Mercy!

A Knowing Mercy

The title of today's sermon is A Knowing Mercy. At first glance, that phrase, a knowing mercy,  
may appear to be an awkward unfamiliar combination of words.  But I ask you to reserve 
judgment on the title of the sermon for now and join me in exploring two concepts: the concept 
of knowing and the concept of mercy. You will hear me say quite a lot about knowing.

After all, there's just so much to know and to say about knowing. 

The part about mercy will come much later in the sermon, because it's the part of the equation 
that is so much harder totalk about, much less do. But trust me, I will talk about it. I have to. 
And, if you will stay withme, our exploration will conclude where the sermon title begins. 
We will arrive at a place of discovering a kind of mercy that includes knowing, that includes 
understanding and appreciating the value of mercy beyond the mere granting of it, a knowing mercy.

Talk about knowing! Five years ago, I knew my life. In fact, it  was going quite splendidly in a

direction I thought I had so cleverly choreographed. After twenty years in health care

management, I was moving into the art world, a most welcome shift from the often grueling

aspects of corporate life to the delightful experiences that awaited me in the land of children's

illustrated literature. After several years of financial shortfalls, my husband Rob and I were

finally on a path to stability and security, with our portfolio looking surprisingly promising. Oh

sure, life was not without its challenges, but for all I knew at the time, for all I knew I could and

would manage effectively, the future was not only doable but sure to be rewarding and

exciting.

Within the year, much that I had known to be so promising, so sure, so inevitable had shifted

dramatically. And within the next year and a half, I would find myself, a woman with a masters

degree and  40 years of professional  experience under her belt, spending all day every day in

Lubbock, Texas, with a new baby, my grandson Sawyer.  How all that transpired is a story in

itself for another time. The point is obviously that knowing and thinking we know can be highly

overrated.

During my year with Sawyer, a book was born. Footnotes: Lessons from a Baby in Residence,

reflected this new arena of education I had entered, a place where a little baby could actually

teach me something I hadn't learned in all those prior years of so-called professional

experience.  Each chapter was an attempt to put into words what this little baby-Yoda was

teaching me without his using a single word.

I'd like to read a portion of a chapter to you, the one entitled, At Last. As a bit of a set-up, let

me just say that the chapter before it, entitled Give It a Rest, had been about the necessity of

time-outs for all of us, big and small, and the inevitable crankiness we exhibit when we don't

listen to our bodies' signals and give in to its limitations. By the end of that chapter, thanks to

a little nap-time ritual Sawyer and I had perfected, he had slept well and awakened a much

happier baby, proving quite nicely Lesson #7: Rest is eventually required if you ever want to

have a good day. (Read Chapter 8: At Last: p. 22, p. 23 to italicized portion; resume p. 24, 
3rd paragraph to end)

What I realize now, as I reflect on that particular lesson, is that in learning the futility of trying

to  get life nailed down, I was also learning about mercy, the inherent mercy in the moment, a

mercy that sustains us when we stay in the moment at hand.  It appears that there is indeed a

natural intelligence to life inviting our willing participation in each and every moment. But how

do we ever come to simply trust the moment when our minds are constantly searching for

knowledge and understanding out there?

In preparing this sermon and doing the requisite research, I was overwhelmed with information

about the concept of knowing, with facts and theories, statistics and data, opinions and

hypotheses, and articles ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous. The following are just a few

of the titles I encountered on my search:

The Invented Reality: How Do We Know What We Believe We Know

Standards of Evidence in Historical Research: How Do We Know

Must We Know What We Say?

(Matt Weiner, Department of Philosophy, TTU)

How Do We Know It is Now Now?

How Do We Know When We Know a Person?

How Do We Know We're Not Living Inside a Massive Computer Simulation?

How to Know What's True in the Age of Information Overload

It appears that knowing—knowing why, knowing how, knowing when, knowing what—is in

itself a concept for unending speculation and study. The more we know, the more we appear to

desire to know.

Knowing information is one thing.  Knowing I'm right about what I know about this information

is another.  It's this second kind of knowing that can take me down a slippery slope when my

right to know and to be right begins to jeopardize my relationships.  Sometimes I am called to

step out of the perceived safety of knowing and into the ever vaguer, riskier arena of mercy,

even when my facts appear to support my resistance. But it feels so good to know, to be right;

shouldn't I get to enjoy that? Can't I be the judge of that? Well, mercy might say otherwise.

Let's see.

What is mercy?  Mercy has been  defined quite literally as "compassionate forbearance", the

willingness in me to forbear to accept—another person when all of my evidence might

justify rejection of that person.  A more poetic interpretation of the concept of mercy is from The Merchant of Venice, by William Shakespeare, when Portia speaks to Shylock in Act IV:  

The quality of mercy is not strain'd,

It drops as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath:

it is twice blest;
It blesses him that gives and him that takes
It is mightiest in the mightiest:

Shakespeeare asserts that mercy, while benefiting the recipient, also rewards its bestower. When the merciful figure is a monarch, mercy becomes a tool of power as potent as the "dread and fear instilled by coercive force. Shakespeare praises benevolence--the ruler most closely approaches God not when he wields his scepter, but when he "seasons" justice with mercy.

So how does this apply to us? We aren't kings or rulers, dispensing justice on a regular basis.

Or are we? Well, figuratively speaking, yes we are. Any time I determine your value to me or to

the planet based on what I know (make that what I think I know), I am, in essence, saying that

because I have certain knowledge of you, I have made a ruling, perhaps only in the "kingdom of

my head and my heart", but a ruling nonetheless.

And where does mercy come in?  Well, mercy always requires much more of us than knowing

does. In fact, mercy often requires the very suspension of knowing, of being sure, of being right.

Mercy always includes doubt.

Several years ago, as Rob and I were finishing dinner at one of our favorite Asian restaurants,

we opened our fortune cookies to share words of wisdom with each other. Rob opened his first

and read it aloud: "Give the benefit of the doubt to a loved one."  I must admit I felt pretty

delighted that he now had his marching orders, given that I was certainly entitled to any benefit

of his doubt when it came to my actions and intentions.  Yes, I thought, that was a very good

one for him to get and for me to get to hear. Then I opened mine and read the words, "Give the

benefit of the doubt to a loved one."  Mercy me!  Yes, me too!

Mercy offers the benefit of the doubt. And, for all the knowing in the world, it appears we must

sometimes err on the side of mercy when it comes to others, a huge challenge for those of us

who rely so heavily on knowing. Knowing, or pretending to know, is so much easier for many of

us than is the willingness to suspend perceived knowing for a potentially greater good—for the

sake of relationship, for the sake of community, for the sake of our very souls.

Thus far I've talked about  the concept of knowing and I've talked about the concept of mercy.

Perhaps this very familiar quote from the Bible is a helpful bridge between these two concepts:

"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

How can you ever know all about me and why I do what I do? My motivations, my longings, 
my programming? How can I ever know all about you and why you do what you do? Your intent,

your insecurities, your dreams? How can we even truly know all about ourselves and why we

do what we do, when we are constantly changing?

"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

Perhaps that is what Jesus' prayer for forgiveness—for  mercy—was about—the ultimate

awareness that there is no way any of us ever truly knows anything, especially about each

other. We act on current thoughts, feelings, impulses, sensations and projections, and in the

process, we so often miss the mark, sometimes by miles. We harm others, sometimes quite

unintentionally. And even when our harming is intentional, out of revenge or retaliation or just

plain insecurity, we are acting out of total ignorance about what would ultimately satisfy our

emptiness, our longing, our fear! A knowing mercy is a conscious mercy, a gift we give each

other actively and willingly.

A knowing mercy is a conscious mercy,

a gift we give each other and ourselves both actively and willingly.

Now this is where it can get a bit more personal. For each of us has a story of a betrayal of

some sort or another. And within each story is another story and another, like Russian nesting

dolls. Stories full of knowings at the time overlaid with unfinished feelings and words that didn't

get said. Time does some of its natural healing, and yet there often linger the unanswered

questions of why, what did I do, what could I have done differently? If I could only know,

perhaps then I could release the anger and the pain and move on. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "Anger is that powerful internal force that blows out the light of

reason."  We feel anger at the one who has betrayed us, who seemingly has pulled the rug out

from under our reality.  And yet, in truth, the actions of others are never to blame. It's our

thinking—our judgment and blaming—that causes our anger. And we blame and judge because

we have a need that has not been met. In his book, Nonviolent Communication, Marshall B.

Rosenberg advises that rather than blame others, we are better served by directing our energy

towards meeting our own needs. He offers a simple tool for change. Instead of saying, "I am

angry because they..." we can say, "I am angry because I am needing..."  According to

Rosenberg, at the core of all anger is a need that is not being fulfilled.      

So what is it we are needing, when the very human emotion of anger arises in response to

betrayal. I used to think it was forgiveness.  And maybe it still is. They say that forgiveness is

truly for the forgiver, and yet, for some of us, it is still very difficult to make that leap. It can be

especially difficult  to forgive someone who is not only unaware and unapologetic, but who

continues to betray and emotionally assault others.

But  mercy—this conscious, knowing mercy— may come closer than anything to salving our

souls and bringing redemption to an otherwise unredeemable situation. When we allow what

happened, because it did happen, knowing we can never truly know and fully understand all 
of it, and yet defer to mercy, something in us feels not only relieved but stronger, perhaps.

"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

We had the choice, as we all do, to dispense or cling to vengeance and hatred, and we chose

mercy instead, because it's the only reasonable response, the only one that makes sense. 

Mercy  takes into account the frailty and the ignorance of fearful, misguided people.   And, as

Shakespeare said, "It blesses him that gives and him that takes."  I become the merciful ruler,

and from that position of merciful strength, replace anger, blame and judgment with the

inherent wisdom of mercy,  ultimately finding my own relief in a mercy beyond logic.   

I know, without a doubt, that there are people who have chosen the merciful response to

intended or unintended betrayals at my own hands. I know I am capable of betraying others, as

we all are, and I am forever grateful for their knowing mercies extended to me.

Now this is where the sermon ended a couple of months ago when I thought it was finished.

Then December 14th happened, and Newtown, Connecticut, became the lead story for

days, and we watched in horror as the unthinkable unfolded before our eyes and ears. Twenty-

six innocent women and children massacred in an elementary school, the twenty-seventh

victim, the shooter's mother, slain in her bed a short distance from the school.  As I spoke with

friends later that week, and we shared indignation and despair, I blurted out, "To hell with

mercy!"  There are indeed times when mercy seems totally out of the question, perhaps even

obscene given the enormity of damage and grief perpetrated. "To hell with mercy indeed!"

And yet, mercy doesn't just show up when we invite it.  Mercy, like love and grace, just is,

whether we choose to acknowledge  it or not, even when we cannot imagine how it could

possibly have a place in this horror.

Maureen Dowd, columnist for The New York Times, recently wrote this about the events in

Connecticut:

"A contemporary theologian has described mercy as 
'entering into the chaos of another.'

Christmas is really a celebration of the mercy of God 
who entered the chaos of our world

in the person of Jesus, mercy incarnate.

I will never satisfactorily answer the question 'Why?'

because no matter what response I give, it will always fall short.

What I do know is that an unconditionally loving presence

soothes broken hearts, binds up wounds, and renews us in life."

I would suggest that the unconditionally loving presence of which she speaks is mercy,

a knowing mercy.

I know I should stop there. It should be enough. But, for mercy's sake, I must ask this question:

What about mercy for the shooter?

Surely  not! No way! That's beyond comprehension and certainly would not be expected from

anyone!  Well, like it or not, it appears that mercy for the shooter did show up in the

unimaginable response of the parents of six-year-old Grace McDonnell.  In an interview, they

said they had no hatred toward the shooter, a point they even emphasized to their surviving

son. Grace's father spoke these words: 

"The thing that Grace taught us is that you've got to live for the future.

You've got to live for happiness, peace, 
and to not divert your energies to hate, anger.

That wasn't her. It's not us."

That, they said, was their daughter's lasting legacy.

I told you it was unimaginable, and yet it appears that mercy showed up even there!

There is no final word here today. As I learned from Sawyer in Lesson #8, there is no at last, no

rock-solid evidence of a place that is forever safe and unchanging. We are always at the mercy

of the moment—always! And we are always at the mercy of each other, like it or not, when it

comes to respecting this interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part. May the

knowing we rely on always make room for the mercy we all so desperately need, a conscious

mercy, a knowing mercy for each other and for ourselves.