Sermons

An Invitation to See Things Differently

After my holiday, I attended a conference, Full & Equal: 50 Years in Pursuit of a Promise. The event included elements of celebration, conference, and continuing education. It also reminded me how far the Episcopal Church has progressed and how much work remains for the GLBTQ+ community.

On the first day, The Moth organized a storytelling session. Anyone who has attended a Moth event knows what a unique experience it is: you sit in a room with several strangers, and then, one after another, people stand up to tell you things about their lives you wouldn’t know just by looking at them. There’s a wonderful thing about that.

Certainly, I get the opportunity to do this every Sunday. The Clergy stand here and relate stories; specifically, we tell the stories of Jesus, Peter, Mary, Martha, the disciples, and all those people who came into contact with Jesus. We tell these stories because stories can overcome the defenses we construct around ourselves.

The main point of the day at the conference is that, as queer clergy, we should share the story of our origins. We should tell the stories of the people who came before us, those who stood up even though it wasn’t safe, and whose bravery brought us together in that room.

Some of my friends thought they knew how to tell a story, then took off to do other things. I stayed. I thought I could get better. I was in a room with about fourteen other people when a Moth storyteller began to speak about the craft of storytelling, and I looked over and saw a tattoo on her forearm.

It was: Seventy times seven.

The script was simple, and we know its origin—we had just heard Caitlin read it—when Peter goes to Jesus and asks, “How many times shall I forgive someone who sins against me? Seven times?” Peter may well consider himself to be rather generous. Oh, Peter, that is darling of you.

Jesus looks at him and says, basically, “Try again.” Seven times, rather than seventy times seven. Or, in other translations, seventy-seven times. In any case, Jesus is not asking Peter to produce a calculator. He is trying to get Peter (and us) to stop counting.

Stop keeping score. I often see forgiveness as something we bestow on another person, and I suspect you do too. When someone harms us, we decide whether to forgive them; we see forgiveness as a transaction between two people.

I hurt you. You hurt me. I forgive you. Now we are even. Except Jesus seems to be thinking of something much larger. Perhaps **Forgiveness creates a climate.**

It establishes an atmosphere for us, creating a small world in which the people we meet have to live. You can feel it when you enter a room where everyone is angry and enter one where people are generous toward each other. I have walked into some 12-step meetings, and I can tell when people are keeping score, “she talks too much,” and when mercy is present in a room. “I have been there too; let her talk.” You can sense when people are allowed to be human, and as a result you can breathe a bit easier.

It’s almost as though the mercy we show creates a small atmosphere around us where others also experience mercy. Likewise, when we are stingy, vengeful, or judgmental, we create that same atmosphere.

This summer, I preached on the feeding of the 20,000 and how it relates to us and forgiveness. Jesus has just learned that John the Baptist has been killed. Jesus goes away by boat because he needs space to grieve.

But when he arrives at the shore, the crowd is already there. Matthew says something remarkable: Jesus felt compassion towards the crowd.

Matthew uses a Greek word: splagchnizomai. It means Jesus was moved in his very guts. The core of his being was being rearranged, not exclusively in his heart, not simply in his head, and not because he felt obliged. His compassion was so deep it changed him.

Feeling his own exhaustion, Jesus saw their need, healed their sick, fed them. The disciples see scarcity. Jesus sees possibility. Jesus will not allow scarcity to be the last word.

That is the question these two stories put to us. Scarcity says there isn’t enough. Not enough bread, forgiveness, grace. Not enough room. I need enough so someone else has to leave. Jesus keeps inviting us to see things differently. There is enough.

Mercy is sufficient. Grace is sufficient as well. There is still room at the table for one more person. Forgiveness is so great that we need not keep a record of everyone who has ever harmed us. We receive mercy, and then we become people through whom mercy can move. We feel compassion, and then let it change us.

Whenever I think about my own priesthood, I do so by thinking about that.

Twenty-Five years ago, I was a seminarian at the General Theological Seminary in New York City, and I had just moved there, unsure of the kind of priest I wanted to be. Then September 11 happened. I remember the fear, the smoke, the confusion, and the surprising kindness strangers showed. I saw people running toward danger to help others, and I saw them opening their homes, their churches, their restaurants, and their hearts.

I witnessed people choose someone else’s life over their own.

Since then, whenever I think about the experiences that have shaped my idea of what it means to be a priest, I go back to that day. I have realized that a priest’s role often involves being present with people in circumstances that cannot be resolved, and still choosing to stay. That day, I did it, and after many hours, I found myself lost. I phoned a friend and amid all the chaos and uncertainty, hearing my name brought back the sense that I was still myself. I was part of other people’s lives, with my own life and purpose. Hearing my friends’ compassion changed me.

I was more than simply a witness to history. I was Michele. Then I had to decide who I would become. I’ve kept that with me throughout all these years. Much of my work involves helping people remember who they are, who they belong to, and that they matter, especially when the world does its utmost to make them forget. It is the call we all have to feel compassion so deeply that it changes our very core. Like Jesus, our guts are rearranged. Twenty-five years on, I care much less about September 11 as a tale of good people struggling against evil people and far more about what human beings can do when they decide to show courage, compassion, and love.

Which brings me back to the woman with a tattoo.

I cannot say why she chose seventy times seven. I don’t know all the stories behind it. In fact, I don’t know what her relationship to Christianity was; I only know how striking it was that a woman carried one of Jesus’ obscure teachings right on her body.

Seventy times seven. Forgiveness isn’t mainly about a quantity. It could be a way of existing.

A manner of moving about the world. A way of shaping the kind of climate we create, no matter where we go. Forgiveness does not mean pretending harm didn’t happen. It does not mean abuse is acceptable. It does not mean someone who has hurt you automatically gets your trust back. Forgiveness can mean letting go of the wish to take revenge, even as you say, “You cannot treat me like that.”

Perhaps the kingdom of God starts in many smaller places than we suppose. It starts when you don’t send the angry email, when a parent lets a child try again, when friends decide to stop keeping track. It starts when someone says, “I was wrong,” and someone else says, “I know, and we can start once more.”

It starts when we choose not to pass on our hurt to the next person. Because hurt travels. So does mercy. Resentment travels. So does forgiveness. Vengeance travels. So does grace. And compassion travels too.

We create these small climates in our homes, workplaces, churches, friendships, and neighborhoods, and in the end, we have to breathe the air that we have made. Maybe the question is not, “Do we have enough?” Perhaps the question is, “Shall we provide what we possess?” Our bread. Our friendship. Our forgiveness. Our attention. Our courage. Our compassion.

May we receive mercy. May we give mercy. May we stop counting. And may compassion, the compassion that brought about the rearrangement of Jesus, continue to bring about our rearrangement. Seventy times seven. A number incapable of being counted. A place in which one can live. A climate to create. A way of being.

May it be so.

Amen.