Sermon, November 4, 2001
All Saints' Sunday, Year C
The Rev. Lowell E. Grisham
St. Paul's Episcopal Church
Fayetteville, Arkansas

Gospel – Luke 6:20-36 Jesus’ Sermon on the Plain 

When I was in seminary, I spent one summer in what is called "Clinical Pastoral Education." CPE is part of most pastoral training systems to give ministers some supervised experience in pastoral care. I was assigned to St. Luke’s Hospital in New York City where I attended seminars in the morning and served as a chaplain in the afternoons.

One afternoon while I was making my rounds, I went into the Intensive Care Unit. A nurse looked at me with an intense expression and directed me to a bedside. There in the bed was a young boy, just entering that most awkward stage of adolescent puberty. His arms and legs had already outgrown his skinny bulk, and his face was mildly broken out where the sparse stub of facial hair was mixing with his boyish fuzz. Next to his bed was an attractive middle aged woman that I took to be his mother, and two sisters, one older, one younger.

The mother greeted me with a warm smile and began the introductions. She introduced me to her son just like she might if we were in their home or at a church parish hall. But he could not respond as he was attached to a ventilator and many other machines, his eyes swollen shut. There was no sign of responsiveness.

As she began to tell me a bit about her son – his interests, his studies, his hopes – I recognized who he was. The New York City newspapers had headlined his story. In a city like New York, there are many acts of violence and crime. It takes something remarkable to catch the city’s attention. This boy’s story had captured the attention and the outrage of a city already too hardened to the outrageous.

It seems that this boy, thirteen, and a friend, were walking down the sidewalk in their old neighborhood. They were talking and laughing, bouncing a basketball between them. The neighborhood had changed a lot since they had moved out just a few years before. Coming down the sidewalk from the opposite direction was another young boy, only nine years old. He pulled out a handgun, and shot.

Now, in New York City, that’s not so unusual as to be a front page banner headline story. The headlines came from the city’s outrage at the young perpetrator of this crime. After he was arrested, the nine-year old boy who admitted to the shooting said he did it "because I didn’t like the way [that other boy] laughed." And the child with the handgun, who had a long rap sheet going back to age six, said he had no remorse. He would do it again, he said. He didn’t like the way that kid laughed. "Laughing Boy Murderer" the headlines read. And here on life support, was the laughing boy.

The boy in the bed was a student at Catholic High. He hoped to become a Catholic priest, the papers reported. As his mother asked me about my seminary and my classes, she smiled toward him and said, "My son hopes to be a priest." She gently wiped away a tear from her face, accepting the hopelessness of her son’s ambitions.

I visited them several times in the next few days, meeting the father and some of their extended family. But eventually, they had to surrender to the inevitable. The boy had no brain waves. Gradually, his body shut down, and he was dead.

Because of the notoriety of the shooting, the boy’s death was front page news. And that’s when this family did something I’ll never forget. They called a press conference. There they were on television, all of them together. The father spoke, but you could see that they had all agreed on what he would say. He told the cameras about their son, his character, his personality, his hopes. He told the cameras about their faith, their Catholic faith, that their son was safe and happy now in heaven. He told the cameras that they forgave their son’s murderer, and that they were praying for his family and felt for them, because they too had lost a son, and their grief was no less profound.

"But, sir," said the reporters. "The boy who murdered your son says he would do it again. He says he has no remorse."

"Oh," said the father. "I don’t think he would say that if he knew my son. Everybody liked my son."

"How can you forgive someone who shoots your child and has no remorse?"

"My church teaches that we are to forgive; that we are to turn the other cheek. That is my faith. That is what I believe."

For a moment, the New York City reporters were silent.

When I read today’s gospel, I wished it were not my turn to preach: "Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. If anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also..." My troubled thoughts went back to September 11. God, how can I love these enemies? How can I do good to these who hate us, bless these who curse us? If we turn the other cheek, what will they do to others?

I believe that the Al Qaeda network and the Taliban regime are destructive to human life. They threaten the innocent and vulnerable. And I believe that they are not people with whom one may negotiate.

But I also know that violence so easily begets violence and the law of unintended consequences makes military activity so complex and risky.

I feel caught in a dilemma. I want to have the faith of that brave Catholic father in New York; faith to be able to forgive and to turn the other cheek. Maybe if the violent were safely behind bars I could find my way to that place. But I can’t. I also believe in the need to resist the things that threaten abundant life. And my vision is so small that I see no probable means of resistance in this awful situation that doesn’t include violence. God help us.

I have no wisdom out of this dilemma. I can only hope, and stand in the tension, asking God to work mysteriously in the darkness of our need.

But in the dark, we can embrace the moments of light that do come out of tragedy. There have been abundant moments and signs of resurrection inspiring all of us from the events of September 11. God uses all of that good will and kindness to help heal and rebuild the world. God is always bringing Easter out of Good Friday. That’s what God does best.

That family’s New York press conference was almost 25 years ago. I remember it. I remember their son. On that day, I dedicated my priesthood to his memory. He didn’t get to live out his hope, his dream to be a priest. I was preparing to become a priest. I made a silent oath, that if I was ordained, if I became a priest, I would live my vocation in part to honor him. And some days, especially when I’m frustrated or tired or angry, I think about him, and I dig a little deeper, and do what I need to do.

I don’t remember his name; I didn’t write it down. His parents don’t remember me. I was a tiny, forgettable part of their profound tragedy. But I remember them. I remember their courage. I remember their faith. I remember their loss and their hope to have a son who would become a priest.

They don’t know it, but they have another son. There is a priest in a small town in Northwest Arkansas who offers his ministry in honor of their son. In worldly terms, that is an invisible connection. In God’s terms, it is the communion of the saints. God help us in these frightful times. We need the communion of All the Saints.

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