For the past fortnight
I’ve been thinking about the necessity of “binding up one another’s wounds.” My beloved Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) feels
“dinged” to me—like a historic piece of silver communion ware (say, a chalice)
that got dropped and now bears the physical signs of imperfectness. I’m comfortable with the church being an “imperfect
place”—it is, in fact, how God calls us to be; if nothing else, as a kind of
hospital for sinners, which means we bear the realities of dealing with human sinfulness
all the time.
That’s a little
easier when you’re dealing with the “trash-passers” as the Family Circus
cartoon referred to those who “trespassed” in the Lord’s Prayer.
It’s a little
more difficult when we’re talking about brothers and sisters with whom we
openly disagree.
There are wounds
on every side. For a long time, those “wounded”
were those who believed our church was denying those who were LGBTQ the same
rights and authorities and opportunities in service. And after years of conversation and debates,
our General Assembly has moved to allow not only ordination of LGBTQ persons
for church service, but now has granted ministers and congregations permission
to officiate same-sex marriages in places where it’s legal. So now, wounded-ness is also being felt by
those who fervently believed by conscience and their reading of scripture that
same-sex marriage is wrong, and the reality that “Presbyterian-ness” is now
associated with permitting it. I’m not
sure the wounds are the same; but I know that there’s a lot of wounded-ness
among us.
I for one like Presbyterian
meetings. But I’m not looking forward to
the conversations over this issue that will happen where members and elected
commissioners will be divided and where our wounded-ness is again rubbed raw in
conversations, deliberations, and decisions that must still be made regarding
the definition of marriage in our church’s constitution.
I keep going
back to an experience I had while on pilgrimage in the Holy Land. Our group pulled over on the highway between
the Dead Sea and Jerusalem at a place I had only heard and read about—the Good
Samaritan Inn. Yet, there we were,
beside the highway, in a barren desert-esque, wilderness place with lots of
dirt and sand and weeds, and where we didn’t actually see any inn; there was a
locked gate and we were told they were building an inn.
The place is
named, of course, for the famous story in Luke’s gospel—“The Good Samaritan”—where
the hero turns out to be an enemy. Despite
major divisions—religious, political, and otherwise—the Samaritan binds the
wounds of the one who was beaten, robbed, and left for dead in the ditch beside
the road. How’d that happen?--especially when other folks simply "passed by on the other side." I don't blame the passers-by; I'm feeling like passing by, too.
OK, so maybe the
injured one wasn’t in a position to argue, fight back, or dissent. Nonetheless, he is the beneficiary of great
human kindness and love. This love
prevails despite the deep divides. Maybe
it was easier because the injured was just one—not like a whole raft of
enemies, not like a 60-40 split down the center aisle of the Presbytery
meeting.
We in the church
aren’t dealing with victims beside the road.
We’re looking across the aisle or around the room at friends and
colleagues, about whom we have answered ordination vows to be “a friend among
colleagues.” In our assemblies we have different
opinions; different interpretations; different hopes and dreams—to be
sure. But what we claim together in
Jesus Christ surely means we already have a leg up on the injured Jew beside
the road and the Samaritan who tends to him.
Shouldn’t we do no less than they in binding wounds?
I believe our
common calling—even with those with whom we disagree—is what a colleague is
calling in a sermon this weekend, “the yoke of Christ.” My friend is telling his congregation about
the legend of Jesus the master carpenter, who becomes famous for his ability
and willingness to craft perfectly fitted yokes for working oxen. It’s Jesus—“measuring twice and cutting once”
to unite two different animals in their work in a way that is “perfectly fitted”
to be both humane and enabling.
In these days
when our church faces the struggles of more discussions and decision-making, it’s
important to remember that we are yoked to Christ. But also, I think, that we are called to be
yoked to one another. This will not mean
“agreeing to disagree.” It means we are
stuck with each other—for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in
health. But we are not “stuck,” so much
as we are fitted for service—TOGETHER—with, by, and for Jesus Christ.
It is Christ who
has joined us as brothers and sisters and called us into ministry. It is Christ who has fitted us together for
this journey. It is Christ who calls us
to be one and who sustains us.
I don’t know
exactly what that looks like. But I hope
that we will all demonstrate care for one another and live into it—TOGETHER.
© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and
Pastor, The Presbyterian Church of Llanerch, Havertown, Pennsylvania
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