But I Say to You...Reconcile!

SCRIPTURE TEXT:  Matthew 5:21-26
PREACHER:  Rev. Monte Marshall

In case we haven’t noticed, we human beings tend to hurt one another and in a variety of ways.  In this morning’s scripture reading from the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew’s gospel, Jesus takes note of this fact.  At the top of his list is the killing of another human being.  He points to the prohibition against killing in the Torah of the Hebrew Bible: “’You’ve heard that our ancestors were told, ‘No killing’ and, ‘Every murderer will be subject to judgment.’”

But then, Jesus offers an interpretation of the Torah that goes deeper to address underlying issues.  His teachings are introduced with the words, “’But I tell you.’”

First, Jesus moves from murder to anger: “’everyone who is angry with sister or brother is subject to judgment.’”  The Greek word for anger that’s used in this text implies a particular kind of anger.  As one commentator notes:  Jesus “is not talking about short bursts of annoyance or frustration.  Rather he is talking about the brooding, pervasive kind of animosity that can eat away at us—a kind of leprosy of the soul.”[1] 

Melissa Bane Sevier reminds us that “Anger isn’t always a bad thing.  Anger at injustice provides an impetus and a trajectory toward justice…. The problem comes,” she writes, “when we are so angry that we do harm.  The problem comes when we stay angry instead of letting that anger subside and morph into looking for creative and constructive solutions to unjust actions and systems.  The problem comes when anger is a way of life, or a lens through which we view other people.  The problem comes when anger interferes with relationships.”[2]  This is the kind of anger that Jesus addresses in this text.  

From anger, Jesus moves to insults: “anyone who says to sister or brother, ‘I spit in your face!’ will be subject to the Sanhedrin’”—or the Jewish Supreme Court.  The actual Greek word used in this context is raca.  The word is untranslatable, but the sound of it echoes the clearing of the throat that takes place before we spit.  For the people in Jesus’ day, there was no greater sign of contempt for a person, short of murder, than to spit in a person’s face.  Racais the verbal equivalent of this contemptuous act.

From insults, Jesus moves to name-calling: “anyone who vilifies [sister or brother] with name-calling will be subject to the fires of Gehenna.’” The Greek word translated “name-calling” implies a use of language that impugns a person’s moral character as when we say to someone: “You no good, blanety-blank, so-and-so.”

Now notice this:  While the offenses named by Jesus diminish in severity, the penalties for each offense increase in severity.  This is a rhetorical device intended to warn us against taking those initial steps onto a slippery slope that threaten to lead us from words that hurt and kill metaphorically, to actions that hurt and kill literally.

In case we haven’t noticed, we human beings tend to hurt one another, either intentionally or unintentionally.  The hurt can damage or destroy relationships.  The hurt is like a wedge driven between people. The deeper the wedge goes, the wider the gap becomes in the relationship.  Or the hurt is like a cancer that works through anger, insults and name-calling to destroy the good “cells” in a relationship.  And sometimes the hurt is like a bomb that explodes in violence as people kill other human beings.

Jesus recognizes the damage that hurt can do to relationships, so he continues to teach: But I tell you…reconcile.  Jesus says: “’If you bring your gifts to the altar and there remember that your sister or brother has a grudge against you, leave your gift there at the altar.”

In other words, worship—that foundational experience of connection with God—is no place to hide from our hurts, or to escape responsibility for dealing constructively with the mess that we’ve made in our relationships with others.  In fact, our worship is diminished if we harbor unresolved hurt in our relationships with one another.  In these circumstances, the greatest gift that we can offer to God through our worship is reconciliation.

Jesus then shifts metaphors from the altar to the courthouse: “’Lose no time in settling with your opponents—do so while still on the way to the courthouse with them.’”  If we don’t, the price we pay will be high.  “’Go to be reconciled to them,’ Jesus says, ‘and then come and offer your gift.’” 

In both examples cited by Jesus, the hurt is acknowledged, either as a grudge or a legal violation, but the emphasis is on reconciliation—restoring relationships—bringing people back together again.  And there’s an urgency to act before the hurt becomes even more destructive and costly—damaging not only our relationships with others, but also our relationship with God. 

So we may be wondering:  What does reconciliation in a relationship look like?  Here’s one example from a story told by Sue Kidd: “The hospital was unusually quiet…. I stood in the nurses’ station on the 7th floor and glanced at the clock. It was 9 p.m. I threw a stethoscope around my neck and headed for room 712, last room on the hall. Room 712 had a new patient. Mr. Williams. A man all alone. A man strangely silent about his family.

As I entered the room, Mr. Williams looked up eagerly, but dropped his eyes when he saw it was only me, his nurse. I pressed the stethoscope over his chest and listened. Strong, slow, even beating. Just what I wanted to hear. There seemed little indication he had suffered a slight heart attack a few hours earlier.

He looked up from his starched white bed. ‘Nurse, would you—‘He hesitated, tears filling his eyes…’Would you call my daughter? Tell her I’ve had a heart attack. A slight one. You see, I live alone and she is the only family I have’…’Of course I’ll call her.’ I said…. He gripped the sheets and pulled himself forward, his face tense with urgency. “Will you call her right away—as soon as you can?” He was breathing fast—too fast. “I’ll call her the very first thing,” I said, patting his shoulder. I flipped off the light. He closed his eyes.

“‘Nurse,’ he called, ‘could you get me a pencil and paper?’ I dug a scrap of yellow paper and a pen from my pocket and set it on the bedside table.  I walked back to the nurses’ station [and called his daughter].

“’Janie, this is Sue Kidd, a registered nurse at the hospital. I’m calling about your father. He was admitted tonight with a slight heart attack and—”

“’No!” she screamed into the phone, startling me. “He’s not dying is he?”

“’His condition is stable at the moment,” I said, trying hard to sound convincing.

“’You must not let him die!’ she said…

“’He is getting the very best care.’

“’But you don’t understand,’ she pleaded. ‘My daddy and I haven’t spoken in almost a year. We had a terrible argument on my 21st birthday, over my boyfriend. I ran out of the house. I—I haven’t been back. All these months I’ve wanted to go to him for forgiveness. The last thing I said to him was, ‘I hate you.’” Her voice cracked and I heard her heave great agonizing sobs… I breathed a prayer. “Please, God, let this daughter find forgiveness.”

“’I’m coming. Now! I’ll be there in 30 minutes,” she said. Click. She had hung up.’”

Unfortunately, by the time Janie arrived at the hospital, her father was dead, killed by a sudden cardiac arrest.  Janie and Sue met in the nurses’ lounge and talked.  Sue continues the story:

“’We sat on little green stools, neither saying a word. She stared straight ahead . . . , glass-faced, almost breakable-looking…

“’I never hated him, you know. I loved him,’ she said…

“Suddenly she whirled toward me. ‘I want to see him.’

“My first thought was, ‘Why put yourself through more pain? Seeing him will only make it worse.’  But I got up and wrapped my arm around her. We walked slowly down the corridor to 712…She pushed open the door. We moved to the bed…. Janie leaned over the bed and buried her face in the sheets. I tried not to look at her, at this sad, sad good-bye. I backed against the bedside table. My hand fell upon a scrap of yellow paper. I picked it up. It read:

“’My dearest Janie, I forgive you. I pray you will also forgive me. I know that you love me. I love you too. Daddy’

“The note was shaking in my hands as I thrust it toward Janie. She read it once. Then twice. Her tormented face grew radiant. Peace began to glisten in her eyes. She hugged the scrap of paper to her breast. 

“’Thank You, God,’ I whispered, ‘that relationships . . . can be mended together again—but there is not a moment to spare.’”[3]

In case we haven’t noticed, we human beings tend to hurt one another, and in a variety of ways.  When the hurt happens, Jesus says to us: “But I tell you…reconcile!”  And there’s not a moment to spare.  Thanks be to God!  Amen.