“A 4 Minute, 51 Second Recipe for an Apology”
July 13, 2016
By: James L. Brewer-Calvert
Sitting in the chair by the pulpit this past Sunday, July 10, moments before standing up and stepping into First Christian Church of Decatur’s significant pulpit to preach, I definitely felt the enormity of the moment. Our nation had been rocked by back to back to back acts of brutality and murder of the innocent from Minnesota to Louisiana to Texas. Each one was on digital images broadcast and available 24-7; each one was tainted by racial prejudice; each one was experienced by our bone weary collective consciousness as yet another tragic loss of life and liberty. So many questions. Few helpful answers. How long, O Lord? Where is the love? Is racial reconciliation a figment of our hopeful imagination? Can anyone here point a way out of this morass, one we can travel together? A renowned Disciples leader in the Christian Church sent a FaceBook message to preachers across our land that if we did not address last week’s concern and calamity from our pulpits on Sunday, we risked making the Church of Jesus Christ “irrelevant.” Not to worry, my friend; long before the missive was posted I (and without a doubt most of my colleagues) had been in prayer and meditation and Biblical study for many hours in preparation for Sunday morning at 10:30.
Sitting in the chair by the pulpit this past Sunday, I watched as Music Director William Garner cued the CD player to provide the musical soundtrack for Twyla Paris’ incredible anthem, “How Beautiful”. Mark Broomfield-Ranney picked up a microphone and then with his crystal clear tenor voice lifted up to the heavens in song our awe and gratitude. “How beautiful is the Body of Christ…” The anthem is four minutes and fifty-one seconds, and is always over way too soon. As Mark sang and our hearts soared, I let my mind go and get taken wherever the Spirit might lead.
Sitting in the chair by the pulpit this past Sunday, I glanced down at my sermon manuscript, knowing I had far too many typed pages for even the most patient listening ear, a manuscript that had emerged from the computer printer a labor of love, one that had looked so neat and clean the night before, yet now, after a dawn re-write session, resembled Egyptian hieroglyphics due to its underlines and scratched out lines, handwritten notes and scribbles, and sweeping arrows helpfully pointing out which paragraphs to rearrange or reorder, what to omit or emphasize.
Sitting in the chair by the pulpit this past Sunday, I contemplated that I was about to preach a sermon called “Together, the Courage to Forgive”, and that only the day before real forgiveness seemed so elusive on a personal level. This became readily apparent when I’d attended the funeral of a friend last Saturday morning in Atlanta. The funeral speakers were family members and friends, faithful children and sage elders. I was comforted and assured as they offered liturgies, psalms, stories and testimonials. Then one of the scheduled speakers began to address the mourners, and suddenly a wave of painful memories swept over me. Our bodies store repressed trauma and then release it in a myriad of ways. Standing at the lectern was the man whose actions and words six and seven years ago were experienced as hurtful by me, my family, my congregation, and many of my friends. With each word he spoke a half dozen years of repressed pain rose to the surface and demanded justice, particularly in the form of an apology.
Sitting in the chair by the pulpit this past Sunday, I pondered how difficult it had been on Saturday to listen to a message from someone whose actions many years ago felt like misdirected anger. Ever since I have asked God to help me to find some peace, to arrive at a place of resolution, to maybe even attain reconciliation with a neighbor whom I once admired but was now estranged. I have waited patiently for him to apologize, to grasp and then act on what I think he owes me and my beloved people and family. Yet as the years have gone by the only sound was silence. How long, O Lord? Where is the grace? And then suddenly a ray of light shone through the cracks in the façade of my faith. The Holy Spirit responded to my pondering: “Do you think that there are people whom you, James, have hurt, have damaged, whether knowingly or unbeknownst to you? Do they need to hear you say you are sorry? Maybe, just maybe they are asking God the same question, ‘How long, O Lord?’”
Sitting in the chair by the pulpit this past Sunday, as Mark sang and the music echoed off the sanctuary walls, in a flash I knew what was required of me to express from my heart, face to face with the whole people of God. I needed to offer an apology. What the Lord required of me on such a Sunday was an unconditional, wide open, as broad as the horizon is from the east to the west, apology. I needed to apologize before God and humanity, and I needed to do so before I said one single word about anyone else practicing together the courage to forgive. I found myself in a new place, one of peace, of wholeness, of shalom. Such a feeling of calm and grace was wholly and completely unexpected, and so welcome. No longer did it matter whether or not he ever says he is sorry; what mattered is what I do, what is in my realm to change, in the name of Jesus.
Sitting in the chair by the pulpit this past Sunday, as song and sound filled the air, a new word was gifted to me in completion, a fresh word to be offered aloud before the first syllable of the sermon was uttered. No editing was necessary; nothing needed to be rearranged or reworded. Could this spiritual communiqué be a way out of the moral morass our world finds ourselves in, a God-given means toward healing and hope, to offer to one another how sorry we are for offenses known and unknown, rather than to wait in vain for apologies that aren’t forthcoming? I prepared my body and mind, spirit and heart to stand up as soon as “How Beautiful” came to a glorious finish, to step up and into such a significant pulpit, firmly plant my feet and square my shoulders, and say, “Yesterday I was blessed to represent you and bear witness to the resurrection at the funeral of a friend. One of the speakers six and seven years ago had, I believe, hurt me, my family, my congregation, and many friends. Listening to him preach was a most difficult experience because it brought to the surface past pain and unresolved trauma. I have waited years for an apology, and yet none has come forth. I realize now that there may be some folks for whom it is a difficult experience to listen to me. Some who feel this way may be here today. Maybe I have hurt your feelings, disappointed you, stepped on your toes, ruffled your feathers, or ran roughshod over your faith, your needs, your thoughts and ideas. If and when I have disappointed you, or somehow let you down, or hurt or abused you, allow me to say I am sorry. I am sorry.”
Sitting in the chair by the pulpit this past Sunday, getting ready for transformation, I was reminded once again, First Christian Church of Decatur, how delighted I am to be your pastor. How beautiful is the Body of Christ.
Shalom, James
