Journey's Weekly Homilies

Homily by Joe
23rd Sunday in Ordinary Time, Cycle A, 8 September 2002

Ezekiel 33:7-9
Romans 13:8-10
Matthew 18:15-20 

I have a simple message for you tonight: repent.  Not REPENT!, not WOE UNTO YOU!, just repent. I heard or read once that the word “repent,” in addition to its association with penitence and remorse, actually derives from a military drill maneuver,  wherein the company turns around to retire. I’ve searched through lots of dictionaries and I’ve been unable to confirm this, so perhaps I just imagined it. But the idea of changing direction fits so well with tonight’s readings that I think we should all pretend that my memory is an accurate one. 

Rather than repentance, we might say “conversion,” but that’s a little too dramatic for my purpose: not Paul on the road to Damascus but rather all of us trying to live out our baptismal. What I’m talking about is a continual process, a regular course correction, whereby we routinely evaluate where we’re going and change what needs to be changed. As the Shaker hymn puts it, “to turn, turn will be our delight, till by turning, turning we come round right.” 

In Ezekiel and Matthew we hear that it is our responsibility to call each other to this turning. We’re very good about doing it on a grand scale; we love speaking truth to power, but when it comes to speaking truth to each other, that’s another thing. If someone’s behaving badly, sometimes it may be necessary to stage an intervention, but for the most part we don’t’ want to appear dogmatic, self-righteous, judgmental or impolite. That’s understandable – sincere criticism is a profoundly intimate act. To request it of another means putting aside your ego and embracing vulnerability.  To give constructive criticism, requested or not, is to risk rejection and alienation. Both parties must feel safe, and that’s difficult to achieve. Developing that level of trust takes years and years of relationship, and we still struggle with it at team meetings. To Ezekiel’s call for prophecy, we can only say, “we’re getting there.” 

The instructions in the eighteenth chapter of Matthew seem more attainable; they’re carefully spelled out and things only get drastic if the other person is overly stubborn. But we miss the point if we take this procedure simply as a means to correct an injustice done to ourselves personally, something to help us feel better and maybe even vindicate us. This is not Dear Abby, or Dear Jesus. This is not just advice, there is nothing optional here: if there is anger, embitterment or estrangement between members of the community it must be resolved. The community can tolerate disagreement and dissension but ongoing, festering discord is a threat to the very fabric of the community and must be addressed. This point is so important that, even though it clearly refers to the post-Ascension church, Matthew has Jesus himself address it. The community’s involvement as mediator is necessary to protect its own self-interest.  

That self-interest is supported and justified by the law of love. In the passage from Paul’s letter to the Romans we heard that “love does no wrong to a neighbor.”  When we sin, it is not against God or the church or any abstract concept, but against each other. Sin is found in selfish acts committed or works of justice left undone, in cruel words said or kind words left unsaid. Injury such as this done to any one of us diminishes all of us, because the necessary task of healing such harm diverts our time and resources from our real work - the work of the Gospel. 

In Paul’s letter to the Philippians, he prays that his readers will grow in love and so learn the things that really matter. A year ago this week, in the face of cruelty on a grand scale, we learned in ourselves and in what we heard of others the things that really matter. Almost in a heartbeat, we became more caring and compassionate toward one another, in words of reassurance, in relief work, in public witness against scapegoating and retribution. Our common humanity became precious to us again. We heard, and continue to hear, the stories of heroism of firefighters and airline passengers, of musicians and massage therapists who ministered to rescue workers, and of the rescue workers themselves who lay down in the ruins so their search dogs could have someone to find and not become despondent. Rowan Williams, the soon-to-be Archbishop of Canterbury, was a witness to the events in New York on September 11 and writes of those who, facing death in the towers and on the hijacked planes, thought not of themselves but of their loved ones as they phoned and e-mailed messages of reassurance and love, anticipating grief and trying to ease it. He writes that they made room in their minds for someone else and so created a “breathing space.” 

In my own modest way, that’s the kind of turning I’m calling us to, a turning outward from ourselves, a shift in our imagination to include the feelings of others, a renewed commitment to the things that really matter and to the empowerment and affirmation of everyone we meet on the journey. May we practice healing and may we have the grace and humility to recognize when we’ve done harm and to ask forgiveness. May the sign of peace we’ll soon share be a sincere one. 

There’s one more kind of turning I’d like to mention, and that concerns myself. After tonight I’m going to take a break from preaching at Journey. As of tonight I’ve walked with you through two complete cycles of the three-year lectionary. This is probably the only one of my commitments where I’ll have the opportunity to honor the Old Testament principle of spending every seventh year in rest and renewal, and I want to see what it feels like. Besides, after six years I’m tired of talking. I want just to listen for a change, and the Spirit in her generosity is giving us new preachers I want to hear. I feel very blessed to have been embraced and guided by this community and the planning team. Please keep me in your prayers, and may we always pray for, appreciate and support those who serve us.