A Sermon by Pastor Tom Lacey . . .

heart of faith

Psalm 51, Preached at Congregational Church of Boca Raton, August 2, 2009

Darryl and Harold were in a mental institution. The place had an unusual annual contest, picking two of the best patients and giving them two questions. If they got them correct, they were deemed cured and free to go. Darryl was called into the doctor's office first and asked if he understood that he'd be free if he answered the questions correctly. Darryl said "yes" and the doctor proceeded. "Darryl, what would happen if I poked out one of your eyes?" Darryl said, "I'd be half blind." "That's correct. What if I poked out both eyes?" "I'd be completely blind." The doctor stood up, shook Darryl's hand, and told him he was free to go. On Darryl's way out, as the doctor filled out the paperwork, Darryl mentioned the exam to Harold, who was seated in the waiting room. He told him what questions were going to be asked and gave him the answers. So Harold went into the doctor's office when he was called. The doctor went thru the formalities and then asked, "What would happen if I cut off one of your ears?" Remembering what Darryl had told him, he answered, "I'd be half blind." The doctor looked a little puzzled, but went on. "What if I cut off the other ear?" "I'd be completely blind," Harold answered. "Harold, can you explain how you'd be blind?" "My hat would fall down over my eyes." He outthunked that psychiatrist, didn’t he?

In a recent article a psychologist who works in Britain's penal system described the startlingly loopy ways by which criminals attempt to sneak out from under their own crimes. He opened his article by reminding us that in his pseudo-suicide note some years ago, O.J. Simpson had the audacity to write, "Sometimes I feel like a battered husband." Right. Whether or not O.J. killed his former wife, one fact that is nowhere in dispute is that while they were married, he beat the daylights out of her on more than one occasion. But, according to this British doctor, O.J.'s reversal of who was the battered one is typical. He recounts a time when a man who had just been sentenced to life in prison for murder emerged from the courtroom red-faced with rage. "That wasn't justice, it was a kangaroo court," he fumed. "They didn't even call medical evidence!" "Oh," the psychologist replied, "what kind of evidence should they have mentioned?" "What she died of," the man snapped. "And what did she die of?" "Hemorrhage." "How did she get the hemorrhage?" the doctor asked. "They pulled the knife out," was the murderer's reply.

The art of self-deception is one we each know well. Actually, the better we are at self-deception, the less we are aware of it. First we deceive ourselves and then we further deceive ourselves that we have not, after all, deceived ourselves. Remember Adam saying, "The woman YOU gave me handed me the fruit and I ate it. Eve pointed to the serpent and said, "He deceived me and I ate." He blamed God and Eve, she blamed the serpent. Can't you just hear David doing something like that? Blaming God or blaming Bathsheba: "Lord, if you hadn't made me king I wouldn't have been walking on the palace roof in the first place. And besides, did you see what she wasn't wearing?" Maybe others do the same thing: "Well, Lord, if you were married to this jerk, you'd cheat too!" Or "It's not my fault the boss is so cheap I have to steal from the company to survive!" Or, "If I didn't have such terrible neighbors, I wouldn't lose my temper as much!"

In our psalm this morning, David or the psalmist doesn’t do this. Rather, the psalmist says, “I am the one in need of repair! It's my spirit that needs fixing. No, it needs replacing." Because he is willing to fess up he feels the sting of God's judgment, the crushing of his bones, as he says in verse 8. He really feels bad. In fact, he's downright miserable. He needs help.

Psalm 51 is an individual prayer for help. It is one of seven tradition penitential prayers, and is generally seen as the fullest and most important one. Psalm 51’s theme is stated in the opening words, “Be gracious to me, O God….” or as our NRSV says, “Have mercy on me, O God…” Now while the introduction or what is called the superscription says this is a Psalm of David, a number of experts suggest it was written quite awhile after David had been born, reigned, and died. In Israel, Judaism and among Christians, this prayer is used as a general penitential prayer, and the statement that it has been used in whole or part more often in worship and devotion than any other Scripture is probably true. It’s the scripture I read for Ash Wednesday.

When the Christian tradition declares to any and all, "You are a sinner," most people these days reply, "What did I do?" If sin exists at all, it is merely episodic, an occasional "lapse" from our better nature, which is at bottom "pretty good." Theologian Emil Brunner once noted that we can, in principle, avoid any particular sin. And we often do. Few if any people give in to every dark impulse. The average person, whether or not he is particularly religious, resists many temptations that come his way on the average day. He doesn’t slip the Snickers bar into his coat instead of paying for it, doesn’t exceed the speed limit too badly or not as bad as others do, doesn’t shove the person ahead of him in line. In principle the sinner can, and often does, avoid any particular sin, but what we cannot do is avoid every sin. We cannot not be sinners. We can’t claim that we have never done it wrong. We can’t promise that we will never do another wrong thing, speak another cross word, act greedily, think enviously or will lustfully in the future. Psalm 51 is our prayer. This is what verse 5 means when it says “I was born guilty, a sinner when my mother conceived me.” The human problem is not just the need of pardon for a particular wrong but deliverance from the predicament of oneself, from a whole life conditioned by sin from its beginning. I know this is a lot to handle or believe, but this is the way it is. Paul had his own way of saying this, even more intense and profound: “I can will what is right but I cannot do it. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do.” (Rom. 7:18b-19) Sin is woven so deeply into the fabric of our existence.

Some years ago, Tony Campolo was asked to join several other preachers at a Good Friday service. In the course of that long service each preacher was asked to deliver a short sermon. Campolo preached what he thought was a desperately powerful sermon. But when he finished, he was immediately put into his place by a Baptist preacher who delivered a much more powerful sermon. The title was also the sermon's oft-repeated refrain, "It's Friday, but Sunday's comin'!" Sunday may be coming, but if today is Friday, then let it be Friday. (I know this sounds a little strange on Sunday.)

The truth is the more soberly serious we are about sin and the reality of God's judgment, the more joyfully exuberant we are about the splendor of God’s forgiveness. Christ’s cross is both judgment and justification, condemnation and forgiveness. So be contrite, face one’s conviction, and give your confession. God has the heart to cleanse us from all that mars us. 

 In Anne Lamott's Traveling Mercies, Lamott is unstinting in detailing her sins past and present, and they are the very sins that often make us the most uncomfortable: drugs, booze, bad language, and sex. She blames no one other than herself but gives unabashed thanks to Jesus for accepting and forgiving her the way she was and is, which, as she says, is mostly a mess. Here is someone with the refreshing honesty of Psalm 51. Yet some in the Christian community have rejected her because of it. When she was invited to speak at Calvin College, the university got letters of protest, complaining that such a "bad Christian" ought not be embraced by those who are all "good Christians." Attempting to skirt our own sin, ducking this way and that to avoid the truth about ourselves may be a never-ending process, but it’s one that certainly brings no real peace because it brings no real grace.

Here is the truth: We need a clean heart; we ought to desire a new and right spirit. The heart of faith is not grace to someone who doesn’t need or require it. The heart of faith is God’s grace and mercy, compassion and forgiveness given to us because we require them. As the psalmist says, "For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me. Against you, you only, have I sinned, and done what is evil in your sight, so that you are justified in your sentence, and blameless when you pass judgment." The psalmist makes no plea for indulgent permissiveness, no claim that God is being too hard on him, no appeal for a light sentence. It is, "I am wrong, you are right!" At the cross, we do not hide our sins, but confess them and trust them to wiped away. Solomon said, "He who conceals his transgressions will not prosper, but he who confesses and forsakes them will find compassion." It was Isaiah who said, "Woe is me, for I am ruined! Because I am a man of unclean lips, ..." It was Peter who fell at Jesus' feet and said, "Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord!" It was Paul who declared "It is a trustworthy statement, deserving full acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, among whom I am foremost of all."

Still, now and forever, with God there is loving kindness, glorious mercy, fullness of compassion, forgiveness eternal. With the Lord, there is finally the blood of one who died for our sake, for goodness sake, for heaven’s sake. It cleanses all. It forgives all. It loves all. It heals all. The blood of Jesus cleanses us from all sin, all sin, all times, all people, always. This is the heart of our faith.

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