No Longer Puppets of the Past

December 16, 2007

Third Sunday in Advent
Isaiah 35:1-10; James 5:7-10; Matthew 11:2-11
The Reverend Stephen P. Bauman

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On October 6, 2006 in Bart Township, Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, a man walked into a one-room schoolhouse carrying a shotgun, a pistol, a rifle, a stun gun, two knives, and a bag holding six-hundred rounds of ammunition. Inside were fifteen boys and eleven girls, all part of the Amish community. Eventually the man, who drove a milk truck, often delivering to Amish families, told the boys to leave, as well as two pre-school-aged children and their guardian who were visiting for the day. The twenty-year-old teacher and her mother had managed to escape, running to a nearby neighbor to raise the alarm, when the invader returned to his truck for various supplies. One nine-year-old girl slipped away with the boys. The gunman ordered the ten remaining girls aged six to thirteen to lie down with their heads toward the blackboard and he tied their hands and legs together.

Before the invasion, the milk delivery man had left notes at home for his family. The one to his wife said in part, “I am filled with so much hate, hate toward myself hate toward God and unimaginable emptiness.” Most of you remember that eventually he turned that hate outward and opened fire on all ten girls, killing five of them and injuring the rest before turning the gun on himself.

And then the world watched in wonder as the Amish community responded to this horrific tragedy with quiet forgiveness. CNN reported a grandfather of one of the murdered girls said of the killer on the day of the attack: "We must not think evil of this man." Another said, "I don't think there's anybody here that wants to do anything but forgive and not only reach out to those who have suffered a loss in that way but to reach out to the family of the man who committed these acts.” One Amish neighbor of the gunman’s family comforted them hours after the shooting and extended forgiveness to them. The fathers of the Amish girls who had been shot went to the killer’s parents and asked them what they could do to help them.

At one of the girls funerals the leader said “the deceased girls need not be worried about; they are safe in God’s keeping. In this case it was important to be reminded to forgive, and above all, to live in consciousness of the brevity of life.” [1] At the funeral of the gunman, over half the attendees came from the Amish community.

All this forgiveness did not obscure the Amish community’s terrible anguish at the horrific loss. They surely grieved, yet the forgiveness seemed to ennoble everyone involved – including the victims, their parents and extended families, the gunman’s family, the wider community of concern, the police and rescue workers, and even the reporters assigned to the story, who managed for the most part to maintain a respectful distance. One journalist wrote this astonished confession: “The Amish have offered a stunning example of the freedom that comes from forgiveness, a reminder that religion need not turn lethal or combative. I, for one, as this week ends, stand in awe of their almost unfathomable grace in grief.” [2]

I stood in awe too, as did much of the world. This story was as hot on Al Jazeera news service as it was on the BBC and it ricocheted around the globe. This was a lead story everywhere. I think many were bewildered that such a response was actually possible in our world. This was no sentimental expression. This seemed the real thing under truly adverse conditions. The forgiveness was real. The faith was real. The outcome of healing restoration was real. No one was ostracized in Bart Township, Lancaster County. No one was left from the common table. No one excluded as a result of the awful horror. Everyone embraced. Even – astoundingly – the damaged, hate-filled milk delivery man.

It’s important not to sentimentalize the Amish, imagining they have managed to create some more perfect existence. They are not so arrogant as to assume they possess an inherently greater righteousness than anyone else. On the other hand, here seemed to be a glimpse of another way of construing how the world could go. And forgiveness seemed the linchpin.

It occurs to me to wonder aloud with you if the prophecies we toy with during this season of the year that pertain to a future filled with hope, restoration, and peace will find their fulfillment through the agency of forgiveness. In Isaiah’s vision, “A highway shall be there, and it shall be called the Holy Way…it shall be for God’s people; no traveler, not even fools shall go astray.” [3] I find this a particularly comforting passage since, from time to time, I count myself among the ranks of the fools. At this reflective moment though, standing a bit distant from my own behavior, I sense how foolish the entire human race seems in its captivity to its less noble instincts and behaviors.

A former Liberian child soldier interviewed on NPR learned this wisdom. “Revenge is not good,” he said. “I joined the army to avenge the death of my family and to survive. I’ve come to learn that if I am going to take revenge, in that process I will kill another person whose family will want revenge then revenge and revenge, and revenge will never come to an end.” 4

In war-ravaged Beirut, Lebanon, a project called The Garden of Forgiveness is taking shape in the heart of a massive re-development effort. In the shadow of churches, synagogues and mosques, the Garden provides an opportunity to move people to a different consciousness, releasing them from the prison of inter-generational cycles of pain and violence present in individuals, families, tribes and nations.

As a witness of the pain of the civil war in Lebanon, the Garden’s founder, Alexandra Asseilly, decided to explore her own responsibility for peace. She says, “Forgiveness allows us to actually let go of the pain in the memory, and if we let go of the pain in the memory, we can have the memory, but it doesn’t control us. When the memory controls us, we are then puppets of the past.” Three American women who lost husbands and sons in 9/11 planted an olive tree there in memory of their loved ones. The picture of them kneeling in the dirt has been haunting me in this season of prophecy.” [5]

I think John the Baptist had good reason to question whether Jesus was the one they had been waiting for as the Messiah. He didn’t quite fit the mold. He had the grace and charisma, of course. But was he the one, really? Eventually Jesus walked into a disastrous outcome, surely not what anyone had hoped for, prayed for. A crucified Messiah was not on anyone’s radar. But from the cross came those haunting words, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they’re doing…” [6] Said in a less generous way, “The fools don’t get it…”

Well, let’s lower the temperature a bit and shift our focus to a much smaller scene, say, to your bedroom, for instance, when you’ve awakened in the middle of the night. You’re aware that you’ve been sweating profusely. You have a searing insight that what you did was wrong. There is no escaping this. It isn’t a matter of blaming anyone else like your parents or friends or even the fates. You are unusually clear. Interestingly, ethics did not really concern you during the actionable timeframe. Only now, during a restless night did this awareness slap you awake. And this in itself is interesting because normally you don’t suffer your conscience very much.

You think to yourself you should undo what has been done. On the other hand, you could let it go, like you have on other occasions. You could probably get away with it after all. But the knowing would fester, and the festering could turn to poison. Still, you wager with yourself that tolerating some poison might be the better path. In fact, you recognize you’ve had that taste in your mouth for a while now. It’s bitter and has side-effects, but come to think of it, that’s not unlike some medicines. You’re surprised to realize that you have been drinking this poison in a variety of doses in a number of differing circumstances. You realize you don’t have to do that anymore, and you sense that could lead to something altogether different, something better.

Or suppose you’re the victim of some bad behavior. Something that happened a while ago, perhaps. Something that festers, something that has grabbed your heart, or your lungs, or your brain and squeezes these organs with varying degrees of tightness, constricting your ability to live fully, sometimes interfering with work or personal relationships. This gnaws at you and haunts you. You feel righteous and justified in your residual resentment.

Some of the time you fantasize about getting back, getting even, getting your due. Sometimes you hate. Sometimes you simmer. For shorter or longer periods of time you don’t think about it but it never really goes away.

Suppose, dear victim, you awaken in the night and see all of this clearly and it occurs to you that a decision has been set before you. You didn’t ask for it, but there it is. You’re staring at the ceiling and you feel the seductive temptation to travel one more time to the place of revenge and payback, wallowing like an addict in resentment, or, to simply let it go. That is, to let go of your attachment to the pain.

It occurs to you that this has held you captive. That it owns you. But now you have a choice. In the moment, you can actually sense a better place beyond the horizon of your present experience. You can feel it. You can choose it. Maybe for the first time you realize that you can actually help create that better place. You can pray to God to make it so, and you do.

Good friends, that’s the sensibility of this season as we look to the coming of Christ. Something different – something very much better – really is possible, even inevitable, if we open our hearts. We’re on our way to the manger. The new thing is coming. We puppets-of-the-past are about to find our freedom. Its nearly impossible to believe, and yet we see that the highway, the holy way, opens up before us....

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[1] John L. Ruth, Forgiveness, Herald Press, 2007, p.45.
[2] Ann Taylor Fleming, “Essayist Gains Inspiration from the Amish Community’s Ability to Forgive,” PBS Online Newshour, October 6, 2007.
[3] Isaiah 35:8
[4] Ishmael Beah, interview on National Public Radio, 2/21/07, recorded by John L. Ruth above, p. 16.
[5] The Power of Forgiveness, a film by Martin Doblmeier, First Run Features, 2007.
[6] Luke 23:34.

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