Sermon by Rev. Alan Taylor
Preached at Unity Temple Unitarian Universalist Congregation
October 5, 2003
Sermon:
In his lovely little book,
Tuesdays with Morrie, Mitch Albom writes about his visits with his former
professor Morrie Schwartz. They occur during Morrie’s last years of life as he
struggles with Lou Gehrig’s disease. During one of these visits, Morrie focuses
his conversation with these words: “Forgive yourself before you die. Then
forgive others.” He tells Mitch, “There’s no point in keeping vengeance or
stubbornness. These things”—he sighed—“these things I so regret in my life.
Pride. Vanity. Why do we do the things we do?” Then he asked me a question,
pointing to something on the shelf, “Do you see that sculpture?” The sculpture
was a bronze cast, the face of a middle-aged man, wearing a necktie, with a tuft
of hair falling across his forehead. “That’s me,” he said “A friend of mine
sculpted that maybe thirty years ago. His name was Norman. We used to spend so
much time together—swimming, trips to New York. He sculpted that bust of me down
in his basement. It took several weeks to do it, but he really wanted to get it
right.”
“Well, here’s the sad part of the story. Norman and his
wife moved to Chicago, and a little while later my wife, Charlotte, had a pretty
serious operation. Norman and his wife never got in touch with us, though I knew
they knew about it. I was very hurt, so I dropped the relationship. Over the
years I met Norman a few times, and he always tried to reconcile, but I didn’t
accept his explanation. I was prideful. I shrugged him off. Mitch . . . a few
years ago . . . he died of cancer. I feel so sad. I never got to see him. I
never got to forgive.” The tears rolled off the side of his face, rolled down to
his lips, as he said “You need to make peace with yourself and everyone around
you. Forgive yourself, forgive others. Don’t wait.”
This morning, I want to talk about forgiveness and the gift
it offers. I want to talk about this theme because this evening marks the
culmination of the Jewish High Holy Days. Tonight begins Yom Kippur, the most
significant holiday in the Jewish calendar that celebrates our capacity to
acknowledge where we have turned away from wholeness, to let go of the spiritual
fetters that have resulted from our transgressions, and to begin again anew.
Often, Yom Kippur is translated as “The Day of Atonement.” Literally it means
the Day of Cleansing. The Jewish High Holy Days are a time for prayerful
reflection on all the transgressions one has committed, all the little
instances—as well as big ones—where one has fallen out of right relationship
with others and with oneself. Yom Kippur, as the culmination of this reflection
deals with how one has fallen out of right relationship with God. In
non-theistic language, it is the time of turning toward wholeness by
acknowledging where one is broken.
For me, this is the most spiritually significant holiday of
all world traditions. Yom Kippur does not celebrate an historical event, a
season, or a person as do all other religious holidays. Instead Yom Kippur
celebrates the human capacity to change and grow.
Forgiveness is often misunderstood, especially among us
Unitarian Universalists who don’t often talk about it. Forgiveness is not about
denying or forgetting. When someone is wronged, reaching forgiveness isn’t
simply saying that everything is okay. Forgiving is not excusing an action,
“well, it’s all right and it probably won’t happen again,” or condoning it,
“what she did wasn’t all that bad” or explaining it away, “he couldn’t help it
doing what he did—you know boys will be boys.” And forgiveness certainly isn’t
about cheap grace that lets people off the hook from being accountable for their
wrongdoing.
So what is forgiveness? It is a response to being wronged
that acknowledges the wrongfulness of the action and acknowledges the other as a
human being, similarly flawed to oneself. Forgiveness is not instinctual for
most of us. For if you are like me, when wronged, you get angry and want to
retaliate.
Frankly I have difficulty imagining if I would ever reach a
place of forgiveness if I were the victim of horrific violence. Yet I could give
you many stories of just this happening. Here’s one. Patrick Reeder is a
42-year-old ex- marine who lives in Oklahoma City. His wife Michelle was among
the 168 men, women, and children who died when Timothy McVeigh bombed the Alfred
P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City on April 19, 1995. Immediately after
his wife's death, Reeder says, "I wanted to stick my thumbs into Timothy
McVeigh's windpipe and crush his larynx. You die very slowly that way. You
basically suffocate. But before he was gone, I wanted to take out a knife and
begin slicing off parts of his anatomy..." Six years later, before McVeigh
became the first person to be executed by the federal government in decades,
Reeder, a conservative Republican and card-carrying member of the N.R.A., was
one of those family members of victims who opposed McVeigh's execution. "There
was no moment of revelation for me," Reeder says. "It was just a slow, gradual
process. At some point, I just realized something was really wrong here, and I
started to think about who I was and what I wanted and what I really valued in
my life."
Forgiveness is like that for
many people. It is a long slow process. It can’t be rushed. But the human heart
is an open book. In time, emotional healing can move people toward an open
future rather than the dead-end of nursing a pent up anger.
Morrie reached forgiveness, but only after the opportunity
for reconciliation was gone. He lived through years of resentment realizing his
own pain. Resentment comes from the word ressentir which means “to feel again.”
It is sad how frequently we humans review and rehearse our pain again and again
towards certain people. This all-too-human habit doesn’t get us anything but
more and more walls up around us, causing us to be ever more rigid and
unyielding in relationship to others and our world.
I imagine that Morrie’s friend, Norman, grieved that his
friendship with Morrie never mended, but if he reached a place to ask
forgiveness, then his attempts at reconciliation were all that he could do. In
the realm of human relationships, the only person we have control over is our
own self. You may desperately want someone else to change, but we can’t will
someone else’s change of heart. Indeed, sometimes we can’t will the change of
even our own heart, for the process of forgiveness sometimes takes years or
decades.
When I read the newspaper, Yom Kippur seems absurdly out of
sync with our world. Taking time to take stock of our own failings is
countercultural. Our culture tacitly encourages us to cover over, deny, and
forget our lies, our sexual indiscretions, our exploitation of others. Is that
not the example of so many of our leaders both on the right and on the left,
both nationally and locally?
A couple days ago Arnold Schwarzenegger publicly declared
that he is sorry for the multiple incidents of his groping and harassing women.
I suspect he is far more sorry that this issue has surfaced as he seeks the
California governorship than expressing remorse for his behavior. For if it is
authentic remorse, he shall apologize to each of those women he humiliated.
A genuine apology expresses remorse, is directed to the
person hurt, and is given with the intention of seeking to be in honest
relationship with oneself and with the other. It comes from the place of
acknowledging a personal transgression and wanting to make amends. It carries
the intention to change and grow.
When I worked as a chaplain, I remember making an overhasty
remark to another chaplain. I said something to the effect that she wasn’t any
good. It was insensitive, and suddenly there was a wall up between us. I
realized that I had no good reason to make such a comment; in fact, it had come
out of my own insecurity. I wished the problem would just go away. It took some
soul-searching to get up the guts to apologize. When I said I am sorry, my
fellow chaplain said, “I forgive you.” She didn’t say, “oh, no problem” or “oh,
it’s all right.” And she didn’t chastise me either. Her response, so succinct,
acknowledged my desire to clear the air between us, affirmed our relationship as
well as my transgression, and affirmed her own dignity. All this made possible
by two little phrases: “I am sorry” and “I forgive you.” Our relationship
strengthened because of this encounter. Just imagine the next time someone
apologizes to you, your response being “I forgive you.” Try it out. Or try
simply enacting it out with a friend. It can be awkward. Again something
countercultural, but ripe with meaning.
Saying the words, I am sorry, and meaning it when you’ve
done wrong, invites the other to turn towards you, but the other might not
accept the invitation to mend the relationship. It might hurt. We might have to
swallow some pride. But aren’t we better for it, even if the other doesn’t
respond as we wish?
Direct communication that acknowledges our
relationships always offers the opportunity for growth and healing. This even
goes for our church community. In fact, the deepest wisdom of Yom Kippur applies
to communities, not just individuals. If you ever have a concern about some
aspect of our church, whether it be the worship, the religious education
program, a board action, or the coffee we serve after the service, please talk
to the person who is responsible—not to everyone else, as tempting as that may
be.
So what happens if we find ourselves in the shoes of Morrie
who wishes he could ask forgiveness of someone who is no longer around? We can
seek what the Jews call teshuva or repentance. And this is what Yom Kippur is
all about: taking the time to acknowledge our transgressions. You can confess
them to God, to your journal, to a trusted friend, or to a minister or rabbi.
Some people say that forgiveness is for weak people,
but consider Nelson Mandela. He was imprisoned for 27 years, 27 years—that’s the
majority of my lifetime. When he finally was freed as an old man with gray hair,
he said, “I always knew that deep down in every human heart there is mercy and
generosity. No one is born hating another person because of the color of his
skin. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be
taught to love. Even in the grimmest times in prison, when my comrades and I
were pushed to our limits, I would see a glimmer of humanity in one of the
guards, perhaps just for a second, but it was enough to reassure me and keep me
going.” Following his release, Nelson Mandela brought about a change of power
with remarkably little violence.
If we are committed to spiritual growth, it behooves
us to do what Jewish people are doing all over the world this week: to take the
self-initiative and engage in self-examination so that we can turn toward right
relationship with ourselves, with others, with the world. It’s tough work
acknowledging where we hold resentment and letting it go. And if we are unhappy
with the behavior of someone we care about or work with, it is important work to
name our truth—and acknowledge our transgression—so as to invite them into
better relationship with us.
Perhaps what is so hard for us religious liberals to seek
forgiveness is that forgiveness requires us to acknowledge our own shortcomings.
Owning one’s personal part in a conflict is freeing—it begins to liberate us
from rigidity and blame. When we acknowledge that the person we are upset with
is as full of weakness and vulnerability as each and every one of us, then we
can see the other through the lens of our own humanity. And this is when the
opportunity of truly loving and forgiving reveals itself.
Once we are able to understand that we are flawed, that we
all are flawed, it’s easier to seek forgiveness. For forgiveness is about
healing what is broken in us.
Later today, especially when the sun dips below the horizon
this evening, I urge you to join with our Jewish brothers and sisters and do
something countercultural—take the time to take stock of your own failings, your
own resentments, and start the work of letting them go. We truly do have the
capacity to change and grow.
Blessed be.
Amen.
© Copyright 2003 Alan C.
Taylor, All Rights Reserved.
Litany of Atonement:
I share with you a litany of atonement I have
adapted from Rev. Rob Eller-Isaacs, currently co-minister of Unity Church
Unitarian of St. Paul, Minnesota. Yom Kippur has both an individual and a
communal dimension to the holiday. I invite you to join me in this litany by
reflecting on both our community and your individual lives and by reciting the
three sentences in your order of service following each element.
A Litany of Atonement
For remaining silent when a single
voice would have made a difference.
We forgive each other. We
forgive ourselves. We begin again in love.
For each time that our fears have
made us rigid and inaccessible.
We forgive each other. We
forgive ourselves. We begin again in love.
For each time that we have struck
out in anger without just cause.
We forgive each other. We
forgive ourselves. We begin again in love.
For each time that our greed has
blinded us to the needs of others.
We forgive each other. We
forgive ourselves. We begin again in love.
For the selfishness which sets us
apart and alone
We forgive each other. We
forgive ourselves. We begin again in love.
For falling short of the
admonitions of the spirit
We forgive each other. We
forgive ourselves. We begin again in love.
For losing sight of our unity
We forgive each other. We
forgive ourselves. We begin again in love.
For those and the so many acts
both evident and subtle which have fueled the illusion of separateness.
We forgive each other. We
forgive ourselves. We begin again in love.
