We see the pictures of the headless body dumped out beside the road in a ditch.
We’ve seen the soldier, the black stiff grotesque thing that once was a man, burned now and hanged, dragged through the streets behind a truck.
We’ve watched in horror the human figures leaping out of the windows of the burning towers.
And so we know the satisfaction of hate. We know the sweet joy of revenge. How it feels good to get even. Oh, that was a nice idea Jesus had. That was a pretty notion, but you can’t love people who do evil. It’s neither sensible nor practical. It’s not wise to the world to love people who do such terrible wrong. There is no way on earth we can love our enemies. They’ll only do wickedness and hatefulness again. And worse, they’ll think they can get away with this wickedness and evil, because they’ll think we’re weak and afraid. What would the world come to?
But I want to say to you here on this hot July morning in Holt, what if Jesus wasn’t kidding? What if he wasn’t talking about some never-never land? What if he really did mean what he said two thousand years ago? What if he was thoroughly wise to the world and knew firsthand cruelty and wickedness and evil and hate? Knew it all so well from firsthand personal experience? And what if in spite of all that he knew, he still said love your enemies? Turn your cheek. Pray for those who misuse you. What if he meant every word of what he said? What then would the world come to?
And what if we tried it? What if we said to our enemies: We are the most powerful nation on earth. We can destroy you. We can kill your children. We can make ruins of your cities and villages and when we’re finished you won’t even know how to look for the places where they used to be. We have the power to take away your water and to scorch your earth, to rob you of the very fundamentals of life. We can change the actual day into actual night. We can do all of these things to you. And more.
But what if we say, Listen: Instead of any of these, we are going to give willingly and generously to you. We are going to spend the great American national treasure and the will and the human lives that we would have spent on destruction, and instead we are going to turn them all toward creation. We’ll mend your roads and highways, expand your schools, modernize your wells and water supplies, save your ancient artifacts and art and culture, preserve your temples and mosques. In fact, we are going to love you. And again we say, no matter what has gone before, no matter what you’ve done: We are going to love you. We have set our hearts to it. We will treat you like brothers and sisters. We are going to turn our collective national cheek and present it to be stricken a second time, if need be, and offer it to you. Listen, we—
But then he was abruptly halted. Someone out in the congregation was talking. Are you crazy? You must be insane! A man’s voice. Deep-throated. Angry. Loud. Coming from over on the west side of the sanctuary near the windows. What’s wrong with you? Are you out of your mind?
He stood up, a tall man in a light summer suit, staring at Lyle. You must be about as crazy as hell! He turned fiercely and grabbed his wife’s hand, pulling her to her feet and gesturing angrily at their little boy. They came out of the pew and went hurrying back up the aisle through the doors and out of the church.
The congregation all watched them leave. Then they began to look around at one another. They looked again at Lyle.
What do the rest of you think? Lyle said. What do you say? He was standing next to the pulpit now.
I’m not afraid to say, a man said. You’re a damn terrorist sympathizer. He rose up in the middle of the sanctuary, holding on to the pew-back ahead of him. A big heavyset man. We never should of let you come out here. You’re an enemy to our country.
The old usher who had been sitting at the back stood up now from his customary chair and came rushing, limping down the aisle. Wait! Stop! You can’t talk that way in church!
The big man in the pews turned and looked briefly at the old man in his dark suit, shiny with age. Go back and sit down on your chair there, Wayne. I’m not talking to you. But I’m not staying in here. No by God, I don’t have to listen to this damn fairy tale on a Sunday morning. He looked around the room. And if the rest of you know what’s good for you, you won’t either. He shoved out of the pew and went out.
The two Johnson women were sitting down front. Willa stood up, her white hair pinned in a bun, her eyes glinting behind her thick glasses. Let them go, she said. If that’s how they are, let them leave and good riddance. We have to listen to what the minister is saying. Even if we don’t agree with him, we need to listen and consider. We have to be civil to one another.
No! a woman cried from the back. You be quiet. You shut your mouth.
What? No. I won’t be quiet, Willa said. She turned all around, looking at the congregation. I’m going to speak. Who’s talking to me back there?
Nobody answered her.
Then Alene stood up beside her mother and looked around at the people, but now there were others who had begun to rise and glare at Lyle, and these people started to slide out of the pews and to turn up the aisles to go outside. At the back of the church one of them, a man, stopped and turned back. Go to hell! he shouted. You go to hell!
Still, most of the congregation, more than half of the people in attendance that morning, stayed seated in the pews yet, waiting in shock and disbelief, and curiosity too, for what Lyle would do now. The pianist was still in her place down front and Beverly Lyle and John Wesley were still seated in the middle of the sanctuary, and the two Johnson women, and the old usher remained standing, outraged, in the aisle. Lyle looked out at them all. After a time he spoke. May we have the last hymn now?
You mean you still want to sing? the pianist said. You still want to?
Yes, would you play the hymn, please?
Yes. If that’s what you want.
She began to play the introduction out loudly, with a kind of flourish. It seemed a sort of madness, a kind of miscalculation of the tone and temper of the moment. Lyle began to sing. He had a good voice. It was one of the old hymns Charles Wesley had written two centuries ago. A few of the others gradually, falteringly joined in. They got as far as the end of the first verse and the first refrain, then Lyle stopped singing and the Johnson women and the old usher and the others ceased — his wife and son had never been singing — and the pianist played a few more measures and then she stopped too.
Thank you, Lyle said quietly. Thank you for that much.
He stepped down off the dais and walked back up the aisle, staring straight ahead, looking at none of them, while in the pews they followed him with their eyes, turning their heads as he passed, then he stopped at the rear of the church and raised his hand in the ancient gesture of benediction.
The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make His face to shine upon you and be gracious unto you; the Lord lift up His countenance upon you and give you peace; both now and forevermore. Amen.
Then he turned and opened the big oaken doors behind him and stood in the doorway. A hot wind blew in from outside. At the front of the sanctuary the pianist closed up the piano, folding the lid over the keys, and slipped out a side door. The old usher limped up.
Should I close up now?
Yes, if you don’t mind.
This won’t last. People get upset.
Yes. I know.
They shouldn’t be saying what they said. That kind of language in church. That’s not right.
They weren’t prepared for it.
It won’t last. I’ve seen worse, the old man said. He turned and went back down an outer aisle and began to shut the high windows with his long pole with its hook at the end.
The congregation began to shuffle out. Sullenly, uncomfortably, not talking to one another, moving in an uneasy mass. A few of them stopped to look at the preacher, a few said a word or two but most of them didn’t, and went silently out. The Johnson women stepped up and shook Lyle’s hand.