Compassion—Not Violence
The Rev. Dr. Daniel P. Matthews
Rector, Trinity Church
New York, New York

(This sermon is also available in audio)

It's such a joy to be here, thank you for your kind invitation to return to this wonderful preaching series that's so well-known all over the country. Since I was last with you, I had some heart problems and went through the process of a four-way bypass surgical procedure at Columbia Presbyterian in New York City. Very interesting process, because I had never spent a night in the hospital. I have visited many people in the hospital thru the years, but I, myself, had never spent a night in one.

I was astounded at how weak I was. I remember at one point thinking, "I want a sip of water," and there was a little cup of water on the rolling table beside my bed, and I couldn't get it. It took too much energy. You've been there. Many of you know what I'm saying. I was just totally spent.

Yesterday I went to the doctor, and he gave me what they call a "stress test." They get you on the treadmill, and he kept saying, "You can do a little more, can't you? You can do a little more." And he kept talking about my strength, until finally I didn't have any. I had to get off treadmill. Then he said, "Oh, you were here, and now you're here, but in a few more months, you'll be here." He was describing my strength level. And I went out, went back to the office, ready to go, thinking my strength was getting back. And then I remembered what it was like when I was in the hospital.

Our culture worships strength. We bow down to those places. [gyms, health clubs] I don't. I walk by them, embarrassed and self-conscious that I'm not a part of that spa. But some of you go there religiously. Never miss--miss church occasionally, but you won't miss the spa, because that's your strength, and we're a people who worship strength.

I was in a two-person room in the hospital, and that little curtain doesn't really do anything. The man next to me, a truck driver, was having the same procedure I was having. He watched television all the time--had it on a little loud for me, but it came right through that screen. One afternoon there were people yelling and screaming at each other on that television. It was just awful. I was just barely able to breathe, I felt like, and I just didn't have the strength to listen to that stuff. Finally, a nurse walked in, and I said, "Psst. Come here. What's that television program he's watching?" She said, "Oh, I think it's called The Jerry Springer Show." I'd never seen Jerry Springer, but I knew that I didn't have the strength to even begin listening to a mother scream at her daughter; two sisters screaming at each other; a man yelling at his son; violence--verbal violence, and we call it in America "entertainment."

You know you have to be sick once in a while--you have to be weak once in a while to really see what it is that we're about as a people--how we live--how little compassion we have--and how much we love violence. Violence is hard to take when you're sick, when you're weak. As a matter of fact, you can't take it at all. I remember thinking that I couldn't even turn on CNN. It just had too much negativity. Everything on CNN when I was watching it was about something that had happened that was tragic, that was terrible, was awful. And I was feeling awful, and I just didn't have the strength to even watch it.

You know, Jesus had some strange words about what we're talking about now. Those expressions are called "The Beatitudes." You remember them. One of them goes like this: "Blessed are the meek." Have you ever had anybody compliment you and say, "You're the sweetest, meekest person I know"? And then you feel good? "Oh, I love being called a meek little person." He did another one: "Blessed are those who mourn." You've mourned. It's hell, pure and simple hell. Some of you are mourning right now. Your friends forget. It still hurts. "I adored that person. And everybody else moves on, and I'm still mourning." And Jesus said, "Blessed are those who mourn." But you see, when you're meek and when you mourn, you see the world with different eyes. You can't stand violence; you abhor it. It's only compassion and love that makes any sense when you mourn.

Remember he told that story about the prodigal son, the most famous story, probably, in the whole New Testament. We all know it well. The son said to dad, "I wish you were dead." An unbelievable story. The father said, "Okay, if you feel that way, I'll act like and pretend I'm dead. You can get the inheritance right now that you would get if I were to die." And the son said, "I'll take it," and was gone.

We don't know how many years it took--months, years--a long time, probably, for the son to go through that enormous inheritance of his wealthy father, and then that wonderful image that Jesus describes so poignantly. He was in such terrible shape he wound up at the bottom of the barrel-- certainly for a Jewish kid--feeding pigs. What could be more humiliating than for a Jewish young man to feed pigs? But it was in that situation, it was during that particular part of his life that that phrase, one of the best in the New Testament: "He came to himself."

He decided to go home and change his whole life and reintroduce himself to his father, confess all those things. But they happened only when he was meek. It didn't happen when he was on top of it; didn't happen when he was riding high; didn't happen when he had all the money in the world; didn't happen when he was living a "righteous life." No, it was when he lost it all that he "came to himself."

It's really hard on you and me to live in a culture that has such extravagant wealth by any measure of the history of the human species. With all of this we have, we're on top of it. So what do we do for entertainment? It's just more and more violence, of course. I mean, look at some of the television shows you watch today. You wouldn't have allowed that on the screen ten years ago, certainly not 25 years ago when I lived in Memphis. We can't get enough--the movies, the theatre, it's all violence. Because we're so strong. We worship strength and we love to see strength challenged by strength. We have no time for meekness. Read the words of that hymn we just sang. Just slid right over it, that last verse? "Give us grace that we, like them, the meek and lowly, on high may dwell with thee." Oh, it's in our tradition. It's a part of what we believe. It's just not a part of the way we live in this land of plenty, of strength and violence.

A funny thing happened in New York. After 9/11, we all became very compassionate. Some of you visited it. You've seen it. You know it. As I travel around the country, people have come up and said, "How's New York doing now, 18 months later? How y'all doing in New York?" I usually reply, "Well, we're doing better. You know, we're getting back. We're recovering." And then the second question, which is really the first question, "Those folks in New York were really nice to one another and to those of us who are tourists for a few months after the disaster. Have those New Yorkers gone back to their arrogant, haughty ways?"

Good question, isn't it? Does it take a disaster for us to be meek and therefore compassionate? I'm not sure exactly how to answer about New York. I think it is more compassionate than it used to be. But I can tell you what happened at St. Paul's Chapel--it's four blocks from the main church, Trinity, and right across the street from the World Trade Center site. At the time of the disaster, it turned into a rescue station for the rescue workers. The place was open all day and all night. Only the rescue workers who were working in "the pit" were allowed in. Who are the people in our culture who we think of as having strength? A firefighter. A police officer. A construction worker. Those were the folks who were in the pit day and night.

After they were exhausted they would come into St. Paul's. They had just picked up some body parts of one of their buddies. They were mourning, grief-filled, and absolutely mesmerized by what they had just had in their hands. They would walk in and a volunteer would say, "How about a cup of hot chocolate? Here's a candy bar. Come over here and sit down," and would pat them on the back. Then the tears would begin to flow down the cheeks of the police officers and the firefighters and the construction workers.

There were people all over the country who came to volunteer at St. Paul's chapel for one of those twelve-hour shifts. Over and over again, thousands of them would say, "It's the most important twelve hours I've ever spent in my life." In part, we believe it's because compassion took over in a culture that worships strength. The name of the game for St. Paul's was not strength. It was caring and concern, nurturing those who were full of grief, sorrow and shock.

Yes, it's almost as if we have to either go in the hospital or have something tragic happen to a city or to a family or sometimes even to a business for that arrogance and that cockiness to melt in order to create a climate for compassion and caring. My strength is coming back. But I never want to forget the anguish I felt at listening to The Jerry Springer Show. I never want to lose that profound distaste for violent language. I never want to lose feeling that I abhor anything that bespeaks of violence as entertainment.

It's just not Christian. Other folks believe the same thing--the world's religions believe what we're talking about today. This is not just Jesus, though we might be Jesus' people. Everybody in the world holds to these. Listen for Buddhism: "Hurt not others in ways that you, yourself would find hurtful." Judaism: "What is hateful to you, do not to your fellow man." That's the entire law. All the rest is pure commentary. Christianity: "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." Islam: "No one of you is a believer until he desires for his brother that which he desires for himself." Bahai: "Blessed is he who preferreth his brother before himself."

The world believes this. Why is the world having trouble with you and me and us today? We're not acting like we believe. It's the very glue of human existence--compassion. It only works when you're meek. We're a people full of contradictions. It's no wonder we're having such trouble right now. It's no wonder we're having such debate within our own souls, let alone political parties that are debating, "How can I be compassionate and be powerful and strong at the same time? Can I lord it over other people with my power and my strength and at the same time be one who cares compassionately as the world's religions have as their fundamental foundation?" Of course we're a troubled people, because we're in conflict with the very things we believe, and we're allowing ourselves to treat violence as something of the norm for those who live with power.

Deep in our roots is the call for compassion. May we exhibit it, not just after a disaster like September 11th. May we exhibit it because Jesus, whom we call Lord, calls us to meekness, to humility, to compassion, that we might be his in a world calling for his love. Amen.

Copyright 2003 The Rev. Dr. Daniel P. Matthews

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