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.