Matthew 12:38-44
Lectionary 32 ~ Pentecost 25
We have had a couple weeks of horror, and I am not referring to the midterm elections. In Thousand Oaks, California, only days after the killing of thirteen people, raging wildfires in that same area drove people from their homes. A couple of weeks ago, after finding the doors of predominantly black church locked, a gunman killed two African Americans at a nearby Kroger. In Pittsburgh, on October 27, 11 Jewish people were murdered while in their house of worship, Tree of Life Congregation. The shooter, Robert Bowers, was injured, and taken to a local hospital. One of the medical staff, Ari Mahler, RN, shared his reflections, writing, in part:
I am The Jewish Nurse.
Yes, that Jewish Nurse. The same one that people are talking about in the Pittsburgh shooting that left 11 dead. The trauma nurse in the ER that cared for Robert Bowers who yelled, “Death to all Jews,” as he was wheeled into the hospital. The Jewish nurse who ran into a room to save his life. …I just know I feel alone right now, and the irony of the world talking about me doesn’t seem fair without the chance to speak for myself….
When I was a kid, being labeled “The Jewish (anything)”, undoubtedly had derogatory connotations attached to it. That’s why it feels so awkward to me that people suddenly look at it as an endearing term. As an adult, deflecting my religion by saying “I’m not that religious,” makes it easier for people to accept I’m Jewish – especially when I tell them my father is a rabbi. “I’m not that religious,” is like saying, “Don’t worry, I’m not that Jewish, therefore, I’m not so different than you,” and like clockwork, people don’t look at me as awkwardly as they did a few seconds beforehand.
To be honest, I didn’t see evil when I looked into Robert Bower’s eyes. I saw something else…. I can tell you that as his nurse, or anyone’s nurse, my care is given through kindness, my actions are measured with empathy, and regardless of the person you may be when you’re not in my care, each breath you take is more beautiful than the last when you’re lying on my stretcher. This was the same Robert Bowers that just committed mass homicide. The Robert Bowers who instilled panic in my heart worrying my parents were two of his 11 victims less than an hour before his arrival.[1]
The mass murder of Jewish people is nothing new. 80 years ago, on November 9th and 10th, the Nazi party’s paramilitary forces and German civilians attacked and murdered more than 90 Jewish people. Because shards of broken glass littered the streets after the windows of Jewish-owned stores, buildings and synagogues were smashed, the event became known as Kristallnacht, or the Night of Broken Glass.
Sometimes we fail to see each person as God’s beloved creation. Jews, blacks, gays, liberals, conservatives, those who are poor, those who are blind or differently-abled–people who are not like us–become “those people.”
In his 1980 commencement address at Spelman College, Howard Thurman recounted this conversation. “I have a blind friend,” he said, “who just became blind after she was a grown woman. I asked her: ‘What is the greatest disaster that your blindness has brought to you?’ She said, ‘When I go places where there are people, I have a feeling that nobody knows that I’m here, it is hard for me to know where I am.’”
There is profound truth in that. Our world is relational. We know about ourselves in relation to others. I know that I am short because I have to look up to see the face of almost everyone who is over the age of ten. Although we have commonalities, we are also all different. God delights in the diversity of God’s creation. Even each snowflake is unique. When we fail to see that, when we group people together and label them, we strip them of their humanity. In losing our ability to see people as individuals, they become sub-human. Either they become targets, or we don’t even know they are there.
“When I go places where there are people, I have a feeling that nobody knows that I’m here, it is hard for me to know where I am,” Thurman’s friend said. Can we recognize the humanity in our men and women who did their job in the midst of war and now are suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome? Sometimes it’s hard to realize that the person who passed you on the street has no home. A significant number of people with no home are veterans. Eating our fill of food that we get to choose makes it easier to forget that families with children may have only one meal a day, or none. Even if we notice someone, we might not see the struggles that impact them so deeply, like the man who can’t afford his medicine, or the woman who recently had her third miscarriage.
The woman who put two coins in the offering plate, who was she? We don’t even know her name. She was a widow, so we can make some assumptions. In those days, losing her husband meant that she was poor. Because she was a woman, she had no inheritance rights. Her poverty was not only financial poverty, it was also her lack of personhood. The crowds in the Temple did not see that she was there. Even if the religious leaders stumbled over her, they ignored her. But Jesus noticed her. He drew the attention of the disciples to her. “Look at this woman. See what she is doing.” Out of her poverty, she gave up all that she had to the benefit of a corrupt, sinful system, a system that Jesus condemned. In giving of all of her resources, she gave up her life, literally. Blessed are the poor.
Immediately after the widow left, Jesus also came out of the temple. One of the disciples pointed out the large stones of the buildings around them. Jesus responded, “Not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.” In other words, immediately after encountering the widow, Jesus proclaimed that God will not let the systems of injustice stand.
It would be only 4 days later that Jesus would give up his life, for a corrupt world, just as the unnamed woman gave up hers to a corrupt church. They gave all that they had.
Nurse Ari Mahler ended his post about treating the shooter with these words:
I’m sure he had no idea I was Jewish. Why thank a Jewish nurse, when 15 minutes beforehand, you’d shoot me in the head with no remorse? I didn’t say a word to him about my religion. I chose not to say anything to him the entire time. I wanted him to feel compassion. I chose to show him empathy. I felt that the best way to honor his victims was for a Jew to prove him wrong. Besides, if he finds out I’m Jewish, does it really matter? The better question is, what does it mean to you?
Love. That’s why I did it. Love as an action is more powerful than words, and love in the face of evil gives others hope. It demonstrates humanity. It reaffirms why we’re all here. The meaning of life is to give meaning to life, and love is the ultimate force that connects all living beings. I could care less what Robert Bowers thinks, but you, the person reading this, love is the only message I wish instill in you. If my actions mean anything, love means everything.[2]
Jesus is God’s incarnation of love in the face of evil. In and through the cross, in his death and resurrection, God’s love proves stronger than hate. Herein lies our hope. We pray in the name of Jesus, who was, and is, and is yet to come, Your kingdom come.
~Pastor Cheryl Ann Griffin
[1]Posted November 3, 2018 on FaceBook by Ari Mahler.
[2]Ibid.