ribbons of canvas in a matter of seconds.

A family can pour sixteen years into the socialization of a child. They can teach her a sense of values. They can assist her in the development of a conscience. Then, in the words of an eighteen-year-old boy I heard recently: " All you gotta do is get the chick high and she won't care what she does with her body."

In much the same way, a great career can be compromised by a slanderer telling one lie ... a great leader can be toppled by an assassin firing one bullet ... and a great cathedral can have a hole blown in its side by a fanatic tossing one pipe bomb.

In the face of "strong wrong," can God really bring things into line? Every time we recite the Apostles Creed, we articulate the line: "I believe in the final triumph of righteousness." But can it be brought to pass, short of the end of history? Will God have to destroy the world before goodness can win? Personally, I think God can pull it off prior to doomsday. But the house divides on that one.

Which leaves more to be said ... more that is positive ... more that is promising ... more than will please, placate and pacify. So let me get on with it, weighing in with but one simple observation: Evil tends to be self-defeating ... if not immediately, certainly inevitably.

That's right. Evil defeats itself. Evil sows the seeds of its own destruction. Evil has a remarkable tendency to shoot itself in the foot. How so? I'll tell you how so. Because evil, by its very nature, is a separatist thing, while good is a unifying thing. We would, by now, be totally under the rule of the criminal, the conspirator, the despot and the deviant one, were it not for this one redeeming factor ... one tide-turning truth that cancels out the advantages evil has in its impressive arsenal of weapons.

Evil breaks apart. Evil separates itself, not only from the good, but from other evil as well. We all know that evil is destructive. But I am here to tell you that evil is also self-destructive. Samuel Johnson, venerable British sage, put it well when he wrote: "Wickedness would have long ago overwhelmed the world, did not those who practice it grow faithless to each other."

In my cover notes for this week's bulletin, I invited you to consider a pair of clichés. The first cliché suggests that there is "honor among thieves." Do you believe that? I don't. Were that true, it would mean that thieves would treat each other better than they treat their victims. They would respect each other's rights. They would make no infringements upon each other's territory. I once heard about a man who blew a tire on the freeway. It was his rear tire. He steered to the side of the road, jacked up the frame, and was about to exchange the flattened tire for a spare, when he looked up to see a stranger raising his hood. "What's going on?" he screamed. To which was heard the response: "Cool it, buddy. You get the tires, I'll get the battery. Keep your mouth shut and we'll both make out like bandits." I suppose that could be classified as honor among thieves. Except it doesn't work out that way most of the time. Thieves have little honor for each other. And what honor there is can be sold for a price.

A better cliché ... a more descriptive cliché ... suggests that "thieves fall out." It's inevitable. It goes with the nature of thievery. In fact, it goes with the nature of most evil. Evil is antisocial in nature. Evil is based on selfish motives such as greed, avarice and private gain. Evil cares only about me and mine, never about you and yours. Since the thief (or evildoer) is primarily interested in private gain, he or she is seldom capable of enduring loyalty.

Trust and loyalty require that one will act (most of the time) in the best interest of another. But evil sees "the other" as one to be fleeced, conned, abused, victimized ... certainly not as one to be sacrificed for. So evil generates no trust, creates no community and promotes no loyalty. Which is why thieves tend to fall out.

Evildoing, in the long run, becomes a solitary and lonely thing. Which explains why there are relatively few drug dealers over the age of 35. They kill each other off or carve each other up. This explains why conspiracies always sound more plausible in theory than they work in practice. Most conspirators can't trust each other long enough to make a conspiracy work. This explains why most crimes are solved by giving immunity to one of the criminals who, in turn, spills the beans on everybody else. This explains why the least stable unit of social organization is a group of bank robbers trying to divide the loot from the heist. This explains why tyrants are more often killed by their lieutenants than by the armies massed against them. This explains why Hitler and Stalin could sign a nonaggression pact with each other, but couldn't maintain it longer than a year. And this explains why the phrase "partners in crime," involves a pair of words that cannot coexist in the same sentence, and may constitute the world's most obvious oxymoron.

Evil has no center. It is always a separatist thing. We should have known this, we who understand theology. For centuries we have been saying that "sin is separation." It is separation of the self from God ... . often called estrangement. It is separation of one self from another self ... often called brokenness ... And it is the separation of the self from itself ... often called schizophrenia. All you have to do is focus the light sharply enough, and evil will fragment ... running and hiding, just like the book of Genesis said it would.

Evil splits from within. Occasionally, even Hollywood recognizes it. My son, Bill, was something of a movie buff. He understood film artistically, cinematographically, and, sometimes, even theologically. Which is why he told me to rent a video that, to this day, enjoys a bit of status as a cult film. It's name : "A Fish Called Wanda."

It is a movie about a crime ... a diamond heist to be exact ... perpetrated by three rather ugly men and Jamie Lee Curtis (who is certainly far from ugly, herself.) The plot is interesting, filled with surprising twists and turns. But the movie ends strangely, almost amorally. Nobody gets caught. The diamonds are never returned. From the standpoint of justice, the crime is quite successful. But there is no hint that the criminals ever get to enjoy the money. The whole plot concerns the breakdown of community within the circle of thieves. This one turns on that one. That one betrays the next one. Finally, none are left, save for Jamie Lee Curtis and the judge she corrupts. They fly off into the sunset, the jewels resting between them. But, given all that has gone before, only a fool would conclude that either will rest comfortably, or that (together) they will live happily ever after.

I found myself reflecting, early on in Holy Week, about the fact that Jesus was crucified between a pair of criminals. Matthew and Luke go so far as to call them "robbers." But there is no mention of who they robbed or what they stole. For all I know, it may have been state secrets ... since crucifixion was most often reserved as a punishment for high crimes of a treasonous nature. But that's all speculation. The Bible doesn't say. And in addition to not knowing their crimes, we don't know their ages, their nationalities, their politics or their religious leanings.

Legend has named the penitent one Dismas ... Demas ... or Dumachus. But that's legend. All we know is that they were apprehended, convicted and suspended ... above the crowd ... with nails ... on wood ... beside Jesus. Which only adds to our Lord's humiliation, don't you see. There he hangs, among common criminals ... wretched of the land ... refuse of the courts ... scum of the earth ... whatever.

One wonders if these two thieves knew each other ... rode with each other ... robbed with each other ... hung with each other. Maybe so. Maybe no. But even if they started together, they are far from together now. Not at the end. One rails at Jesus: "Some King you are. Can't save yourself. Can't save us." And you can darned well bet the only hide this thief is interested in saving is his own.

But the other thief either sees something ... senses something ... hunches something ... feels something ... splitting him from his comrade opposite, while drawing him to the stranger in the middle.

Leading him to say to the comrade:

Do you not fear God, since you are under the same condemnation ... justly so, I might add.

Even as he says to the stranger:

Do Lord ... O do Lord ... O do remember me.

Proving once again, that goodness reopens bridges that evil burns. For, in the face of evil, it is goodness (alone) that heals the breech.

And since we are recalling movies, let me help you remember another one ... a better one ... an endearing and enduring one ... "Driving Miss Daisy." In it are to be found but two characters that matter. Miss Daisy, played by the late Jessica Tandy, is an 80-year-old widow of the deep South ... very Jewish ... cussedly independent ... innately crotchety ... and frustrated because she can no longer drive her car, thus requiring the services of a chauffeur. The chauffeur's name is Hoke, played by Morgan Freeman, who is nearly 70 ... very black ... functionally illiterate ... but possessed of a dignity which will not quit.

For much of the picture, Miss Daisy does not like Hoke, precisely because she does not like the fact that she needs him. And her dislike, coupled with a subtle sense of racial superiority, leads her to treat him in ways that are not always sensitive or kind. Then one day Hoke is driving her to Sabbath services at the Temple and they are caught in a traffic jam. "Stalled" would be a better word. Impatiently, she urges Hoke to get out and see what the problem is. Which he does. On his return, the conversation goes something like this:

"Miss Daisy, I'm afraid you're not going to be able to go to Temple today."

"Of course I'm going to Temple. Why wouldn't I go?"

"Because the Temple's been bombed. That's why all the cars are stopped."

"Bombed? Don't be ridiculous! Who would do such a thing as bomb the Temple?"

"I reckon the same ones, Miss Daisy. The same ones."

And in the face of such an evil, there was a coming together of the black son of a slave and the white daughter of Israel, as slowly they began to realize they had more in common than they had in conflict. And God smiled. Which God always does, when things work out according to plan.