I want to begin this morning’s sermon with
appreciation and warning.
First, appreciation. I believe your presence in this space
and your participation in this service say something
significant about you. You have chosen—and it
was a choice—to spend some time in worship and
reflection. To, for even this one hour, set aside your
agenda. To open your heart, and to listen for a word of
present truth found in ancient scripture. Further, you
have chosen to do this in a community of faith. This
community of faith. You didn’t have to do that. Actually,
it makes you rather strange. So, I want you to know
that I do not take it for granted that busy people would
set time aside. I do not take it for granted that anyone
would listen at all in this talk-first culture. And I do not
take lightly the gift and challenge of sharing my words
on these words with my congregation. I am grateful for
this place, and I am grateful for you.
Now, the warning. The choice you have made puts you
in a potentially precarious position. For those of us,
which admittedly is most of us, who spend our time
in like-minded bubbles or echo chambers of endless
affirmation, worship is a different experience altogether.
What we find here is not always unconditional support
for all of our previously held convictions. Here we are
attentive to the jarring message that we must change.
After our early service in the chapel, one of our faithful
worshipers came to me and gave this feedback: “Thank
you for that sermon. We deserve it.” So, buckle up.
To begin with the obvious, our era is defined by extreme
polarization and negative partisanship. Simply put, this
means that we are increasingly driven not by positive
feelings toward the party, candidate, or position we
support but rather by negative feelings toward those
we oppose. We are more influenced by our fear and
disgust than hope and affection. You don’t need
external examples to prove this point. You experience
it in your own lives, in our workplaces, our schools,
our neighborhoods, even in our own families, where
differences of perspective have taken on an existential
tone and debate has devolved into a barrage of bitterly
personal attacks. Where relationships are ended over
political disagreement. In fact, in surveys, fully half of
Americans report few or no friends of the opposing view.
Is it then any wonder that our language has devolved?
You hear it. Depraved. Dangerous. Demonic. Evil. Enemy.
In such a context, there is a fragility to every communal
bond and a suspicion of any divergence. The drive
toward perceived purity or self-defined justice makes
it not just permissible but now mandatory to cut others
off when they fail the test. You know what I mean. I
cannot spend time with… I cannot sit in the pews with
anyone who votes that way, who supports that policy,
who follows that leader.
Now listen. Purity and justice are important values. They
are biblical values. They are Christian values. My unease
is rooted in how rarely those values are tempered by the
virtue of love. In our era, the words of Jesus this morning
seem laughably naïve or dangerously misguided. And
I have heard both reactions. What Jesus demands is
difficult in the best of times, and no reasonable soul
would suggest we’re living through those. Love of
enemies now feels like surrender to the very people who
must be crushed.
And this is why we need the commandment. Jesus holds
in contrast our logic and the mercy of God, and we must
make a choice.
The calculation of the culture, which we typically take
for granted, is unambiguous. It is crystal clear. We do
good to those who do good to us. We love those who
love us. Such a strategy serves our self-interest. It also
intensifies the tribalism in which polarization flourishes.
It creates sharp boundaries between us (and those we
love) and them (the ones we label enemy). It is neat. It is
clean. It is zero sum.
And here’s the hard part. Jesus explicitly rejects this logic.
He will not have it. He demands a different standard. Love
your enemies. Do good to those who hate you.
Okay, Jesus. I have two questions right off the bat.
Why? And how?
Why should we love our enemies? Get this: not because
their actions merit our love. They hate us. It is only fair to
respond in kind, and so we do, and so we have.
And yes, we live in the wreckage of this reciprocity,
learning that the ratchet only turns in one direction.
Hateful rhetoric builds permission structures for
violent action. I promise you, this will not end well.
Jesus gives a direct if unsatisfying answer to the
question of why we should love those who hate us. Do
not blame me—I’m just the messenger. Jesus said it.
Here it is. We should love our enemies because God
loves them. That’s it. That’s all we’ve got, that love for
the undeserving is the nature of God. It is not fair; it
is merciful. And Jesus trusts that when we receive
this mercy, when we know that we are loved despite
ourselves, we can extend the same grace to others.
Even those who, like us, do not deserve it. Jesus knows
that only love gives us the power to resist our instincts
and reject the self-justifying logic of hatred. Be merciful.
Why? Because God is merciful.
In the hope that you’re still listening, there is a second
question. How do we love our enemies? How? How
do we do this? The answers here are even less clear.
We’re here this morning because we want to follow the
teachings of Jesus. We have good and faithful intentions.
We want to follow as he directs. But then, we read some
outrageous post from someone on the opposite political
pole. Or we drive past the neighbor whose yard signs
make our blood boil. Or we find ourselves in a heated
debate with a colleague, a family member, a fellow
congregant. And it becomes so easy to justify our base
response. So easy to excoriate our enemies. And, be
honest, it feels good. At least for a moment.
So, how do we resist the temptation to turn up the heat?
I will venture two strategies.
First, start with those closest to you. It struck me this
week that so much of our emotional energy is expended
on people who have no idea we exist. Imagine if those
same resources were redirected toward the people we
know, the people who know us. Afterall, what we have in
common is that we all desire relationship. We all want to
be valued. We want to be heard. And when we take the
time to hear and tell stories, we discover the beauty and
complexity that lies below the surface and beyond the
label. We’ve got to get closer. Two Wednesdays ago, I
stood at the edge of a cornfield in eastern Pennsylvania
and for over an hour listened to a Mennonite farmer
describe the joys and challenges of his vocation in
this time. In many ways, our lives are so different. And
yet what struck me that night was how his story made
sense to me, and how much better I understood it
when I heard in his own voice. Friends at Second, this
is not rocket science. Neither is it easy. But we must
disconnect from systems only designed to drive division,
create outrage, promote lies, demonize the vulnerable
among us. We’ve got to get closer. We must find the
time necessary to build relationships strong enough to
hold when the disagreements come. And I think I know
where we can find that time. Turn off the rage machine.
And if you figure out how, please tell me.
Second strategy: make a commitment to community
that shapes your character and stretches you. It is, I
think, no coincidence that an exponential growth in
hostility is paralleled by an unraveling of institutions
that promote the common good. Love is not some wispy
emotion, nor is it a one-time action. Love is a choice we
make repeatedly, daily, sometimes hourly. This kind of
love requires the support and accountability of fellow
travelers. I thought about that this week when I read
the words of a friend whose community is rebuilding
after the devastation of recent hurricanes. My friend
observed that “we Americans are really good at acute
compassion, but pretty bad at chronic empathy.”
She’s right about that. We love the stories of these
incredible heroic deeds of rescue and recovery. They
inspire us. They move us. And they should. But then the
reporters go home, the gravity of the need settles in,
and the long work of rebuilding begins. It is then that
mission-driven institutions and committed neighbors
keep showing up. The churches that were part of the
community long before the storm will be the very ones
still there to pick up the pieces when others leave,
taking only their pictures to post on social media. The
choice for love, the work of mercy, is like that. Not acute
compassion, but chronic empathy. Not the singular
heroic deed, but the commitment to keep showing up.
To keep trying. To keep listening.
Yes, we must oppose any politics that traffic in
disinformation, division, and demonization. The Gospel
demands that we stand against cruelty and vengeance.
And, how we do that matters.
So, yes, what you’ve chosen to do is quite
extraordinary, and I’m grateful. You are not here to
sharpen your attack against an enemy. In this space,
we will not point our fingers, and we will not raise our
fists. Not here. We are here to be shaped by the mercy
of God, to be guided by the call of love, to listen for
a better way from hostility to hope. And we will keep
doing it. Newsflash! We’ll be here next month too, and
next year, and for as long as we have a voice and a
vision. I urge you to join this movement.
Ultimately, we cannot control the actions of others, and
so, we must be attentive to who we are becoming, for
our choices determine our character. We who follow
Jesus cannot be held captive to the cycle of retribution.
We who follow Jesus cannot set out on some foolish
crusade for Christian dominance. The way we love our
enemy best is by refusing to call them the word.
Only love can conquer hatred.
Only peace can vanquish violence.
Only light can drive out darkness.
Friends, this is no time to give in or give up. This is the
time to choose love. For God’s sake, choose love. Amen.