Forgive Us
Sermon
Sermons on the Gospel Readings
Series III, Cycle C
Object:
I'm ashamed to say that too often I behave like the guy laying in bed with his family refusing to get up to give loaves of bread to his friend. I wish it were otherwise, but the truth is the truth. And where better to tell the truth but in church?
My life, much of the time, is all tucked in nice and warm. My doors are bolted shut. My children are sound asleep. The worries and cares of the day are well behind me. Each of my children has already been up for the obligatory glass of water and trip to the bathroom and now, finally, all is calm and I just want to drift off for a few hours of peace and quiet before it all starts again. Then comes the knocking at the door. And even though he is a friend, I do not want to get up, put my bare feet on the cold floor, wrap my robe around me, and lend him the three loaves he says he needs.
"Go away," I want to cry. "Come back in the morning. What in the world do you need bread for in the middle of the night anyway?"
The more he persists, the more annoyed I become until, grudgingly, I rise, calm my children who are now wide awake, and get the bread and try ... try, at least, to be civil and kind. This is just barely a metaphor.
For instance, I am in my nice, warm office working on the sermon of the century that is certain to bring rave reviews from my congregation, when the phone rings. I let the machine answer it but through the wall of the office I overhear the message. It's an interruption. Someone once said that interruptions are our work but I often don't act like I believe it. What could be more important than a well-crafted sermon that will inspire people for weeks to come?
Still, oblivious to the fact that I've got other things to do, the phone rings, people come to the door, my email program "beeps" to alert me to either an urgent message or to the announcement that someone I've never heard of from a country I could hardly find on a map wants to give me $83.6 million dollars. Well, he isn't going to give me all of it, but enough that I'll never have to work in this job where I get interrupted all the time.
Eventually I give in. I respond, not out of the goodness of my heart, but because they keep persisting. Yes, eventually I come to my senses and reach out to those who have come to me in need. I'm ashamed to admit this shortcoming but someone once said that confession is good for the soul.
There is a woman from somewhere in the county who calls me every day. Honestly -- every day she calls. Sometimes she only rings me up once, but often she calls two or three times.
Each time there is a new crisis; her electric needs to be turned back on, the phone reconnected, or a truck is needed to move the family to yet another house. Once, she even called to ask for Easter candy because she didn't realize that Easter was coming so early that year and hadn't planned the baskets for her children!
Our church has been extremely generous with this family and so I rationalize my resistance for days and sometimes weeks or even months because I know that as soon as I give in, even with a few dollars, the ante will be upped and I'll be answering her calls twice as often as before.
It's not that she doesn't need the help. It's that there are others who are in need as well and if I give in to her ... well, you get the idea.
Still, I give up and buy oil for her car, turn her phone back on, or buy some food for her. (I drew the line at Easter candy.) Somehow her persistent calling gets through to me. This is a family in need, not like the woman who wanted me to make a payment on her flat screen television. But then, that's a story for another day.
Jesus says that God answers persistent prayer. When we pray that God would give us today the bread that we need, God answers that prayer. But when we pray for things we want, like Easter candy, and not for things we need ... I suppose, those prayers are less likely to get through. Prayers for things we need are one thing. Prayers for stuff we want are something else indeed.
When I was approaching my twelfth birthday I wanted a go-cart more than anything in the world. I loved the look of them, the smell of them, the speed, and especially the noise. My uncle raced go-carts and in the summer we would visit him and run around his little town, tearing through neighbors' yards, and screaming up and down the street for hours. I can't tell you how much I wanted one of those. In my eleven-year-old mind I thought that I needed a go-cart. We lived in the country and there was a seldom-used road in front of our house that would be perfect. It would be safe since people could see us for miles. Oh, how I wanted a go-cart!
As my birthday drew closer I finally got up the nerve to ask my dad if I was getting a go-cart. At first he would just stand there and grin at me. I convinced myself that the grin meant yes. After a while he told me I would just have to wait and see. I was all the more certain that this meant that I was getting a go-cart because certainly he would have told me no to such a direct question.
Finally my birthday came. My little party would not take place until after my dad got home from the shop. It was the longest day of my life. After lunch I walked down the road to my grandpa's farm and looked everywhere I could think of to get a glimpse of my go-cart. I looked in the barns, the granary, and the sheds that held the tractors, combines, and plows. I gained new respect for my dad that day as I realized just how good he was at hiding things.
At last he came home and took a quick shower while my mother called my grandparents to come down for cake, ice cream, and the opening of presents. All I saw was a box under the picture window. Certainly it wasn't big enough for a go-cart. It was not even close. It had to be a trick gift. I would open it only to find a picture of my brand-spanking new go-cart.
"Aren't you going to open your present?" my mother asked, nodding at the solitary box. I moved slowly toward it, pulled off the birthday card, pretended to read it, and ripped the paper off the box that held my brand-spanking new ... telescope.
I could see through my tears that my parents were beaming.
"Here, I'll help you set it up," my father said. But I could barely hear him. Maybe it was a joke. For a few moments I thought that we would set up the telescope, take it in the front yard, and then my dad would point it down to the farm where my real present was.
No, this was my real present. There was no go-cart that year or any other year.
I have to admit that once I got over my disappointment, the telescope took me places that I could never have gone otherwise. Living in the country I would take it outside on pitch-dark nights and gaze at clusters and nebulae and planets and their moons. My imagination soared as my world became bigger and bigger.
That birthday was 47 years ago, and I still have that telescope and on dark nights in the country where I now live I take it out on the deck and gaze at the wonders above. You know and I know that I wouldn't still have the go-cart.
I think this is what Jesus was thinking when he said, "Is there anyone among you who, if your child asks for a fish, will give a snake instead of a fish? Or if the child asks for an egg, will give a scorpion?" (Luke 11:11-12). We might make a twist of his proverb, Is there anyone among you who, if your child asks for a go-cart, would not, if you were able, give them instead a telescope? You might argue that I didn't need a telescope any more than I needed a go-cart but you'd never convince me of that.
I want to address the context in which these sayings were placed.
Jesus' disciples have asked him to teach them to pray and he first gives them what we have come to know as the Lord's Prayer. He then reminds them and us to be persistent, even pestering in our prayer, knowing that our Father in heaven would never give us anything that would be bad for us, even if we asked him for it.
The phrase in the Lord's Prayer that always brings me up short is when we pray "and forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us" (Luke 11:4b). The problem I have with this is that while I'm pretty good at asking for forgiveness, I can be stingy about handing it out. How about you? "Oh, God, I'm sorry," we cry. "Please forgive me." But let someone do us wrong and then ask for forgiveness and we're not always so quick to forgive.
Jesus says, "For we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us." If I take this to its logical conclusion I think that this means that we forgive even those who don't ask us for it. And that everyone means everyone and not just those I choose to forgive.
A few years ago I was sitting in a large, white tent in Jones-borough, Tennessee, listening to the folk singer John McCutcheon. Somewhere in the middle of his set he sang a new song based on his own experiences with the Lord's Prayer. The song was called, "Forgive Us."1 He sang about his early memories of the prayer he grew up with in church. Then he came to the bridge of the song and sang about an event that had shocked us all a year before. He told about the Amish girls ages six to thirteen in Pennsylvania who were taken hostage and then gunned down. Almost as shocking his song reminded us of the unbelievable response of the children's parents, families, and friends and how they even went so far as to set up a scholarship fund for the gunman's children and in so many ways obviously forgave the person who had caused them so much harm and heartache. John then sang the chorus, which repeated the words over and over, "Forgive us, as we forgive."
Since then, every time I feel I have been wronged and want to get even, or at least, want to hold onto a righteous grudge, I begin to sing the chorus of that song in my mind and heart. And, if I am open to the God who forgives me no matter what I do or don't do, I become, at least, a bit more open to forgiving this person first even if they don't ask for it.
Only then can I ask, as I pray the Lord's Prayer, for the forgiveness of my sins. Only when I have first forgiven those who have sinned against me may I stand before my God and pray: forgive me my sins for I have forgiven those who have sinned against me.
_________________
1. John McCutcheon, "Forgive Us," This Fire: Politics, Love, and Other Small Miracles (Framingham, Massachusetts: Appalsongs, 2007).
My life, much of the time, is all tucked in nice and warm. My doors are bolted shut. My children are sound asleep. The worries and cares of the day are well behind me. Each of my children has already been up for the obligatory glass of water and trip to the bathroom and now, finally, all is calm and I just want to drift off for a few hours of peace and quiet before it all starts again. Then comes the knocking at the door. And even though he is a friend, I do not want to get up, put my bare feet on the cold floor, wrap my robe around me, and lend him the three loaves he says he needs.
"Go away," I want to cry. "Come back in the morning. What in the world do you need bread for in the middle of the night anyway?"
The more he persists, the more annoyed I become until, grudgingly, I rise, calm my children who are now wide awake, and get the bread and try ... try, at least, to be civil and kind. This is just barely a metaphor.
For instance, I am in my nice, warm office working on the sermon of the century that is certain to bring rave reviews from my congregation, when the phone rings. I let the machine answer it but through the wall of the office I overhear the message. It's an interruption. Someone once said that interruptions are our work but I often don't act like I believe it. What could be more important than a well-crafted sermon that will inspire people for weeks to come?
Still, oblivious to the fact that I've got other things to do, the phone rings, people come to the door, my email program "beeps" to alert me to either an urgent message or to the announcement that someone I've never heard of from a country I could hardly find on a map wants to give me $83.6 million dollars. Well, he isn't going to give me all of it, but enough that I'll never have to work in this job where I get interrupted all the time.
Eventually I give in. I respond, not out of the goodness of my heart, but because they keep persisting. Yes, eventually I come to my senses and reach out to those who have come to me in need. I'm ashamed to admit this shortcoming but someone once said that confession is good for the soul.
There is a woman from somewhere in the county who calls me every day. Honestly -- every day she calls. Sometimes she only rings me up once, but often she calls two or three times.
Each time there is a new crisis; her electric needs to be turned back on, the phone reconnected, or a truck is needed to move the family to yet another house. Once, she even called to ask for Easter candy because she didn't realize that Easter was coming so early that year and hadn't planned the baskets for her children!
Our church has been extremely generous with this family and so I rationalize my resistance for days and sometimes weeks or even months because I know that as soon as I give in, even with a few dollars, the ante will be upped and I'll be answering her calls twice as often as before.
It's not that she doesn't need the help. It's that there are others who are in need as well and if I give in to her ... well, you get the idea.
Still, I give up and buy oil for her car, turn her phone back on, or buy some food for her. (I drew the line at Easter candy.) Somehow her persistent calling gets through to me. This is a family in need, not like the woman who wanted me to make a payment on her flat screen television. But then, that's a story for another day.
Jesus says that God answers persistent prayer. When we pray that God would give us today the bread that we need, God answers that prayer. But when we pray for things we want, like Easter candy, and not for things we need ... I suppose, those prayers are less likely to get through. Prayers for things we need are one thing. Prayers for stuff we want are something else indeed.
When I was approaching my twelfth birthday I wanted a go-cart more than anything in the world. I loved the look of them, the smell of them, the speed, and especially the noise. My uncle raced go-carts and in the summer we would visit him and run around his little town, tearing through neighbors' yards, and screaming up and down the street for hours. I can't tell you how much I wanted one of those. In my eleven-year-old mind I thought that I needed a go-cart. We lived in the country and there was a seldom-used road in front of our house that would be perfect. It would be safe since people could see us for miles. Oh, how I wanted a go-cart!
As my birthday drew closer I finally got up the nerve to ask my dad if I was getting a go-cart. At first he would just stand there and grin at me. I convinced myself that the grin meant yes. After a while he told me I would just have to wait and see. I was all the more certain that this meant that I was getting a go-cart because certainly he would have told me no to such a direct question.
Finally my birthday came. My little party would not take place until after my dad got home from the shop. It was the longest day of my life. After lunch I walked down the road to my grandpa's farm and looked everywhere I could think of to get a glimpse of my go-cart. I looked in the barns, the granary, and the sheds that held the tractors, combines, and plows. I gained new respect for my dad that day as I realized just how good he was at hiding things.
At last he came home and took a quick shower while my mother called my grandparents to come down for cake, ice cream, and the opening of presents. All I saw was a box under the picture window. Certainly it wasn't big enough for a go-cart. It was not even close. It had to be a trick gift. I would open it only to find a picture of my brand-spanking new go-cart.
"Aren't you going to open your present?" my mother asked, nodding at the solitary box. I moved slowly toward it, pulled off the birthday card, pretended to read it, and ripped the paper off the box that held my brand-spanking new ... telescope.
I could see through my tears that my parents were beaming.
"Here, I'll help you set it up," my father said. But I could barely hear him. Maybe it was a joke. For a few moments I thought that we would set up the telescope, take it in the front yard, and then my dad would point it down to the farm where my real present was.
No, this was my real present. There was no go-cart that year or any other year.
I have to admit that once I got over my disappointment, the telescope took me places that I could never have gone otherwise. Living in the country I would take it outside on pitch-dark nights and gaze at clusters and nebulae and planets and their moons. My imagination soared as my world became bigger and bigger.
That birthday was 47 years ago, and I still have that telescope and on dark nights in the country where I now live I take it out on the deck and gaze at the wonders above. You know and I know that I wouldn't still have the go-cart.
I think this is what Jesus was thinking when he said, "Is there anyone among you who, if your child asks for a fish, will give a snake instead of a fish? Or if the child asks for an egg, will give a scorpion?" (Luke 11:11-12). We might make a twist of his proverb, Is there anyone among you who, if your child asks for a go-cart, would not, if you were able, give them instead a telescope? You might argue that I didn't need a telescope any more than I needed a go-cart but you'd never convince me of that.
I want to address the context in which these sayings were placed.
Jesus' disciples have asked him to teach them to pray and he first gives them what we have come to know as the Lord's Prayer. He then reminds them and us to be persistent, even pestering in our prayer, knowing that our Father in heaven would never give us anything that would be bad for us, even if we asked him for it.
The phrase in the Lord's Prayer that always brings me up short is when we pray "and forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us" (Luke 11:4b). The problem I have with this is that while I'm pretty good at asking for forgiveness, I can be stingy about handing it out. How about you? "Oh, God, I'm sorry," we cry. "Please forgive me." But let someone do us wrong and then ask for forgiveness and we're not always so quick to forgive.
Jesus says, "For we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us." If I take this to its logical conclusion I think that this means that we forgive even those who don't ask us for it. And that everyone means everyone and not just those I choose to forgive.
A few years ago I was sitting in a large, white tent in Jones-borough, Tennessee, listening to the folk singer John McCutcheon. Somewhere in the middle of his set he sang a new song based on his own experiences with the Lord's Prayer. The song was called, "Forgive Us."1 He sang about his early memories of the prayer he grew up with in church. Then he came to the bridge of the song and sang about an event that had shocked us all a year before. He told about the Amish girls ages six to thirteen in Pennsylvania who were taken hostage and then gunned down. Almost as shocking his song reminded us of the unbelievable response of the children's parents, families, and friends and how they even went so far as to set up a scholarship fund for the gunman's children and in so many ways obviously forgave the person who had caused them so much harm and heartache. John then sang the chorus, which repeated the words over and over, "Forgive us, as we forgive."
Since then, every time I feel I have been wronged and want to get even, or at least, want to hold onto a righteous grudge, I begin to sing the chorus of that song in my mind and heart. And, if I am open to the God who forgives me no matter what I do or don't do, I become, at least, a bit more open to forgiving this person first even if they don't ask for it.
Only then can I ask, as I pray the Lord's Prayer, for the forgiveness of my sins. Only when I have first forgiven those who have sinned against me may I stand before my God and pray: forgive me my sins for I have forgiven those who have sinned against me.
_________________
1. John McCutcheon, "Forgive Us," This Fire: Politics, Love, and Other Small Miracles (Framingham, Massachusetts: Appalsongs, 2007).
