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Whispering Forgiveness
Sermon preached by John Armes at Holy Communion on 15 September 2002, the baptism of Rebecca Macleay and James Matthews
Romans 14 1-18; Matthew 18 21-35
How often should I forgive?
Last Wednesday inevitably reawakened in us the intense emotions stirred up by the awful events of September 11th 2001. For many, of course, the anniversary was more than an exercise in respectful sorrow, it represented for them another step in the long process of rebuilding - filling a gap in their lives every bit as aching as the chasm left by the collapse of the twin towers.
And for me it raised again the question posed by our gospel reading - how are we to find it in ourselves to forgive, to forgive from the heart? It's not a new question. And as atrocity follows atrocity in recent human history I become aware of two things. The first is that forgiveness is not something I can do on behalf of someone else. The second is a sense of astonishment that some of the most deeply hurt and wronged individuals should find the resources necessary to overcome their bitterness and desire for vengeance.
Yet to speak of forgiveness in the context of the atrocities of September 11th seems trite. Who would be forgiving whom? And with the wrongdoers either dead or unrepentant what would forgiveness mean? In the light of the complexity of the situation, with wrongdoing on both sides, such questions seem politically naïve.
Besides, what would it mean for a nation to forgive? The German/American theologian Reinhold Niebuhr argued that a nation is incapable of altruism. In 1932 he wrote:
Theoretically it is possible to have a national electorate so intelligent, that the popular impulses and the ulterior interests of special groups are brought under the control of a national mind. But practically the rational understanding of issues remains such a minimum force that national unity of action can be achieved only upon such projects as are either initiated by the self-interest of the dominant groups, in control of the government, or supported by the popular emotions and hysterias which from time to time run through a nation. (Moral Man and Immoral Society, Scribner's, 1960, p88)
A nation, he suggests, is incapable of ethical thought because it is incapable also of collective self-criticism. Taking the British Empire as a comparatively benign example he suggests that it was surely no coincidence that it was only when gold had been discovered in the Belgian Congo that the British government awoke to the human rights abuses perpetrated there.
In the same way, then, we might ask whether a nation is capable of forgiving unless it is in its self-interest to do so. A cod might deem it wise to pretend that he did not see the whale eating his mother, but feel more than justified in swallowing the sprat that swims into his path. Which illustration is not unlike the parable in the gospel reading of the big fish (the king) who in this instance takes pity on a middle sized fish (his servant) who in turn refuses to forgive the sprat (his fellow servant) a much smaller debt. The one who had been forgiven much could not find it in his heart to forgive little.
In what sense, if at all, can this be transferred to the September 11th scenario? An individual Christian or a small group might discern a call to forgive, but how is it to apply to a whole nation, however God-fearing it may be, however aware of personal redemption and of reconciliation to God - how are they to link that to ideas of political reconciliation?
Meanwhile in the first reading St Paul is speaking to a divided community. It seems that some, perhaps those who had been brought up as Jews, objected to eating meat (concerned that it had been improperly slaughtered), drinking alcohol and failing to keep the Sabbath. These Paul describes as weak - those whose consciences present scruples - whilst the strong are those who have embraced the freedom from the law that comes through Christ. But his primary point is that 'The Kingdom of God is not food and drink but righteousness, peace and joy in the Holy Spirit'. This is a strong message, clear enough to small communities, that it is not necessary to impose uniformity on others, and that, indeed, it is possible for both sides of an argument to forgive each other for their differences. Apparently opposing factions can co-exist within the same church community.
But again, how is this to be applied in a wider context, to a pluralistic state, a pluralistic world? Or is Niebuhr right that, in the end, rival world factions will only accept each other if it is in their selfish interests to do so?
It's stating the obvious, but it's worth reminding ourselves, that Jesus never did rule a nation or become embroiled in international politics. Early Christianity was a small scale almost domestic affair. Matthew's gospel is clearly describing appropriate behaviour for the faithful few rather than humanity at large, 'How many times should I forgive my brother?' Paul likewise was dealing with a small community of people awaiting the imminent end of the world. The world didn't end but it has changed - the church too changed, and changed again. We can no longer pretend that all are Christians or even that Christian truth is universally revered. Ours is one voice amongst many and the hard reality is that if we take the words of Jesus or Paul and apply them neat to 21st century international relations we can be rightly accused of irrelevance.
In short, therefore, we have the difficult task of discovering how the Christian tradition as a whole, at its heart the death and resurrection of one man, might embrace all people. In doing so we are likely to disagree, Christians generally have. As Paul argues, however, eat meat or not, support war or not both sides can coexist in the same church - and really I have no idea which of those sides Paul would call strong and which weak.
But this task doesn't just belong to theologians. Theologians like Niebuhr can certainly help us to undermine illusions about our faith that are blind to the world as it is. And from very early days Christian thinkers have grappled with matters of society, war, peace and justice. But I think we have to realise that whatever answer we come up with we have to live by. Because in the end the Christian faith is not about words and interpretations it is about life and how we live it, about God and how God moves us - not food and drink but righteousness, peace and joy in the Holy Spirit.
I'm not sure that Rebecca and James would always agree with that. Babies do seem to be inordinately obsessed with food and drink - very demanding, very noisy food processors. Yet already they are learning, because they drink it in with their mother's milk, that life is more than food and the body more than clothing - that it is to do with love and security and other people too. It is our prayer that as they grow up they will be inspired not by rules of believing but by the rumour of God within them and around them - and that they in their turn will keep that rumour alive.
Johannes Metz retells a German folk tale of a tiny dwarf living in the ear of a giant whispering instructions to him. The giant, he says, is politics, the dwarf is the voice of mystery, of otherness and possibility. Without a sense of what might transcend old patterns of human behaviour and tired habits of mind, politics becomes aimless and earthbound.
A country cannot forgive, no, but people can. A nation cannot agree to forgo its self-interest, no, but individuals can. Rebecca and James have joined a community dedicated to the eccentric task of speaking, by their lives as well as their words, the subversive message of Jesus and Paul. That we are to learn to forgive seventy times seven (infinite forgiveness), that God can contain our differences. When spoken into the ear of the body politic it may only seem to be a whisper - we may be too terrified to do anything more than whisper - but if enough people whisper the whisper becomes a roar.
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