Palm
Sunday 2014,
St.
Paul’s Episcopal Church, Muskegon
“Remorse:” that profoundly painful feeling
of regret, of jagged yearning to be able to undo something I have done or failed to
do, but think I could have if only I could have another chance; a “do over” as we call it in our family. One such incident comes to mind about a
miniature schnauzer puppy I named “Maggie.”
Actually there are a couple of sharp and painful memories about this
little dog I truly loved.
She
was incredibly smart and affectionate and would “grin” at me when she wanted to
be held. But Maggie was having a hard
time with puppy potty training. At the
same time, I was feeling overwhelmed by other issues that were out of my hands,
and out of control. So one day, after
finding she had piddled on our new hardwood floor, I caught Maggie up in anger,
scaring a yelp her as I did it, saying, “You are not my friend if you keep
doing this!”
The next day as I was
driving home from work, I found myself toying with regret for even having the
puppy because I didn’t have time or emotional energy to properly train
her. Once I got home, I let the dogs out
into the back yard and went to sink for a drink of water for myself. From the kitchen window, I saw the puppy dash
out of the yard to follow a couple of children down the street. I’d thought the
gate was closed! I ran out the front
door, calling Maggie to me as she crossed the street with the children. I ran to the corner, which was a four-way
stop sign intersection and kneeling down to entice her attention, called her to
me—to my great relief she turned and ran to me full out, ears close to her
head, paws flying and that silly cute grin on her face.
Out of my peripheral vision, I noticed a car
coming but knew they had to stop, which would give Maggie time to get to
me. To my horror, the car didn’t
stop but accelerated into the intersection and I ran toward it yelling and waving
my hands to stop the driver. But he
didn’t see me. How could he not see me? And he didn’t see Maggie. She died in my arms on the way to the
vet. Remorse: “Moral
anguish for wrongs committed,” and a “gnawing distress arising from a sense of guilt for past wrongs.” Some people might say “Oh well, she’s just a
dog. You can get
another.” No. There could never be another Maggie. I felt
ashamed, utterly convicted for how I’d treated her the day before--and heart-broken.
In Genesis 3, we find perhaps the first recorded incidence of
life-changing remorse. The situation began with the lying serpent who persuaded Eve to
doubt what God had said. Seeing she was
uncertain, he went on to cast doubt on God’s character and intentions for the
man and woman he created. The serpent promised
Eve’s eyes would “be opened” and she would become “like God.”
So they ate of the fruit. Sin first entered the world through the vile
suggestions made by the serpent. Sin
was in the serpent’s lies about God’s intentions and character. But Eve and Adam went along when they
believed the false words of the serpent.
They fell for his lies. Sin
didn’t enter paradise merely through an act of disobedience. Sin, like evil, is sneakier than that. Sin entered in when someone told lies about
God and how things are between God and us, and then someone believed those lies
enough to act on them. It had to be a
cooperative venture, a joint effort. Our
ancestors let slander take precedence over their own direct experiences of a God who had lovingly
provided for their every known or anticipated need. No wonder they were too embarrassed to face
him when he called. I would’ve been
too. Wouldn’t you? For a
mouthful of lies and a little fresh produce, they’d been willing to throw God
under the bus.
Still, as painful as that was, it was probably
nothing compared to the profound remorse they felt over the consequences of
their actions. There could be no “do
over,” no going back.
At least—not until Jesus arrived on the
scene.
Some of the back story to this morning’s gospel
about the death of Jesus--is the death of Judas. In the longer version of this morning’s
gospel, we would have heard Judas named as the catalyst--if not instigator--of
all that happened that night and the next afternoon. Who
know why Judas sold Jesus out?
Maybe he’d helped himself to the community
purse and was afraid of being found out.
Some say he was a zealot and did it hoped to force Jesus into action
finally—to take Israel back from the Romans and get on with the Kingdom of God
on earth. Some say he was just money-sick, and wanted the money, and did it out
of greed.
One thing is certain—that he hadn’t figured
on Jesus ending up dead, let alone crucified.
Maybe we can take that into
account and cut Judas some slack—he did have faith in Jesus’ ability to work
miracles. He was there and had seen
Jesus raise Lazarus from the dead with his own eyes. In fact, he’d help unbind the smelly grave
wrappings. Jesus was God’s anointed, he
couldn’t be condemned to die.
But then reality sets in and he sees that Jesus
is not enough of a wonder-worker to be able to save himself from mighty Rome--Judas
is ashamed, convicted—filled with bitter remorse. He tries to undo what he’s done. He tries to give
the money back. “When Judas . . . realized
that Jesus had been condemned to die, he was filled with remorse. So he
took the thirty pieces of silver back to the leading priests and the elders.” But there would be no “do over” here either,
no going back. His kiss had set
something in motion that was inevitable and unstoppable. “He threw the pieces of silver into the
temple sanctuary and left, and he went away and hanged himself.…”
Writer Frederick Buechner offers an
alternative view of what happened to Judas and why. He says, “There is a tradition in the early
church . . . that his suicide was based
not on despair but on hope.”1
Maybe
this is the time and place when the faithless sin of the first humans was
finally expiated, and it was once again, necessarily,
a joint effort. Guilty as he was for the death of Jesus, Judas knew where
he would be heading as soon as he breathed his last, believing as he did in
God’s justice. But, at the same time, if
God was also merciful, which Judas also held to be true—Judas knew
that in a last-ditch effort to save the souls of the damned--as God's son, Jesus
would be down there too. So, though it
was convoluted and risky, it was also smart. For all his many faults, Judas did not
buy into the serpent’s slander. Nope. Judas just hurled himself, full out--into the
profound grace and goodness of his God. “The way Judas figured it, hell might
be the last chance he'd ever have of making it to heaven”2
“so
to get there as soon as possible, he tied the rope around his neck and kicked
away the stool. Who knows?”
In any case, here’s a scene worth
pondering. Imagine, writes Beuchner, “Once
again they met in the shadows, the two old friends, both of them a little worse
for wear after all that had happened--only this time, it was Jesus who was the
one to give the kiss---and this time it
wasn't the kiss of death that was given.”3
- Frederick Buechner, Peculiar Treasures: A Biblical Who’s Who
- Ibid
- Ibid
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