Truth Or Dare? a Sermon by Rev
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Truth or Dare? A Sermon by Rev. Michael Scott The Dublin Community church September 30, 2012 Esther 7:1-6, 9-10; 9:20-22 Mark 9:38-50 Today’s scripture from the book of Esther is out of sync with the Hebrew calendar. It’s the story of Queen Esther and Mordecai thwarting the plans of Haman to slaughter the Jews. And it’s celebrated every year at the festival of Purim, which usually occurs in February or March. So, our Jewish friends would find it a bit odd that we read this scripture now, the day before Sukkoth (the Feast of Booths). But, I suppose the creators of our modern lectionary can be excused as Shabbos goyim. Several years ago I attended the traditional reading of this story of Esther which is held in synagogue each year on Purim. It’s quite an experience. Every time the name of the evil Haman is read, the congregation hoots, boos, and operates ratchet noisemakers to blot out the sound of his name. It’s really all quite fun. And the fun continues at the feast later in the day when everyone eats Haman’s ears in the form of pastries, and traditionally consumes substantial quantities of fermented and distilled beverages. But a marvelous, if simple, concept lies at the heart of the story of Esther. It is found in the developing narrative that intertwines lies, secrets, courage, and truth. The underlying source of tension and drama in this tale is the growing ugliness of Haman’s wicked plan to slaughter the Jews. One might say he was the biblical Hitler. Like Hitler, his evil plot grew out of his own warped pride and exaggerated sense of self. Everyone was supposed to bow before him as he passed through town. But Mordecai, the faithful Jew, refused. So Haman, like any self-respecting megalomaniac, decided to secure a decree that would order the extinction of all the Jews. Underlying this treachery was a deep secret held by Queen Esther. Her secret was that, unknown to the king who had taken her as his wife, she was, herself, a Jew, orphaned and raised by her cousin, Mordecai. She was afraid to reveal her identity, but she was also afraid for her life and the lives of her people. She needed to find a way to break the news to the king and save the Jews. But she was not allowed to approach the king unless she was beckoned, and the king had not called for her. If she approached him and he did not receive her, she could be executed – those were, by the way, what I like to call the good old days. But somehow she summoned the courage, and went to him. He granted her an audience, and she asked for a banquet to be held – actually, as it turns out, two banquets – with Haman in attendance. It was at the second banquet that she got up the nerve to tell the king that she was among those who had been slated to die by Haman. She had come up with a careful way to disclose the truth, but the truth came out. When all the deceit and secrets were disclosed, the redemptive power of truth prevailed. When I was a boy we played a game called “Truth or Dare.” The way we played it, one person in the group asked someone else an embarrassing question. If they refused to answer they were given a dare: a challenge to do something perhaps more embarrassing (in our circles it usually involved kissing). You had to choose: either the embarrassing truth, or the embarrassing dare. Well, in Esther’s case, and often in ours, the truth is a dare. The truths we are afraid to reveal are often the truths we try to keep even from ourselves. I came across a cultural reflection of this reality the other day when I heard a report about clothes sizes, believe it or not. It seems that we’re all being lied to, and we may even be conspiring in the lie. We all know that Americans are become more obese all the time. That’s not news. But clothes manufacturers have discovered that most of us are, to varying degrees, uncomfortable about our weight. So they’ve come up with a great marketing plan. They change the sizes. It turns out that a size ten is no longer a size ten – at least it’s not the same size ten that it used to be. What used to be a twelve (or more) is now a ten. And what used to be a ten (or more) is now an eight. That way, women can buy dresses that make them feel like they’re smaller than they are. But it’s not only women’s sizes. Apparently, in men’s clothing, which are supposed sized by inches, a thirty-eight waist is now a thirty six! It’s bizarre. We’re all being lied to. And, if we’re really paying attention, we know it. But we like it. We want to be lied to! But there are deeper and more insidious lies. The worst are the ones we tell to ourselves. One of these is the comfortable myth of powerlessness. In the face of overwhelming problems in families or other relationships, in the community, or in the world, it’s so easy to say to ourselves, “I’m powerless to do anything about that, so best to ignore it and hope it resolves itself.” There are, indeed, things over which we have no control, but there are many more things about which we can, if we’re able to muster the courage, make a difference. We can speak to the person we have hurt and try to mend a relationship; we can intervene in a troubled situation and offer a sensitive ear or some gentle counsel; we can call on a person in need, or offer some tangible assistance; we can sign up to take part in fund-raising, or petitioning, or helping a child, we can band together with others to protest an injustice; we can write a letter; we can vote, for crying out loud. We also find ourselves lying to ourselves about the things that claim and consume us. The more obvious ones are booze, and drugs, and sex, and eating, and work. And when a person becomes addicted, often it takes hitting rock bottom and losing most everything that is dear or has meaning before one wakes up to the lies he’s been telling himself for years. But there are more subtle things that take us over. We can be at the mercy of even our own personality characteristics: our penchant for setting others straight, or our need to analyze everyone else’s motives, or our tendency to withdraw or acquiesce, or our habit of changing the subject to avoid conflict. It’s said that every person’s gift is also that person’s curse. That certainly is the case when we lie to ourselves about how thoroughly we depend on that singular gift, to the exclusion of all other relational tools. There are more ways to lie to oneself than can be recounted in a single sermon. But suffice it to say we all fall prey to the tendency from time to time. And like the clothing manufacturers who conspire with us to lie about our dress and pants sizes, we so often find it most comfortable to simply live the lie. Jesus offers a rather startling cure for us. He says, “If your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off. And if your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off. And if your eye causes you to stumble, tear it out.” I couldn’t help but recall the words of Billy Sunday when I read that. Billy used to rail against “demon rum.” And when he got really wound up, he could let the old bottle have it. At one rally, he allowed as how he would take on that demon rum in a life-long fight. He wailed, “I’ll punch it until my fists wear off, and I’ll kick it until my feet wear off, and then I’ll bite it until my teeth fall out. And when I’m old and fistless and footless and toothless, I’ll gum it until it goes down to perdition and I go home to glory!” Somehow, I don’t think that’s quite what Jesus was talking about. I also don’t think Jesus was suggesting that we literally cut off our hands or feet or tear our eyes out of their sockets. I think he was, as he was wont to do, making a point with the extreme case. I think he was suggesting that closing our eyes to the lie, or accepting the comfortable myth, is not a tenable approach to life. I think he was saying that our very being – our souls, if you will – are at stake. Living the lie can readily consign our hearts to the hell of meaninglessness. I think he was giving us a shocking image that might rouse in us the courage to dare the truth. Truth, after all, is something to be dared, like Esther dared it. Truth is not a child’s game, where we can choose to tell the embarrassing truth or choose to kiss the little girl in front of our friends. Truth is daring. Truth is a sometimes heart-rending, courageous decision.