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The Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O God, my strength and my redeemer. Amen. It’s striking to me that we hear these words about forgiveness in the week that we mark the anniversary of the worst act of terrorism to ever occur on American soil, the horrible acts that took place seven years ago on September 11. When we experience hurts so big, so deep, wounds so grievous as the horrors that took place on that bright September day, all too often the impulse that arises within us is not the inclination to forgive, but rather the desire to strike back. In our humanness we want to exact revenge; we expect some sort of retribution. We want on some level to hold onto the hurt, nurse the pain and use it as the fuel for our righteous indignation, a hot coal of umbrage burning inside us. We’re sure that we couldn’t possibly forgive. We don’t want to forgive. And yet, if we are to move on from any hurt—whether it is a small grievance, words spoken in the heat of the moment, something done inadvertently, or an incomprehensible act of betrayal or violence—forgive we must. Because no matter how righteous our anger, no matter how much perverted satisfaction we may gain from it in the moment, in the long run nursing the hurt, seeking revenge, looking for retribution doesn’t get us very far. We get stuck, mired, unable to move on, and that’s not a good place to be. Certainly on some levels we know that. We teach our children to say, “Sorry” as early as their emotional and linguistic development will allow it; apologies are a routine part of our social discourse, with the implicit understanding that with an apology comes the hope for forgiveness. Likewise, when we come before God we bring our wrong-doings, our short-comings, our failures and our offenses and lay them at God’s feet with the trust that God, in all of God’s mercy, will forgive us, not just once, but each and every time we ask. Nonetheless it’s hard to forgive. It’s especially hard when the hurt is big, when there is no apology forthcoming, when right seems to be on our side. What are we to do? Jesus gives us the answer in today’s gospel. When Peter says to him, "Lord, if another member of the community sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?" Jesus answers him by saying. "Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times.” Not seven times, but seventy-seven times. What does that mean? Peter was seeking to put things in practical human terms. Should I give a person more than one chance? As many as seven? Peter clearly wants to do the right thing, but in his humanness, as we do in ours, he is seeking limits, boundaries on his generosity, his forgiveness. He’s asking, “When have I done enough?” Jesus, however, will not settle for any such constraints. When he answers not seven times, but seventy-seven, he’s essentially saying that there are no limits, that we must be willing to forgive without bounds, into infinity as it were. Only when we seek over and over and over again to forgive will we be doing enough. And why is that? Why is seven times not enough? For that matter, why isn’t ONCE enough? The answer to that, I think, hinges on considering what forgiveness IS and what it isn’t. To forgive in its truest sense is to let go of the hurt, and to release the control that hurt has on our lives. To forgive doesn’t always make us feel better right away. Sometimes it intensifies the pain, like yanking the Band-Aid off of a wound—it hurts a LOT for a moment, but then it starts to feel better. When we forgive we are exposing our wounds, but we do so in the hope that instead of festering, those wounds might heal, might no longer have power over us. Forgiving likewise does not absolve a person of responsibility for inflicting the hurt. Forgiving doesn’t mean that something that was wrong is suddenly okay, not at all. And it doesn’t mean that the wrong-doer is freed from suffering the consequences of the deed. Rather forgiving means that both the wrong-doer and the one wronged are freed, cut loose so that they can go on. Forgiveness removes the hold that that the grievous act has on both parties and allows true healing to take place. When we forgive someone who has hurt us, we are freed from the knots of indignation and hurt and retribution and revenge than bind us and hold us captive. And when we are forgiven for some offense we have committed, we are restored to a place where we too can heal, can be in relationship, can be the people God calls us to be. None of this is easy. But if we are to take Jesus at his word, we are called to forgive. And forgive and forgive and forgive until finally that forgiveness takes hold in our hearts, replacing that hot coal of umbrage, that righteous indignation that fuels our efforts to make it better by hurting someone else, replacing it with the spark of love that reaches out to embrace others and love others as God embraces and loves us—as God forgives us—without limits, without bounds. Each year on September 11 we look back at the acts of terror that changed all of us forever. We remember the lives that were lost and we mourn for what those losses mean, and we say, “Never again.” But I wonder if we’ve done the harder part of our task—if we have sought to forgive. For many the idea of forgiving the terrorists—the ones who planned the act and the ones who perpetrated it—is unthinkable. But Jesus himself modeled such forgiveness as he hung on the cross when he prayed, “Father, forgive them” and Jesus reminds us in today’s gospel that we are called to forgive without limits. Forgiving such acts of immense evil is not easy—such forgiveness will not immediately release us from the pain, nor will it absolve the perpetrators for their actions. But forgiving, let go of the power this act of evil has over us will allow us to truly heal the wounds that still fester; it will release us and enable us to become more fully the people God calls us to be. Let us pray: O God, because without you we are not able to please you mercifully grant that your Holy Spirit may in all things direct and rule our hearts. Guide us and support us as we seek to forgive those who have hurt us, and release us from the bonds of pain that bind and constrain us. Help us to seek reconciliation rather then retribution and love rather than hatred as we move forward in the world. This we ask in the name of Jesus who taught us about true forgiveness and who lives with you and the Holy Spirit now and forever. AMEN.
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