What's in a word? -- a sermon by the Rev. Dr. Maggie Izutsu, Director of the Programs in Pastoral Ministry and Counseling & Lecturer in World Religions and Christianity, delivered in Christ Chapel on December 7, 2004

Matthew 12:33-37

What's in a word? In this season of anticipation of the Word becoming incarnate, the gospel writer Matthew, and the lectionary compilers in their wisdom, have provided us with a rich array of material for contemplating how words take on life. More specifically, in this cold season of warm and lively anticipation, Matthew sternly and ominously demands that we consider how it is that our words reveal the quality of life and the person of the speaker. I suspect that none of us, as scholars, students and administrators, need to be reminded that by our words we will be judged. This, in fact, tremblingly, is our stock in trade. But Matthew does require that we look at the connection -- oddly, that some in academia may want to disconnect -- between the quality of our persons and the nature of our words. For us, being about formation, this is an important text.

Putting the passage we read today into context, the demand of so-called postmodern sensibilities, is, on the face of it, a bit difficult. Biblical commentators notice that this passage seems to be tacked on from somewhere else; it doesn't seem to fit coherently with the preceding verses. It might, therefore, be possible to meditate on this passage alone, without reference to its conditioning context. Given this editorial glitch, in our age and at our institution, we might haul Matthew up on charges of "academic dishonesty" for not adequately referencing his source; but this, in fact, and in this passage in particular, might be just the kind of Pharisaic kill-joy maneuvers that Matthew here condemns. I am not suggesting that we allow plagiarism or the dishonesty we have policies to prevent; what I am advocating is that, in all our efforts, we try to discern (as the Pharisees failed to do) the work of the spirit -- the life trying to see the light of day, the words trying to live into their full, generous and generative power -- within or behind any rhetorical stratagem. And so it is with this passage, I will try to take into account the broader strokes of Matthew's pen.

The context, as Matthew has positioned this passage and simply stated, is Jesus' rebuke to the Pharisees for their not acknowledging the work of the spirit of God in the healings that Jesus' disciples are performing.

Why, might we ask, is Matthew so concerned about the Pharisees' kill-joy attitude? And are things really so black and white? We are, of course, all convinced of our own innocence for the most part; but do we not also occasionally know better ourselves, that there are times when our words, uttered in great faith and earnestness, have effects we did not intend, and, conversely, when even so-called evil issues in something good? Even if we assent to the black-and-white description of Matthew's that good fruit comes from good trees and evil from evil, how, we might, no, we must ask, can we work on our persons so that we are good and our words are generative, generous and of the spirit?

There is a hint in the reading provided in the lectionary from Acts. In it, Paul, preaching in Perga of Pamphylia, notes the highlights of the history of the people of Israel in certain persons and their words and deeds. In this litany of famous persons, Paul pays particular attention to John the Baptist, who preached a baptism of repentance.

I think we are pretty good at apologies here at ETSS. In my brief three months here, I have exchanged many apologies with you, for which I have been grateful at the opportunity that each encounter provided for searching out the meaning of our transgressions in attempts to discern the life of the spirit trying to take shape.

But we may not be so well supported in such activities when going forth from these doors. I am mindful of the picture of our culture's clumsiness with penitent acts in an amusing TV commercial that I believe was pulling for your and my use of Citibank.

Do you know it? In it, two African-American women are testing the produce in a grocery store. One turns to the other in a spirit of open rejoicing and asks when the other woman's baby is due. "I'm not pregnant!" the other woman replies, in a tone of righteous indignation. Flummoxed, the first woman looks around anxiously for a moment and says, tentatively at first, "thank you?" as a test of the concept as a rescue from their mutual embarrassment. The offended woman responds by looking around a bit herself, pointing to herself inquiring if the thanks were directed to her, saying, "Me?" "Yes, you," the first woman replies, emboldened by this initial tenuous success, "Thank you!" she now says more confidently, and the other woman lets down her guard, opens her arms and gestures the first woman into them, saying, "Ah, come here, you" and they embrace in a moment of repentance that has morphed slyly and subtly into an event of thanks and praise.

Not many of us would probably get away with such antics were it not for the magic of the commercial enterprise that makes these implausible scenarios work. But this creative piece points up the difficulty we have in saying "I'm sorry" and, in its own genius, makes the equally interesting observation that any attempt to take responsibility for our actions, however unintentionally hurtful or otherwise, can lead to or morph into an act of thanksgiving and praise. In my estimation, the difficulty we have saying "I'm sorry" in this culture is partially created by poor habits of self-reflection and empathic imagining of how our behavior affects others, and these two impoverishments reinforce each other. We don't think about our interactions, so we are not prepared to say "I'm sorry" ourselves when someone approaches us with an apology; we haven't done our homework to offer our own apology in reply, when appropriate, or forgive, when that would be possible, and so are not prepared to receive it. No wonder the first woman hesitated to offer a frank and forthright apology: in our litigious society, she may well have wondered if the other woman would see it as an opportunity to sue!

The Church needs, must (isn't that old English locution charming and apt?) apologize to our African brethren for not having appropriately consulted with them before blazing the trail we might still have blazed in consecrating a gay bishop. Had we given the members of our household the opportunity to weigh in with us, we might not now be setting ourselves ablaze. At the very least, we own them an apology; would we not do the same if we had failed to consult our personal extended family over a major decision we were considering?

We, as a nation, must apologize to our European counterparts not to mention the people of Iraq, and the justifiably offended regimes our President has insulted, assaulted and decimated by our precipitous military action and our President's infelicitous use of words and his stubborn and arrogant refusal to repent: who doesn't remember in trembling that most dangerous and inflammatory word "crusade" or that equally or more troubling phrase, "axis of evil"? Who can count the cost of that?

I am afraid Isaiah has: in the passage we read today, we hear "The Lord will lay waste the earth and make it desolate, and he will twist its surface and scatter its inhabitants…The earth shall be utterly laid waste and utterly despoiled; for the Lord has spoken this word…The earth mourns and withers, the world languishes and withers, the heavens languish together with the earth. The earth lies polluted under its inhabitants, for they have transgressed the laws, violated the statutes, broken the everlasting covenant…The wine mourns, the vine languishes, all the merry-hearted sigh."

But, the psalmist, by contrast, shows us an alternative vision, one based on the king's exulting in God's help. The king asked for life, not decimation, and in this request, the king was richly rewarded. God makes the king "blessed for ever," God "dost make him glad with the joy of thy presence" and we are told that the king's glory is great through God's help, "splendor and majesty" are bestowed upon him and he is met with "goodly blessings" and a crown of gold on his head.

There is one who particularly sought life, abundantly, for all, though in the process he lost his own and was crowned with a different sort of crown. Paul, in the passage from Acts, points to Jesus as the one who went beyond John the Baptist. In John the Baptist's own words, according to Paul, John said, "What do you suppose that I am? I am not he. No, but after me one is coming, the sandals of whose feet I am unworthy to untie." There was nothing to charge Jesus with, Paul reminds us, yet they asked Pilate to have him killed. Because the people did not understand the utterances of the prophets, they fulfilled them by condemning Jesus. At the end of the passage from Acts, in God's raising Jesus from the dead, Jesus' transforming life and words led through and beyond repentance to a place of praise and thanksgiving.

And I would suggest that there is an even deeper place from which words can issue than repentance. In imagining this place, like Paul, I think of Jesus standing before Pilate.

The image of Christ standing before Pilate points to the possibility that there are times when there is nothing to apologize for; and when our mere presence is enough or more than words. There was nothing, I imagine, Jesus could say to Pilate that would not have undermined the very work he had already done. Were he to have tried, it is easy to imagine the force, or lack thereof, in such words: that they would seem like just so much flotsam and jetsam of a shipwrecked life, instead of one buoyed by and anchored in God. Instead of making excuses, Jesus stood by his word. At great personal cost, in obedience to the Spirit which listeth where it may, Jesus's silence became the Word, as he relied on the power of his spirit's union with God to prevail over all attempts to manipulate his words, his work, his worth. In this capacity for wordlessness, I find the real source of all words; the power of all utterances, I suspect, must ultimately be animated by this most profound act of reverence for the spirit that animates all things and is present even in our unutterable moments.

It is this spirit that animated Jesus and the healing work that the Pharisees condemned. It is the denial of this -- not, in fact, of Jesus himself, but of the work of the spirit which can and must animate all of us -- that Matthew seems most keen to keep from denigration, from devastating denial, from desecration. For he knew that to deny the spirit was to deny not only joy, but hope. And we all know that without hope, we die. We have deeds to do, promises to keep; they are dappled and you may, by now, be drowsy and ready for sleep. But I hope you remember this day and this season and beyond, as you go about your work and your words, to keep them holy and generative and generous and good. To arm yourself with the tools of self-reflection, ready repentance, and a hearty capacity for wordlessness. For we are the people of God, of the Word made flesh who dwells among us.