Letters of Divine Forgiveness

Homily for Sunday, August 11, 2024
The Twelfth Sunday After Pentecost
Ephesians 4:25-5:2

“Live in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself for us,
a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.”

The website letters on note.com contains letters from, for example, Ernest Hemingway to F. Scott Fiztgerald (May 28, 1934).  Hemingway wrote:  “I write one page of masterpiece to ninety-one pages of [expletive].  I try to put the [expletive] in the wastebasket.”  On the site is a letter from the Australian publisher Angus & Robertson to one Mr. F.C. Meyer of Katoomba, New South Wales (October 4, 1928):  “Dear Sir, No, you may not send us your verses, and we will not give you the name of another publisher.  We hate no rival publisher sufficiently to ask you to inflict your verses on them.  Yours faithfully, Angus & Robertson.”  And then there is the “All Points Announcement” from President George W. Bush to the White House staff regarding his dog, Ranger (February 6, 1992): “Recently Ranger was put on a weight-reduction program.  Either that program succeeds or we enter Ranger in the Houston Stock Show as a Prime Hereford.  All offices are to take the following pledge:  ‘We agree not to feed Ranger.  We will not give him biscuits.  We will not give him food of any kind.’”  

But what caught my attention most was a collection of letters of apology to Arizona’s Petrified Forest National Park from tourists who, against the law, had taken from the park pieces of petrified wood.  As might be expected, a few of the letters were from children, such as:  “Dear Mr. Ranger,  I am sorry I took this rock.  I am only five years old.  I lied to my mom and dad.”  But most of the letters of apology were from adults.  Here, for example, is a letter received August 4, 1980:  

Dear Sirs,
This letter is to apologize for taking some pieces of rock from the park.  I am very sorry.  I am also sorry that I told a lie to the man at the gate who asked me if I had removed anything from the park.  I did not see the note in your brochure about“a few small pieces” until I returned home and now realize the effect if everyone took “a few small pieces.”  I can assure you that I have been smitten of conscience since I returned home,and instead of pleasant memories of your park, I feel guilty. I assure you that it will not happen again.

Sincerely, A Guilty Traveler

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Or again, this one from a “Mrs. P":
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Dear Sirs,
I am writing this letter in hopes of easing my conscience and saving the most important thing in my life, my marriage. Against my better judgment, I removed three rocks which my husband discovered hidden in my brassiere.  Since then, being a true Christian, he has constantly told me of my wrong-doing.  I am keeping one rock as a token of my guilt and to remind me of the lesson I learned… Enclosed are the two other rocks…

In today’s lesson from Ephesians chapter 4, the author writes presumably not to children but to adults:  “Thieves must give up stealing,” the author writes; “Rather, let them labor and work honestly with their own hands, so as to have something to share with the needy.” And, “So then, putting away falsehood, let each of you speak the truth with your neighbor, for we are members of one another.”  What both the author of Ephesians and also the writers of the letters of apology to the Petrified Forest National Park recognize is that lying and stealing affects not only ourselves but those around us.  “I am writing this letter in hopes of easing my conscience,” Mrs. P wrote, “and saving…my marriage.”  “Speak the truth with your neighbor,” the author of Ephesians wrote, “for we are members one of another.”   These letters recognize that we are interconnected, and though we might be tempted to think that our actions affect only ourselves, inevitably our actions affect also those around us.  

We probably all had parents who taught us not to lie and steal, and we are all “good,” church-going people.  But if the letters to the Petrified Forest National Park and also the letter to the Ephesians are any indication, even “good”Christians – against our stated ideals, against our best intentions – [even “good”Christians] sometimes lie and steal.  And when we do, our actions weigh on our conscience and prevent us from truly “living in love, as Christ loved us.”  

If we lie and steal, the letter to the Ephesians offers hope,reminding us of Jesus’ sacrifice, who “gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.”  Because of Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross,writes the author, “we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses” (1:7), and we have all “been brought near by the blood of Christ.  For he is our peace”(2:13-14).  How exactly Jesus’ sacrifice reconcile and atones for our sins is complex and not readily understood.  But for those of us who may have fallen – who have stolen from the “park,” as it were, or lied to the “ranger,” or whatever we may have done that tugs on our conscience – I suspect we know on a deep, perhaps pre-conscious, level that the most life-giving way to salve our conscience and to find healing, both for ourselves and for the relationships we’ve harmed, is in “Christ [who] loved us and gave himself for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.”  

The Eucharist we are about to celebrate makes present this dynamic of sin and redemption: “In him, you have delivered us from evil, and made us worthy to stand before you,” we pray; “In him, you have brought us…  out of sin into righteousness, out of death into life.”  And as the words of institution remind us:  “This is my Blood… which is shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins.” As our conscience may trouble us – and we all have times when our conscience troubles us – perhaps we can find consolation in knowing that (as the author of Ephesians writes in this morning’s lesson), “God in Christ has forgiven you” (4:32).  And perhaps we can allow ourselves in the Eucharist to be aware of Jesus’ loving sacrifice for us,and here can receive the forgiveness, and the hope and healing, that Jesus desires for us to have.

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