Possessing Everything, Yet Refusing to Share

Though Charleston seems pretty far away from us, Bishop Eaton’s statement that two of the pastors were educated at ELCA seminaries and that Dylann Root, the alleged gunman, was a member of an ELCA congregation bring it much closer to home. There are calls to action and calls to repentance, calls to prayer and calls to speak. So often, though, our response to the Gospel is the same as the response to tragedy: perhaps we are more likely to watch the news for the next 24 or 48 hours as the case transpires and as we learn more details. Perhaps we avoid the news because of the sensationalism. Perhaps we continue along with our daily business, regarding the situation in Charleston as something that we didn’t bring about, something that we didn’t condone, something that we would never stand for. But when the Gospel is threatened – when people are killed at a place of worship, this is not just the work of people in Charleston or people of a particular race; this is the work of the whole church.

I have been haunted by a question posed by Wil Gafney, a professor at Brite Divinity School and an Episcopalian priest: “I keep asking where & when this young man was radicalized. What was said and/or left unsaid at home, at his Lutheran Church, by his friends. (Because if he was Muslim they would be all over that mosque.) Did anyone in his life insist on the full humanity, full divine image of black folk in his presence? Or did they avoid that political stuff? (Because talking about race is supposedly racist.) Did he hear in church that we are all God's children? Did his family & church actively model God's love for all people? Or did he live & worship in virtual segregation - like some of you - & no one said anything when he told racist jokes. Maybe they laughed at his jokes or were too embarrassed to say anything.”

But the ELCA has already answered that question, I want to respond: We have social statements about race, detailing the full humanity of persons of all races and nationalities. Bishop Eaton writes: “We might say that this was an isolated act by a deeply disturbed man. But we know that is not the whole truth. It is not an isolated event. And even if the shooter was unstable, the framework upon which he built his vision of race is not. Racism is a fact in American culture. Denial and avoidance of this fact are deadly. The Rev. Mr. Pinckney leaves a wife and children. The other eight victims leave grieving families. The family of the suspected killer and two congregations are broken. When will this end?”

Though the ELCA has responded, and though the ELCA affirms the humanity of all people, our society also suffers from the great sin of apathy. Typically, when situations aren’t “close to home” or don’t really affect us or, even if we can go about our daily business with the news existing at the back of our minds, we are able to shake off the news of bloodshed and death – even bloodshed and death in a place of worship – because it seems so far away. With it being so far away, it is easy to put language on the situation that helps us to deal with it, regarding the young man as mentally unstable and, though he may have been, this stands in the way of dealing with the issue of race that still divides our country, that still persists in looking at some people with suspicion based on the color of their skin, that enables many of us to go about our daily business without realizing that, on Wednesday, nine of our brothers and sisters were innocent victims of hatred. It is not so much a flaw with what the Lutheran church teaches, but rather, a flaw with how we respond to this teaching and, the truth is, most of us don’t really live as if all this stuff makes a difference for the world we live in; most of us don’t really live as if all this stuff makes a difference for us and our lives together. This, however, does not negate the deep power of this Word, this Gospel, and the teaching that we are all created in God’s image, bound together as brothers and sisters in Christ.

Why talk about this? What does this have to do with the Gospel and Sunday morning and why we are all here? Martin Luther puts it this way: “It is not sufficient for anyone, and it does him no good to recognize God in his glory and majesty, unless he recognizes him in the humility and shame of the cross… a theologian of glory calls evil good and good evil. A theologian of the cross calls the thing what it actually is.” It is important to talk about this because, in having real conversations about the reality of humanity and the reality of suffering and sin, because it is in this reality that Christ dwells. It is not only in the physical storm on Galilee that Jesus shows up, but also in the metaphorical storm that is humanity. Jesus responds to the calls of his followers that they are perishing, but Jesus also draws us into himself, demanding that we respond in the face of suffering and death. Because it is not sufficient for us to recognize Jesus’ glory and majesty because the way to the cross is paved with Jesus’ refusal to be apathetic to those around him.

Paul reminds us that the response to the Gospel is anything but apathetic: “As we work together with him, we urge you also not to accept the grace of God in vain,” going on to highlight the beatings, riots, and suffering he had endured and – at the same time – the joy that undergirded his actions: “We are treated as impostors, and yet are true; as unknown, and yet are well known; as dying, and see—we are alive; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing everything.” In Christ, we have everything, and so often, we refuse to share.

At a time in which the families of the deceased are mourning, enduring the deep suffering of loss and unnecessary death, when invited by the judge to speak to the alleged gunman, their words were not words of hatred. “We forgive you.” Before the trial, before sentencing, before any obvious indications of repentance, the families came forward and offered the most powerful word possible. These words of forgiveness, spoken out of the depths of suffering, echo the words of Paul. In the midst of deep suffering, Christ dwells, drawing the victims under the shadow of his wings. In the midst of deep suffering, words of courage and forgiveness come, seemingly too early, seemingly out of place, but the word of forgiveness nevertheless comes.

Much work needs to be done in our church and in our country in our responses to those around us who are suffering, but this word of forgiveness is a reminder that we often receive forgiveness before we seek it, and despite our undeserving. This forgiveness is not – and has never been – a justification for apathy, but rather, a call to action. Forgiveness, whether in deeply divided communities – as at Corinth or in the church – or in the divisions that exist within our country or our world, begin the process of healing as Christ draws us all into himself as brothers and sisters. We are not simply observers of the news or innocent bystanders; rather, Christ draws us into the fray, into the middle of the storm, into the reality of what it is to be human because it is here – in the midst of human suffering and death – that Christ’s words “Father, forgive them,” ring most true.