It was a scene so horrendous, so tragic that it will never be forgotten. But the surrender that happened changed everything. It happened in a small town in Lancaster County Pennsylvania, an Amish community in Nickel Mines. They were changed forever by a neighbor, 32 year old milk truck driver Charles Carl Roberts IV. In anger over the loss of his own daughter, Roberts entered the one room school house carrying four hundred rounds of ammunition and an automatic rifle. He asked the men and the boys to leave the room and he opened fire on all ten girls, killing five of them. It is unimaginable. It is so painful. Time in this little place seemed to stop and the world waited. Journalists waited. Attorneys waited. Reporters waited. They were waiting for anger and rage. They were waiting for words of revenge and deep pain. They were waiting for juicy clips of hate filled parents prophesying of years in court, instead they got images of a praying people, in silence, anticipating forgiveness. A member of the community wrote to local papers with these words, “We also wish to extend our condolences and prayers to the Roberts and Welk families. I wish yet to say that with God all things are possible and that in heaven the Lion and the Lamb shall lie down together.” The community was already anticipating forgiveness. With burdened souls, and dangling hearts, the earth was black and the crowd waiting, they anticipated forgiveness.
To the world, this radical act was seemingly more shocking than the tragedy that preceded it. How could they forgive? How could they forgive so soon? How could they so easily lean into forgiveness? The deep pain they experienced as families, as a community as people of faith was profound. I cannot begin to imagine the soul shaking heart breaking pain they felt. And yet forgiveness, the kind this community extended is not necessarily about reconciling or resolution, it is about letting go and giving it to God. Their surrender gave to God something they could never get through on their own. Their surrender to God loosened the bonds of hate and let them live. This faithful Amish community showed the world that forgiveness, for the Christian is freedom. It’s not as if the act of surrendering through forgiveness changed the circumstances but it was an act that invited an immediate loosening of the chains hate. One of the Greek words used in the New Testament for forgiveness is Aphesis (Off-is-sus), which means release from bondage or imprisonment. Anger is bondage. Fear is bondage. Revenge is bondage. And all of these emotions take up a lot of room. They can take on a life of their own. They can take up swords and push out hope. They can put on armor and stand in the way of faith. They can grow and grow until our yearning for God becomes a yearning for something else, something dark, and something that can never do anything except take and take and take. Forgiveness is the act of opening the heart, of surrendering the pain so that there is room for God to balm the gaping wounds of the heart.
Maybe before he needed it himself, Jesus spoke about forgiveness. Earlier in the Gospel of Matthew we read of Jesus telling the disciples of the significance of forgiveness. Peter comes to Jesus with a question, “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?” 22Jesus said to him, “Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times.” Of course Jesus asks him, asks us to live beyond what we are capable of alone. He said a number so big, that forgiveness of this kind is only possible with God. And I wonder if he knew that forgiveness of that kind would be required of him too. I wonder if he was thinking of that seventy-seven times when he stood at the threshold of shadows.
I wonder if he thought of that surrendering kind of forgiveness as he heard the shouts of sweet Hosannas. I wonder if his own words were ringing in his ears as the palms dropped to the ground. As he rested on the precipice, was he readying his heart for what was to come? Time in this little place seemed to stop and the world waited. Scribes waited. Roman officials waited. The crowd waited. They waved palms only for a brief time and then watched as he was rejected. We know what awaits him. The crowd is fickle. We are capricious and cowardly. As he sat on the donkey, surveying the path ahead, was he anticipating forgiveness? Did he know that anger is bondage? That fear is bondage? That revenge is bondage? And all of these emotions would leave little room for God. Did his heart thump with heaviness as the crowd shouted? Some said, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest heaven!” While others wander around aimlessly wondering what is going on and asking who is this nothing guy who rides in on a donkey? The crowd lives up to our human frailties. This is the moment when we could all get it and join in. This is the moment when could throw our own hats in the ring and walk with him to the cross. This is the moment when we could receive God’s humble gift not on a white horse with gold reins but on a donkey. Our Lord rides to the end and here we are wondering what in the world is going on. It’s a now or never moment and we human beings fail. It’s not Hollywood at all really. There are few heroes. And even those who we think might step it up and show us even just a glimpse of a heroic moment fail too. They betray Jesus or lie, or fall asleep or fail to see who he is. It’s a fickle crowd in a fickle world and our Jesus rides alone. He knows that his end is near as the Roman government is breathing down his back. He knows that he needs to begin to say his goodbyes. He knows that God is with him through all of this. And because he knew all of this, I wonder if he was already working on forgiveness. I wonder if he was already preparing his heart to let go of the hurt that was awaiting him- if with each prod of the donkey hoof, he told his heart to get ready. Because forgiveness, the kind of forgiveness that Jesus would embrace is the kind that can only be done with God.
And I wonder if he was anticipating it then because we know he gets there. After the tears and hurt and lies and betrayal and aching hearts he gets there. When the grey of the world unfolds and God’s heart is breaking, Jesus cries, “Father. Forgive them; for they know not what they do.” These are those words that ring out from the wide corners of his sorrow-burdened soul and we hear them at the end, when the earth is black and the fickle crowd is silent and the cross is high and our God waits. “Father, Forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
We don’t know if he means the chief priests or the scribes or the Roman soldiers or the crowd or his friends who lied and let him down. But we hear him ask God to forgive them. And maybe he had to. Maybe he was anticipating it and he was ready for it. Maybe he had to let go in order to be ready to enter what God had waiting for him. Or maybe he wanted to say it out loud, to give it to the world, to forgive them so they could forgive themselves. Or maybe the "them" is really for us, maybe his forgiveness was for us, for our fickle following, for our hollow hosannas and half-hearted praise. Maybe his forgiveness is for our failure to recognize him in our midst, our failure to receive him. And as he sits on the donkey waiting to embark on his final walk, we know what awaits him, we know that we fail but we know what he says in the end. Father forgive them. Father forgive them, words for us too. He freed us to live, he freed us to follow. It was a scene so horrendous, so tragic that it will never be forgotten. But the surrender that happened changed everything. Amen.
Lancaster Sunday News and the Philadelphia Inquirer October 2006