A Bridge Too Far?

Luke had always known God.  Yes, he was a fourth generation pastor’s son, but before he ever went to Sunday school he felt The Presence.  He thought maybe all children did, which was how man’s manifestation of right and righteousness managed to pull at the heartstrings of so many people.  Perhaps every child knows The Presence, but the enchantment can become lost in the translation of society. 

No man in Luke’s family had ever not been a pastor. He had taken History with a minor in English before Seminary school, and he left a cushy position back home as the single, younger son of the pastor in a small-town church, heading up the youth ministry and assisting with writing the sermons. But when his Dad died, it was known that Luke’s brother would take the place behind the desk and Luke needed to find his own way. 

  Luke was not comfortable yet in his own congregation which was so much larger than his Dad’s.  In a month of Sundays he had made his Dad’s average tithes for the year.  He liked one-on-one ministry, he liked preaching the gospel, but he really wasn’t sure of his new position. Pastor Joe had told him Pastor Mike, Luke’s popular predecessor, passed away at the pulpit from a heart attack at the end of rousing sermon on today’s social ills one Sunday morning.  The congregation missed Pastor Mike and had not fully accepted Luke, whose sermons here to date had been pretty generic.  He rubbed the carved corner of the big mahogany desk at his church in the sprawling young Southern city.  The town and the desk made him feel small like he was a kid again–but feel God?--not so much. At least not the kind, loving God he knew. Faith here was a badge of honor and pride in your church and salvation was the focus of the congregation.  Luke liked to think that if someone was open enough to the idea of church, it was his job as pastor to move them to the altar.  But this church, this city, with churches on every corner, made religion a part of the societal fabric. It was institutional not personal.    

His Dad’s desk up north, now his brother’s desk, was much smaller, with less distance between the pastor and his people–a big adjustment for Luke.  Back home the pastor showed up for births, sickness, death, and to help out during crises–from the skinning of a knee to protecting women from domestic violence to supporting families affected by the opioid crisis. Now Luke would write and preach the sermon, but most of his interaction across the desk was with community leaders, the heads of other churches, and the politicians.  Always the politicians.  

He glanced at the TV he had in the office to watch the news.  The governor’s election primary still wasn't for months and he was already sick of the ads, each more distasteful to him than the last. Then the images from Ukraine.  The world had clearly gone mad. 

 His phone startled him when it rang.  It was Pastor Joe–his predecessor's friend and confidant.

“Hello?  This is Pastor Luke.” 

“Hey Luke, we just found out that the local interfaith society is coordinating a conference.   All our local church and community leaders and the candidates for governor will be there.”

Luke hoped the candidates were not as irritating in real life. 

“You want to make sure you are represented there–optics you know.  Should be interesting,” Pastor Joe continued, “I wish Mike was here for it. He loved to spar with the ‘woke’ people discussing issues like abortion, homosexuality and sex change, police and crime, the critical race theory, all that stuff.  He would love this.”  

Luke felt even smaller.  “OK, thanks for letting me know, I will check it out.”  Then they talked about football for a few minutes and asked about families. When he hung up Luke looked up the event and added it to his calendar.  He looked forward to the opportunity.  Aside from Pastor Joe and his associates, all about his Dad’s age, Luke hadn’t really established a social circle yet.  And Joe was not anything like Luke’s father, who was more “Mr. Rogers” than the fire and brimstone that seemed to permeate here.  

The conference was at the newest swanky hotel in town and it was well attended.  The sessions were interesting, discussing world religions, race and equality, and the Ukrainian crisis.  Luke sat with Pastor Joe and his group but had a little trouble concentrating on the speakers because the pastors were busy hobnobbing with the people in the row in front of them. Luke recognized some of them from the political ads. 

Conferences are exhausting.  Luke really needed to work on his sermon for the week. He glanced at his watch–6:37. As a pastor named after a book in the bible, he had of course memorized all of its best verses.  Automatically he recited in his head Luke 6:37.  “Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven.”  

He ruminated on the meaning of that verse now. Why had this been presented to him? He considered the power of the statement in relation to his irritation with his colleagues and the politicians and in relation to his new position as pastor.  How could he continue without judgment and condemnation but with forgiveness.  The hardest part of his new job was bridging the gap between teachings of Christ and today’s idea of Christian around here.  

A dinner was catered in the ballroom after the sessions. Luke's stomach was growling.   By the time he got to the ballroom most of the tables were occupied. He saw that Joe and his group were with the current governor and the table was full.  It was ok by him, he was ready to branch out.  He scanned the room–it was obvious that people were sitting with people they knew–the din of the crowd grew with conversations of the familiar.  He must have been standing there a while when one of the caterers took him by the elbow and guided him to the least populated table. He pulled out the chair and nodded around the table, not wanting to interrupt the lively conversation.

A wise looking woman in a beautiful Sari was saying, “Gandhi has said that ‘A coward is incapable of exhibiting love; it is the prerogative of the brave’ and that ‘The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is an attribute of the strong.’”

“Oh I agree,” it was the speaker who led the Race and Equality session.  “But like Dr. King said, ‘Forgiveness does not mean ignoring what has been done or putting a false label on an evil act.’”

A well-dressed woman who reminded him of his mother chimed in. “Forgiveness, yes, accountability yes, but for personal peace it is important to not be angry.  The Buddha said, ‘Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned.’” 

“It is not a matter of retribution–it is not eye-for-an-eye.” The priest leaned forward as the salads were being served. “Being forgiven in Confession shows mercy on the offender, who through penance becomes merciful by virtue of the forgiveness.”  

“It is the same if you ask forgiveness from Allah.” The man in white caressed his beard.  “The Quran says ‘The reward of the evil is the evil thereof, but whosoever forgives and makes amends, his reward is upon Allah.’”

Luke was about to take a bite when he realized that everyone had stopped talking and were looking at him.  

The lady who reminded him of his mom spoke.   “I am Mary.  You are a fresh new face in town.  Forgive us for rambling on.  Are you a man of God or a politician?”

Luke smiled, wondering if it would be possible to be both.  He told them about his father and the church he left and the one he led now.

Luke took a roll from the bread basket which reminded him about Ukraine and the “Molotov Bread Baskets” he learned about when he looked up the etymology of the Molotov Cocktail earlier that day.  Molotov, a Soviet foreign minister in 1939, declared on Soviet radio that the bombing missions over Finland were humanitarian food aid to assist the starving Finns. They were in fact destructive cluster bombs that the Finns dubbed “Molotov Bread Baskets” and they called their response to the aggression “Molotov Cocktails”--a drink to go with his food parcels. Now the Ukrainians were getting cluster bombs and responding bravely with their similarly crude weapons.  

“You look lost in thought, Luke.” It was the woman in the Sari.  Luke shared the history of the Molotov Cocktail name and the conversation turned to the invasion and continued through the main course.  He missed conversations like this. He missed his dad.     

“So how do you like it here?” the priest asked him when the dessert came.  

Luke swallowed the bite of cheesecake formulating the best response. “It has been an adjustment. But as I sit here today listening to you all I am inspired.  Regardless of our backgrounds we are all sure of the power of forgiveness and the value of bravery.  These are baked into all our backgrounds as virtues.”  

“Yes, it is a pity. We have far more commonalities than differences and yet there are still wars–and negative campaign ads!” The man in white said the last bit loud enough that the collection of politicians who were leaving could hear. Several at Luke’s table harrumphed to suppress a chuckle. Pastor Joe patted Luke on the shoulder as he passed.  The man in white tugged again at his beard, as if it helped him remember the words of the Quran.  ‘Those who plot evils, – theirs will be a severe torment. And the plotting of such will perish.’” 

After a moment of thoughtful silence, everyone started to put on their jackets to go. Luke was already formulating the beginning of his Sunday sermon which would begin with Luke 18:27. “Jesus replied, what is impossible with men is possible with God.”

  Luke shook hands with everyone and got proper names, then exchanged phone numbers with the group, glad that he had been led to this table.  He thanked God for blessing him, and got into his car knowing that this week’s sermon would be powerful.  It was up to the congregation to decide if it would be his last.