Sermon:
September 2, 2001
Morning Services 

Scripture:
Matthew 5:38-39

It happened years ago, on the last day of school at Wentworth Military Academy, outside of Kansas City, Missouri. I went into the bathroom to clean up and get ready for our final parade and dismissal. I arrived at the empty sink at the same moment as a friend of mine. We jostled one another, each claiming rights to the sink. I thought it was playful. Then, unexpectedly, my friend’s eyes flashed and he put up his fists and challenged me to fight him. Now in this school, if anyone challenged you to a fight, you were honor-bound to accept. It did not matter whether you won or lost. What mattered was that you displayed courage, and fought well. For some reason, not clear to me at the time, I simply did not want to fight him. I said something to the effect of, "Take it." Then I turned and walked away. My roommate, who had been a Golden Glove Boxing finalist that year, asked me why I didn’t fight him. "You could have beaten him!" he exclaimed. I had no answer for him. It wasn’t fear. It was something quite different which I had never before experienced.

After the formal dismissal, I was walking away from the barracks to return home for the summer, when I saw this friend from the earlier encounter. He smiled at me, ran across the street and shook my hands fervently (men did not hug in those days). We wished one another well—then farewell, since he had graduated and would not return. I am so terribly glad that my final remembrance of him was that occasion and not one of anger and fighting.

I did not realize it at the moment, but I had taken a first step toward Christian maturity. Paul wrote, "When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I thought as a child, I reasoned as a child. When I became a man, I put away childish things." (I Corinthians 13:11) Fighting would have been childish. I have never fought with my fists since that day.

At this point, I need to quote from Philippians 3:12: "Do not think that I have accomplished all this, or that I have already attained perfection; but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ has taken hold of me." I could use this for every sermon. I never speak as one who has "arrived," but as a fellow pilgrim somewhere along the road, sharing his experience.

The next step began two years later, and was reached about ten years after that time. Again, it happened at Wentworth. I was a cadet captain, commander of headquarter company. I was the ranking officer in the barracks. Football practice was just over. My roommate (the same fellow) and I were sitting in our chairs, fully clothed in wrap-around towels—football equipment strewn about the floor—when the door of our room opened. Someone stepped in and stood quietly. Since I was the senior officer, I assumed they were standing at attention, waiting for me to give permission to move and speak. I let the person stand for a few seconds (good for his discipline—and my ego). When I turned to see who it was, I saw a faculty officer whom I did not know. I dimly recalled hearing that a new tactical officer had been hired to assist the commandant. "Oh oh," I thought. "Time for me to be standing at attention." The officer looked about the room, then said with great disdain, "If this is the way you organize and maintain your life, you would not last as a captain in the army for ten minutes."

Not having read Carnegie’s book on How to Win Friends and Influence People, I replied to the effect: "If this is the kind of guff I’d have to take, I would not want to last as a captain for ten minutes!" This was not a wise thing for me to say. It began a feud that lasted all year. Whenever he inspected my room, I received a room demerit. I learned that he had not been an officer at the school and had not been an officer in the army. So I constantly let him know that I was actually superior to him. Needless to say, we did not rush to wish one another well at the end of that year.

A few years passed. The Korean War broke out. I accepted my commission and went on duty. I even attained the rank of captain. Normally I would not write the school to tell them of my activities. But in this instance, I felt compelled to tell them of this promotion (but you know why, don’t you?). A few years later, I went to a homecoming event at Wentworth. I did not see this tactical officer, and thought I would like to see him for a moment (to sort of put it to him, I suppose). When I inquired about him, the response was, "That was really tragic." He had acquired Lou Gehrig’s Disease. His wife had left him, and he died abandoned and in severe pain.

. . . I never felt so petty in all my life.

I had been privately nurturing a grudge and feelings of superiority toward him. I should have been praying for him. In a moment of clarity, I realized that he was actually a decent person, just as I was essentially a decent person. We had allowed our egos to get in the way.

I had much to learn about what Jesus meant in telling us to turn the other cheek. He prefaced that statement with, "Do not think I come to abolish the Law or the prophets. I have not come to abolish, but to fulfill." (Matthew 5:17) When Moses gave the law to the children of Israel, they were a motley collection of tribes. They were not yet a nation. Their loyalty was to the tribe. If someone from the tribe of Dan harmed someone from the tribe of Judah, it would begin a blood feud. Moses proclaimed that one could only equal the score: an eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth. Quid pro quo, then it was over—ended! The idea was never to exact vengeance, but to stop the violence as quickly as possible. When your children are young, if one breaks the toy of another, you might say, "Then you must give one of your toys to the one whose toy you have broken, and that makes it even." By the time they are in their teens, however, I hope you would merely say, "Forget it. Those things happen. Let it go!" Jesus was updating the Law for the people’s level of maturity.

Paul understood this and amplified it in Romans 12:17, "Do not repay evil for evil. Try always to do what is right in the eyes of everyone." Again, in Romans 12:21: "Do not overcome evil with evil, but overcome evil with good." He takes this a bit further with Ephesians 4:26 when he cautions: "In your anger do not sin. Do not let the sun set on your anger, and do not give the devil a foothold." Paul understood that nourished anger festers in the soul, and becomes hatred and bitterness. It causes us to become far less than God would have us be, and does no earthly good.

Let’s talk about this anger for a moment. Those who take my classes know I love to examine the Greek terms. They often carry nuances of meaning lost in the translation. There are at least three different Greek words we translate as "anger." One (as used in Mark 3:5, when Jesus is about to heal a man on the Sabbath) is an anger of intention: focused with a purpose in mind. Another (as in Luke 13:32 when Jesus refers to Herod as a fox) is an anger of passion: there is a principle involved for which Jesus feels great passion. The third term denotes a self-centered anger. This is never used to describe Jesus. Jesus is not "self-centered." Jesus is "God-centered." Our problem is that we are self-centered beings trying to become God-centered. In the meantime, most of our anger is egocentric. It begets such acts as "road rage" or the "O.J. Syndrome."

The problem between that tactical officer and me was one of egocentricity. We nourished our angers and created a feud. I have seen this phenomenon destroy many marriages, divide families, ruin friendships, and create chaos in the work place, with little groups pitting themselves against one another instead of creating harmony and team work.

In my early ministry, a couple (who had been "feudin’, afussin’ and afightin’" for most of their married life) came to me for counseling. We soon all gave up on the effort, and they separated. Then—some time later, on the eve of their 25^th wedding anniversary—they asked me to meet with them in a neutral setting for one last chance. We met in a room, with no lights, late in the afternoon. As time passed, the room grew darker—not only from the lack of sunlight, but from the emotional atmosphere. Each was repeating a litany of the sins of the other. Finally I said to them, "Stop! If you have any decency, you will get a divorce. I have heard nothing but a list of the wrongs and the hurts you have suffered. There has not been one word of concern for the other. There has not been one word of endearment or hope. I believe the only reason you are staying together is to try to get in the last word or the last lick."

They did not like my advice. They went to another counselor who told them to get back together. Then they came to me and told me what a failure I was. Three months later, they filed for divorce.

Some people should not be married. Some people should not have children. Some people really cannot have lasting friendships. They are incapable of true love. In John 15:12, Jesus commanded his disciples to "Love one another as I have loved you." This is the key to all relationships.

Okay, now let me talk about love. Any preacher knows that if he speaks on love, he’s going to arouse anger. When I quote Jesus and say, "Love your enemies," I am going to see some scowls. "No way!" is what they are saying. Again, from the Greek, there are three words we tend to translate as "love," all with distinctly different meanings. One speaks of romantic love. This, obviously, is not the love of which Jesus spoke. Another word denotes friendships. Although Jesus was their friend, this was not the love he meant. The word he used is "agape." This denotes the kind of love God gives us even when we are undeserving. This is the love that Jesus says we are to show everyone: friends, strangers, and even enemies. He never told us to "like" them. He knows we cannot do that. But we can show them "agape love." In the King James Bible, agape is translated as "charity." This sounds too impersonal today, however, so they made it "love." This is the kind of love the Red Cross displays—to friend and to foe, knowing they are all God’s children. They are human beings in need of human kindness.

In I Corinthians 13:5, Paul defines this love, in part. I will use the term "agape love." "Agape love is not rude. Agape love is not self-seeking. Agape love is not easily angered. Agape love keeps no record of wrongs." Paul says, agape love will "let it go."

Without this agape love, no relationship can last. Egocentric anger will destroy romantic love and friendly love. However, agape love (the love of God) cannot be destroyed. Anger and agape love cannot dwell together in the same body. If you have that love, it will drive out your anger. You will be able to "forgive and forget." You will be able to "let it go."

Part of the problem of "letting go" is that we often find such comfort in these ill feelings. They are like old friends. We find some unhealthy pleasure in feeling like a victim. We enjoy the sense of self-righteousness they give us. We have given the devil a foothold, and have reduced ourselves in the process.

Agape love is not an emotion. It is more of a decision. We "decide" to be charitable—to display human kindness and generosity. In effect, we "decide" to be as Jesus Christ calls us to be. It begins as an act of the will. It finally becomes an attribute of our soul.

If you decide to stop nourishing the petty grievances, it can be done simply by deciding to do it. In the movie The Way We Were, the title song had this line: "What’s too painful to remember, we simply choose to forget." Interestingly, the week after I preached this sermon in San Antonio, the local paper ran an article stating that some research psychologists declared it was best to forget some things. (I find it interesting that after 2000 years, research has caught up with Jesus.) The method they recommended was akin to the method I use for myself.

All memory takes a path. When you recognize where the path is going, change directions. You do not have to follow it to its usual conclusion which generates anger and feelings of self-pity. When I go back to that day at Wentworth when the tactical officer entered my room, I now see us both as rather "rank happy." We were both new officers wanting to use our authority. In earlier years, when I was a plebe, I would have accepted his hazing. I look at us both, and sort of laugh at both of us, and realize if I had merely said, "Yes, sir, it won’t happen again," it would not have hurt me. For other times, when I start down the wrong path of memory, I realize that it might have been nice if the other person had been different—perhaps more understanding, more forthright, more something—then we would have had a better result. However, they simply were who they were. Rather than judging, I try to be understanding and accepting. I do not go to anger.

Another couple: The man was quite successful; perhaps too successful. His quest for success had caused him to ignore his wife. She fell prey to a charming younger man, and left home with him. The young man used up all her money and abandoned her. She had no marketable skills. She was destitute, and had to return home, humiliated and defeated. The husband saw her as she entered the house. Undoubtedly many feelings rushed through his head at that moment. He came to her; embraced her; and said to her, "In as much as we have done this thing together, let us see what, together, we can put back together." He realized that, in some way he did not yet understand, he had contributed to this. They never brought up the past again. They learned to forgive one another—and to forgive themselves, and build upon all the good they had shared, and the possibilities that still lay ahead for them.

Joseph Yeakle, who later became a bishop, in his earlier days shared this experience with a small group of clergy. It occurred in his first parish in a small mining town in Pennsylvania. On graduation night, one of the couples from his church were out for a joyride. The young man lost control of the car and it crashed. He escaped with minor injuries. His girlfriend was killed. He came to Joe. Joe comforted him, then told him, "You know you have to talk with her parents." The boy did not want to go, but he knew he must. Joe told him he would go with him. But he said he did not know what good he would be if things got out of hand, because the father was giant hulk of a man.

They arrived at the family home. Joe stood back as the boy knocked on the door. The door opened and the father appeared. When he saw the boy, his face grew dark with emotion. He reached down from the high step and lifted the boy off his feet and pulled him toward himself so that their noses were practically touching. "Johnny," he said, "no matter what you may be thinking, or what anyone else may tell you…" Then he hesitated. Finally, he broke the silence to complete his thought: "I forgive you!"

Joe said it was at that moment that he understood the message of the cross. "Father, forgive them for they know not what they do." And God did forgive, and does forgive. God lets it go. Beloved, let us love one another, for love is of God. Learn to "let it go." Amen.