These verses come from the Sermon on the Mount.
Here, Jesus speaks not to the vast crowd, the
multitude, that has followed him through the Galilean
countryside, but to his closest friends, his followers,
his disciples. He speaks to them about the spiritual
danger of anger and resentment. Scholars sometimes
call these the “hard sayings of Jesus.” Hard, yes,
because they shift the focus from our actions to
our intentions. Jesus asks his disciples to examine
our hearts. If you are at the altar, if you are in the
sanctuary, if you are at the sacred place of worship,
if you are standing on holy ground, and there you
remember that somebody somewhere has something
against you, leave immediately and be reconciled
before returning to worship.
Here Jesus suggests something rather radical. It
is this: reconciliation is a prerequisite for worship.
Interpersonal peace precedes proper praise. We cannot
draw near to God when we are distant from each other.
It is perhaps easy to understand why this is one of
those hard sayings, along with the words you just
heard later in the Gospel of Matthew, when Peter
thinks he’s being generous by saying, “Do I have to
forgive someone seven times?” and Jesus extends it
by a multitude. Not seven, but seventy times seven.
Some prefer to think of these words as parables, as
intentional overstatement, exaggeration meant to
make a point. Not for us to take literally. This is both a
relief, and at some level it makes sense. After all, we
are so practiced at justifying our actions, demonizing
our adversaries, holding close our resentments. A
friend recently pointed out to me how appropriate it is
that we speak of “nursing” our grudges. We often treat
our bitterness with more care than our joy. We can find
so many reasons to avoid reconciliation, and we can
spin these words of Jesus as parables, as metaphors
meant to make a point. Many of these excuses make
good sense, at least in our own minds.
But then, Jesus says, we come to worship. We
find ourselves in the presence of God without the
protective armor of self-absorption. We are vulnerable.
We are fully present. Our hearts and minds open. And
here is what happens. At the altar, in the sanctuary,
on holy ground, we remember. Our hearts remember.
Worship evokes memory in a way nothing else can.
Seated in the presence of God, we recall words
spoken in anger days ago that had slipped our minds.
We summon up an act of inappropriate aggression
toward a stranger. We cringe at a social media
comment that we once viewed as a brilliant take down
of a lesser point of view. We regret the silent treatment
toward our spouse or the quick temper toward our
children. Here, in worship, we examine our hearts.
We reflect not on how justified or righteous our anger
was, but on how this carefully guarded resentment is
shaping our character. Here, joined in community and
gathered before God, we do remember.
The great preacher Fred Craddock brings the message
home, writing, “Memory is a powerful stab of awakening
to face our duty. If you’re at the altar and you’re offering
your gift and there you remember, leave it and go…this
is urgent. Do it immediately. Don’t wait; delay could be
deadly. It will fester. You will find yourself in a ritual of
going into the backyard and lifting the stone to make
sure the snake is still there, that it is now defining your
life. Don’t let that happen. Go first. Go now. Jesus says
there is something that takes precedence over prayer
and that is my relationship to you."
This is what we remember in worship. That
resentment is a prison we construct ourselves. That
forgiveness is freedom. That confession is the key.
That when we seek genuine reconciliation, we can
unlock the door and open the way to worship of
God and relationship with one another. Now I do
mean, because I believe Jesus did mean, genuine
reconciliation. We know the other kind as well. I’m
sorry if you were offended, but... Well, I’m sorry that
you’re so sensitive. Or frankly, just about any apology
that begins, I’m sorry, but…
The chasm between us and the growing resentment
among us make the way of Jesus both more important
and more difficult. We live in a culture of contempt.
And we know it. We sense it. We see and hear and
perhaps occasionally are those whose resentment
has become a raging fire threatening to consume
them. Some of us refuse to acknowledge a hurt that
we have caused. Others promise to exact revenge
for past wounds. And so, the vicious cycle of abusive
rhetoric and victimization continues unheeded.
What will stop the madness? Come to the altar.
Remember. Go and be reconciled. And only then,
return to worship. When we are at the altar, when
we are before God’s righteous judgment and God’s
compassionate grace, we see our own failings in the
light of divine mercy. We acknowledge our frailty and
our brokenness and our limitation. And we commit
ourselves to living another way.
This way is the example people of faith can set in a
culture of contempt. By faith, we know the truth of
what Sen. Alan Simpson observed at the funeral for
President George H.W. Bush some years ago. Simpson
said, “He knew what his mother and my mother always
knew: that hatred corrodes the container it’s carried
in.” We’ve seen enough corrosion to know there is a
better way. A similar point put differently by author
Anne Lamott: that refusing to forgive is like drinking
rat poison and expecting the rat to die.
This summer, on my annual retreat in the mountains
of North Carolina, I planned the themes and the
topics and the texts for worship this program year.
The weeks beginning today, October 13, and ending
November 3 took longer than any other season to
discern. Where should we focus our attention these
four Sundays? Which messages might resonate and
be helpful for this moment and this congregation
of well-intended, diversely minded folk? Briefly, I
considered beginning next summer’s sabbatical
a little early. Only briefly. Then I thought about the
possibility of entirely avoiding the elephant (or
donkey) in the room. Perhaps we could have a series
on the great historic doctrines of the faith, a careful
study of the Apostles’ Creed or consideration of
varying theologies of atonement and salvation. No.
The urgent and important work of the faithful in our
time is to bear witness to the gospel of reconciliation.
Jesus said it’s the most important thing, that even
if you are sitting in church, even if you are deep in
prayer, even if you are standing on holy ground, you
should go first and be reconciled. Not a metaphor. Not
a parable. Take it literally. Take care of it. Do it now.
Imagine the power of forgiveness. Imagine the gift of
confession, the freedom from guilt and shame, the
release of a grudge held too long, rotting our souls
and isolating us from each other. Perhaps there is
someone whom you have been struggling to forgive.
Perhaps there is someone whose forgiveness you
have longed to receive. Friends, that relationship
is too important to sacrifice on the altar of selfrighteousness. My counsel is this: do not wait. This
week, this afternoon, seek them out and be reconciled
to one another. Embrace the power of forgiveness that
will both reflect and shape your character.
Several years ago, in another congregation in
another city, we had an evening service of prayer
and communion on a weeknight during Advent. It
was a small but committed group of worshipers who
showed up. That evening we served communion by
intinction. Worshipers came forward to receive the
bread and the cup. Just before the service began,
I realized that one of the elders who had agreed
to serve wasn’t there. Quicky, last minute, I found
another elder who happened to be sitting in the pews.
I asked her if she’d be willing to serve that night,
and she agreed. I showed her where she would be
standing, and she looked at me with wide eyes and
said, “I can’t.” You can’t? The service is about to start.
The elder looked down at the floor. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
Worship began.
At the time of communion, the elders rose from their
seats to take the bread and cup to serve, and she
stood holding a chalice. She stood next to another
elder in the church, and tears ran down their faces
the entire time. After everyone received communion,
these elders turned to each other. She put her chalice
down on the table. Her serving partner did the same
with the bread. Both were weeping. Standing there
in front of the chapel, they reached out, and they
hugged each other. Now I had no idea what was
going on, but I too was weeping.
It was only after worship that I learned the story. Six
years earlier, these two elders had been on opposing
sides of a bitterly contentious issue in the church.
They had spoken against each other in words that
they both regretted. And since that time, they had
not reconciled. Since that time, they had not spoken
to each other. For six years, they had carefully
avoided each other. But, that night, at the altar, they
remembered. They forgave. They started over.
Friends, building character will mean making
choices. Sometimes, they are excruciating.
Confession. Forgiveness. Reconciliation. The very
practices that might save us from ourselves and
this culture of contempt, that could return us to the
better angels of our nature.
It’s going to take time to stitch us back together.
Years. Perhaps decades. But here, at the altar, we can
remember. We can begin right now.
So, this morning, if you are at the altar and you
remember…well, you know what to do.