The Past Is Not Even Past
THE EIGHTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST
Exodus 17:1-7 • Psalm 78:1-4, 12-16 • Philippians 2:1-13 • Matthew 21:23-32
It is interesting how honestly the Hebrew scriptures tell the stories of our ancestors. Today our Psalm 78 rejoices how God “split the hard rocks in the wilderness, and gave them drink as from the great deep.” But Exodus records the bitter conflict behind that wonderful miracle, a conflict that led Moses to name those springs of water “Massah” and “Meribah”—“Test” and “Quarrel.”
An important task of our spiritual journey is for each of us to heal the inheritance from our past. We have to understand the ambiguity of the blessings and curses that have come to us from our ancestors. To understand our inheritance. Then we have to define ourselves as separate beings, authentic and whole, yet connected to our past. Paul describes the task, “work out your own salvation with fear and trembling; for it is God who is at work in you, enabling you both to will and to work for his good pleasure.”
I think today’s Gospel story illustrates some clues about how to do that.
In the first part of the story, Jesus challenges the chief priests and elders.
They were not able to be authentic and self-defining in their dealing with John the Baptist, who was recently executed by Herod. So Jesus challenges them, “What do you think about John the Baptist?”
Instead of telling Jesus what they really think, they get anxious; they equivocate. Their response is reactive, not authentic. So Jesus doesn’t even waste his breath on them. They simply are not mature enough to handle his truth.
Then Jesus tells a story of two sons. A father says to each, “Son, go and work in the vineyard today.” Now I'm going to read something into the story that is not there. I’m going to assume that this is a difficult father.
I’m guessing that this father is someone who is dominating, controlling, maybe even abusive, at least from the perspective of his two sons. I think their reactions have something to do with their emotions about him. Both sons are reactive.
One appears compliant, “I go, sir,” but then rebels in an unhealthy, passive aggressive way; he doesn’t do what he said he would do. The other son reacts rebelliously, but then reconsiders, and does the responsible thing. He chooses to do what is right, despite his feelings about his father.
Back in 2008 when I wrote this sermon, I had just seen a documentary film about a father and son. The film is about Haskell Wexler, two-time Academy Award winning cinematographer, 81 years old at the time of the documentary. It is filmed by his son Mark, who has had modest success as a photojournalist for the Smithsonian and for the Federal government. The father Haskell was a life-long outspoken liberal; the son Mark was a conservative, proud of his photo with George H.W. Bush, a souvenir of his photo-story about Air Force One.
It’s hard to get a handle on why Mark is making a film about his father Haskell. Is it an attempt toward reconciliation, or is he documenting for the world to see what an SOB his father really is?
The dad Haskell is bossy, intimidating, controlling—continually telling his son Mark how to place the camera, what scenes to choose, when to cut. These are orders.
Most of the time Mark silently resists, staying behind the camera to exercise artistic control over the film he is making about his father.
Over and over the son stands there, non-reactive, camera rolling, while the father goes off. “Maybe I would have been a better father if I knew what I know now when you were growing up so you wouldn’t turn out to be such a mess,” Haskell cackles with a scornful laugh. It’s all recorded.
Mark is researching—exploring what makes his father the person he is.
Mark goes back into their history. Mark’s grandfather, Haskell’s dad, was a successful electronics manufacturer. Haskell grew up in wealth and privilege during the depression. When Haskell wanted to become a film-maker, his father (Marks’ grandfather) invested a million dollars into a startup that failed. He told friends that his son Haskell’s real work was turning money into excrement. Haskell managed to organize the workers at his father’s plant into a union and led them in a strike.
Now Mark (the son/grandson) is researching the past. He visits his father’s friends and colleagues who have worked with Haskell. They bring new perspectives, more views and angles. Many of them remark on Haskell’s difficult personality, but they communicate respect, and sometimes even affection. It seems to help when Mark interviews Jane Fonda and Michael Douglas, the children of other famous, powerful fathers.
Still the battle of wills continues. Haskell wants to tell Mark something important, and calls him to his room. Mark suggests they film outside where the afternoon light overlooking San Francisco is perfect. “No,” his father says, “We’ll stay right here.” “Dad, come outside for just a minute. It's a beautiful backdrop.” The fight for control is excruciating. It seems to last forever.
Both lose. Mark doesn’t get his shot; Haskell doesn’t tell his important message.
Later, in a poignant moment, the crust breaks for just a bit. They visit Mark’s mother, Haskell’s second of four wives. They divorced after thirty-three years, punctuated by Haskell’s many affairs. She is now living in the Alzheimer unit of a nursing home. Mark backs away, the camera still in range, as Haskell speaks softly to the silent woman.
“We have secrets,” he whispers to her. “Things no one else knows.” “Yes,” she says. Her only words during the encounter.
Later in the documentary, a learning moment seems to happen when Mark is trying to get a shot of his father swimming in the pool. His father instructs him how to frame the shot. Trying to meet him half way, Mark mostly follows his father’s instruction, and it works! The sequence beautifully frames Haskell emerging from the water with a joyful smile. Not unlike the life-giving water emerging from Massah and Meribah, from Test and Quarrel.
The movie becomes a frank and courageous exploration of the most significant relationship in Mark Wexler’s life. It is a tribute to his father; it is also brutally honest.
But there’s more. An additional trailer, not part of the film, records Haskell’s watching the nearly finished first cut of the documentary about himself. We see Haskell laughing at his own arrogant hubris. We see him touched by the scene with his wife.
When the video is over, Haskell is moved. He can’t speak for a while. Then he says, in colorful language I won’t use here, It’s a great film; you are a fine film maker. Mark dissolves into weeping as their tears unite them in ties as deep as blood.
It doesn’t always end so neatly when we face the pain of the past, but it often brings deep rewards, insight, and healing.
William Faulkner famously wrote, “The past is never dead. It's not even past.” Part of our spiritual journey into wholeness and maturity is to make peace with our past. Part of that work is digging into our history and knowing our story and our ancestors’ stories. We need to recognize how our lives have been profoundly shaped by our parents and ancestors. The Massah & Meribah—the testing and quarreling that are inevitably part of our inheritance.
We can stand alertly, courageously behind the camera, learning what we can learn. And then, from a place of knowing, we can authentically choose who we will become. We can claim our true authority.
We can define ourselves consciously, and refuse to live unconsciously in reaction to our past. We can shed the insecurities and hurts of childhood, and become authentic and whole adults.
None of us had perfect fathers and mothers. Maybe that’s one of the reasons why there is so much parental language in religious imagery. We all need more perfect love than we can possibly receive from the finite human beings who make up our family. So in faith, we speak of God the Father who comes to us with unconditional love and vitality.
We speak of God the Son who comes to be with us to encourage and heal. We speak of Mother Church, Mother Earth, Mother Mary as the embracing love that nurtures us into the fullness of our authentic being.
Our spiritual journey involves our liberation from the bondage of our past in order that we might be mature, freely responsible and whole in the present.
Each of us is a child of God; unique and beloved. Each of us has been given a singular story and unique gifts that we may do our part to help Christ create a new future, redeeming in our time on the earth the little square inch we are given to tend, until all creation is healed and reconciled, we are whole and real; and the Garden of Eden blooms anew.
© 2023 The Rev. Lowell Grisham
St. Paul’s Episcopal Church – Fayetteville, Arkansas