Sermon, March 12, 2003 -- (Midweek Lenten Series), by Rev.
Art Wiese
Sermon Text -- Luke 23:32-38
There is an extraordinary little congregation in the town of Landisville, Pennsylvania. Every Sunday, they pray for one of the sons of their congregation. Every month, they send him a small amount of money. And every month, they send a small delegation from their congregation to visit him. That is not so extraordinary -- prayer, money and visits -- they are pretty typical of most congregations' pastoral care. What is extraordinary is that Keith Weaver, the young man for whom they care, is not only a member of their congregation, but a murderer. On a calm Sunday afternoon, after a meal with some relatives, the then 14 year-old Keith killed his parents and his sister for no apparent reason. The crime shocked the remaining members of his family, his community and his church. It was the sort of thing that seemed to be utterly unforgivable. In the aftermath however, the members of the congregation did a remarkable thing. They cleaned the house where the murders had taken place. They established a legal support fund to help Keith pay for his expenses. And they committed themselves to a long journey of forgiveness, along which they continue to pray for him, support him, and visit him. "They do it," says their pastor, "because forgiveness is an act of God's grace."
"Forgiveness is an act of God's grace." I like the sound of that. Forgiveness is an act of mercy toward those who are profoundly guilty. Forgiveness is an act of pardon for those who do not otherwise deserve it. It is an act which we see illustrated so amazingly in Jesus' first word from the cross, "Father, forgive them for they do not know what they are doing." It seems almost impossible to comprehend. Jesus has been betrayed, arrested, imprisoned, interrogated, beaten, mocked, stripped, and paraded through the streets of Jerusalem. He has had a crown of thorns placed upon his head, and he is now in the process of being nailed to a cross. He has been humiliated, abused, and mistreated in a most cruel way. He is about to die a most painful death. And yet, the first words from his lips are words of forgiveness, words of compassion, words of kindness, words of release.
And the most beautiful thing about those words is their ambiguity. "Father, forgive them." The question is, "Who is the 'them'?" The most obvious choice is the Roman soldiers. They are the ones carrying out the execution. They are the ones who are doing the deed. They are the ones nailing him to the cross. But, could it be the whole Roman government with Pontius Pilate as its representative? He could have changed the outcome. He could have followed his own instincts. He didn't have to cave in to the pressure of the crowd and the lure of his own ambition. He could have done something, but he didn't. Or could it have been the religious authorities, who badgered Jesus about his claims of authority and his ways of doing things? They were the ones who were so rigid in their interpretations of the law and the application of the rules. They were the ones who destroyed the hopes of the downhearted and took away the dreams of the faithful. They were the ones who couldn't stand the idea that all of us are equal sinners before God and that none of our own personal righteousness matters one bit as far as salvation is concerned. Or, could it have been his own followers, the disciples who betrayed him, denied him, and abandoned him in the hour of his greatest need? They probably could not have changed the course of events in opposition to the Roman army, the government authority, and the religious leaders. But, they could have done something. They could have stood by him, stayed with him, been loyal to him, and showed him they cared. But, they were afraid. They hid themselves away. They closed themselves in. And they cowered behind locked doors. Or, it could have been all of us, who are a part of the brokenness of the world and the sinfulness of all humankind. St. Paul writes, "For our sake, God made him to be sin, who knew no sin." God made him to be sin, so that sin could be hung on the cross and be taken care of once and for all. We see it there in the death of our Lord and Savior.
It is not a pretty sight. In light of the cross, we must to come to terms with our own sin. It's not easy to see his suffering. It's not easy to face up to our share of responsibility. We hate the condemnation that it brings on us. Like the disciples, we also wish that we could run away and hide. Like the religious authorities, we don't want to admit that we sometimes look down our noses at others. Like Pilate, we don't like to acknowledge that we sometimes put our own interests and desires ahead of others. And like the soldiers, we don't like to confess that we are often calloused and unaware of the pain of the world. And still, the sight of the cross changes things. We see there the Son of God, dying for our sin, and that changes everything. The relentless condemnation of the law is set aside. The conviction that we are lost in sin is now forgotten. For in that moment, we hear the Savior say, "Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing." Yes, we are sinners, but we are not forsaken. Yes, we are sinful, but we are not to be abandoned. Yes, we are capable of great wrong, but we are forgivable and we are loved. God does forgive us. Through the cross, God enters into a long journey of forgiveness on our behalf, because more than anything else, "forgiveness is an act of God's grace."
Amen.