These verses come from the Sermon on the Mount.

Here, Jesus speaks not to the vast crowd, the

multitude, that has followed him through the Galilean

countryside, but to his closest friends, his followers,

his disciples. He speaks to them about the spiritual

danger of anger and resentment. Scholars sometimes

call these the “hard sayings of Jesus.” Hard, yes,

because they shift the focus from our actions to

our intentions. Jesus asks his disciples to examine

our hearts. If you are at the altar, if you are in the

sanctuary, if you are at the sacred place of worship,

if you are standing on holy ground, and there you

remember that somebody somewhere has something

against you, leave immediately and be reconciled

before returning to worship.

Here Jesus suggests something rather radical. It

is this: reconciliation is a prerequisite for worship.

Interpersonal peace precedes proper praise. We cannot

draw near to God when we are distant from each other.

It is perhaps easy to understand why this is one of

those hard sayings, along with the words you just

heard later in the Gospel of Matthew, when Peter

thinks he’s being generous by saying, “Do I have to

forgive someone seven times?” and Jesus extends it

by a multitude. Not seven, but seventy times seven.

Some prefer to think of these words as parables, as

intentional overstatement, exaggeration meant to

make a point. Not for us to take literally. This is both a

relief, and at some level it makes sense. After all, we

are so practiced at justifying our actions, demonizing

our adversaries, holding close our resentments. A

friend recently pointed out to me how appropriate it is

that we speak of “nursing” our grudges. We often treat

our bitterness with more care than our joy. We can find

so many reasons to avoid reconciliation, and we can

spin these words of Jesus as parables, as metaphors

meant to make a point. Many of these excuses make

good sense, at least in our own minds.

But then, Jesus says, we come to worship. We

find ourselves in the presence of God without the

protective armor of self-absorption. We are vulnerable.

We are fully present. Our hearts and minds open. And

here is what happens. At the altar, in the sanctuary,

on holy ground, we remember. Our hearts remember.

Worship evokes memory in a way nothing else can.

Seated in the presence of God, we recall words

spoken in anger days ago that had slipped our minds.

We summon up an act of inappropriate aggression

toward a stranger. We cringe at a social media

comment that we once viewed as a brilliant take down

of a lesser point of view. We regret the silent treatment

toward our spouse or the quick temper toward our

children. Here, in worship, we examine our hearts.

We reflect not on how justified or righteous our anger

was, but on how this carefully guarded resentment is

shaping our character. Here, joined in community and

gathered before God, we do remember.

The great preacher Fred Craddock brings the message

home, writing, “Memory is a powerful stab of awakening

to face our duty. If you’re at the altar and you’re offering

your gift and there you remember, leave it and go…this

is urgent. Do it immediately. Don’t wait; delay could be

deadly. It will fester. You will find yourself in a ritual of

going into the backyard and lifting the stone to make

sure the snake is still there, that it is now defining your

life. Don’t let that happen. Go first. Go now. Jesus says

there is something that takes precedence over prayer

and that is my relationship to you."

This is what we remember in worship. That

resentment is a prison we construct ourselves. That

forgiveness is freedom. That confession is the key.

That when we seek genuine reconciliation, we can

unlock the door and open the way to worship of

God and relationship with one another. Now I do

mean, because I believe Jesus did mean, genuine

reconciliation. We know the other kind as well. I’m

sorry if you were offended, but... Well, I’m sorry that

you’re so sensitive. Or frankly, just about any apology

that begins, I’m sorry, but…

The chasm between us and the growing resentment

among us make the way of Jesus both more important

and more difficult. We live in a culture of contempt.

And we know it. We sense it. We see and hear and

perhaps occasionally are those whose resentment

has become a raging fire threatening to consume

them. Some of us refuse to acknowledge a hurt that

we have caused. Others promise to exact revenge

for past wounds. And so, the vicious cycle of abusive

rhetoric and victimization continues unheeded.

What will stop the madness? Come to the altar.

Remember. Go and be reconciled. And only then,

return to worship. When we are at the altar, when

we are before God’s righteous judgment and God’s

compassionate grace, we see our own failings in the

light of divine mercy. We acknowledge our frailty and

our brokenness and our limitation. And we commit

ourselves to living another way.

This way is the example people of faith can set in a

culture of contempt. By faith, we know the truth of

what Sen. Alan Simpson observed at the funeral for

President George H.W. Bush some years ago. Simpson

said, “He knew what his mother and my mother always

knew: that hatred corrodes the container it’s carried

in.” We’ve seen enough corrosion to know there is a

better way. A similar point put differently by author

Anne Lamott: that refusing to forgive is like drinking

rat poison and expecting the rat to die.

This summer, on my annual retreat in the mountains

of North Carolina, I planned the themes and the

topics and the texts for worship this program year.

The weeks beginning today, October 13, and ending

November 3 took longer than any other season to

discern. Where should we focus our attention these

four Sundays? Which messages might resonate and

be helpful for this moment and this congregation

of well-intended, diversely minded folk? Briefly, I

considered beginning next summer’s sabbatical

a little early. Only briefly. Then I thought about the

possibility of entirely avoiding the elephant (or

donkey) in the room. Perhaps we could have a series

on the great historic doctrines of the faith, a careful

study of the Apostles’ Creed or consideration of

varying theologies of atonement and salvation. No.

The urgent and important work of the faithful in our

time is to bear witness to the gospel of reconciliation.

Jesus said it’s the most important thing, that even

if you are sitting in church, even if you are deep in

prayer, even if you are standing on holy ground, you

should go first and be reconciled. Not a metaphor. Not

a parable. Take it literally. Take care of it. Do it now.

Imagine the power of forgiveness. Imagine the gift of

confession, the freedom from guilt and shame, the

release of a grudge held too long, rotting our souls

and isolating us from each other. Perhaps there is

someone whom you have been struggling to forgive.

Perhaps there is someone whose forgiveness you

have longed to receive. Friends, that relationship

is too important to sacrifice on the altar of selfrighteousness. My counsel is this: do not wait. This

week, this afternoon, seek them out and be reconciled

to one another. Embrace the power of forgiveness that

will both reflect and shape your character.

Several years ago, in another congregation in

another city, we had an evening service of prayer

and communion on a weeknight during Advent. It

was a small but committed group of worshipers who

showed up. That evening we served communion by

intinction. Worshipers came forward to receive the

bread and the cup. Just before the service began,

I realized that one of the elders who had agreed

to serve wasn’t there. Quicky, last minute, I found

another elder who happened to be sitting in the pews.

I asked her if she’d be willing to serve that night,

and she agreed. I showed her where she would be

standing, and she looked at me with wide eyes and

said, “I can’t.” You can’t? The service is about to start.

The elder looked down at the floor. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

Worship began.

At the time of communion, the elders rose from their

seats to take the bread and cup to serve, and she

stood holding a chalice. She stood next to another

elder in the church, and tears ran down their faces

the entire time. After everyone received communion,

these elders turned to each other. She put her chalice

down on the table. Her serving partner did the same

with the bread. Both were weeping. Standing there

in front of the chapel, they reached out, and they

hugged each other. Now I had no idea what was

going on, but I too was weeping.

It was only after worship that I learned the story. Six

years earlier, these two elders had been on opposing

sides of a bitterly contentious issue in the church.

They had spoken against each other in words that

they both regretted. And since that time, they had

not reconciled. Since that time, they had not spoken

to each other. For six years, they had carefully

avoided each other. But, that night, at the altar, they

remembered. They forgave. They started over.

Friends, building character will mean making

choices. Sometimes, they are excruciating.

Confession. Forgiveness. Reconciliation. The very

practices that might save us from ourselves and

this culture of contempt, that could return us to the

better angels of our nature.

It’s going to take time to stitch us back together.

Years. Perhaps decades. But here, at the altar, we can

remember. We can begin right now.

So, this morning, if you are at the altar and you

remember…well, you know what to do.