The Blessed Life: Mercy Me!
DATE: September 28, 2008
SCRIPTURE: Matthew 5:1‐12
I have been a Red Sox fan for as long as I can remember! The first time I went to Fenway Park, I must have been nine or ten. In that time in the sixties before mandated seat belts, several of us young ones crammed into the cargo section of our local Cubmaster's wood paneled station wagon, while the adults all got the seats. And after an hour long ride down Route One, we all piled out of the car, and made our way into the ball park. We watched spellbound as our heroes, folks like Carl Yastrzemski, played the same game we played in a sandlot back home. We ate Fenway Franks, and drank Coke, and cheered every time our team had a hit, or scored a run.
That was a long time ago. And while I've been back to Fenway as an adult, it's been some twenty‐eight years since I was last at the park. I follow the Sox religiously in the newspaper. And thanks to a friend, I have a subscription to Diehard, the team magazine. I watch games on television whenever I can, and about once a season I make it into New York to see them play at Yankee Stadium. But it's just not the same as being surrounded by fellow fans at Fenway.
But my twenty‐eight year drought came to an end just this week. Parishioners with connections offered me a pair of tickets to last Monday's game against Cleveland. By some miracle, I had no meetings I had to attend that night, no classes to teach, no services to conduct, so Linda and I decided to go up that afternoon, have dinner with our daughter Liz who lives in Cambridge, and then go to the game.
Some things have changed since I was last there. The jumbotron television that dominates center field hadn't even been invented yet. The seats atop the Green Monster, the mammoth green wall in left field, are new. And of course, there are the glorious red banners proclaiming the World Series championships of 2004 and 2007. But much of the rest of the venerable old park remains just as I remember it.
We had really good seats, right field box seats, about six rows back. You could practically touch the players as they took their positions on the field. As I sat there taking it all in, Linda turned to me and said, "You look like a kid in a candy shop!" And so I did, I'm sure. Even though they lost 4‐3, it was a terrific night.
They call baseball America's National Pastime. And I ‘ve been thinking a bit about why that's true. Why are we so enamored with this game? What's so special about grown men wearing knee socks and hitting balls with a stick and running around a field? As I've thought about it, I've decided that part of the appeal has to do with justice. We long for a world where right and wrong are clearly laid out. A world where everyone knows the rules. A world where good is rewarded and wrong is punished. We long for a world where life is fair and society is just. But often it doesn't work that way, and so baseball, with its clear rules and umpires to enforce them, provides us with an escape.
Our seats the other night were just twenty‐five years or so from the famous bright yellow Pesky Pole. Named for Johnny Pesky, the pole marks the line between fair and foul territory. If a ball goes to the left of the pole, it's fair, to the right, its foul. It's straightforward. There are no exceptions. Here's the rule. Here are the consequences. Period.
That's how justice works. On the one side of the line, things are right and good and fair. On the other side, they are wrong, they are foul. Justice is all about rules and enforcing the rules. It's all about bright yellow poles that make things black and white.
But sometimes lines have been drawn in ways that aren't really fair or just. And sometimes folks accidentally step over the line—or can't see the line—or didn't even know there was a line. At other times folks intentionally step over a line, but then have a change of heart and want to cross back over into fair territory. What then? How do we handle those times when things aren't black or white, but rather gray?
Often that is where justice leaves off, and mercy begins. Justice is getting what you deserve, what you've earned, what the rules say you are allowed to have. Mercy is getting what you don't deserve, what you haven't earned. When Jesus says "blessed are the merciful" he's not just talking about an attitude. The Greek word here is eleemon, and, as one scholar notes, it "refers to concrete acts of mercy rather than merely a merciful attitude." (NIB, 179)
This, of course, is rarely easy. Often when we are called on to grant mercy to someone, to offer forgiveness, or a second chance, we are facing great hurt or injury. Jim Forrest writes: "Mercy is a hard virtue, even if it sounds like a soft quality." (The Ladder of the Beatitudes, 85)
When a spouse has betrayed you and had an affair, the rules say you can divorce him or her. Legally, it is what your spouse deserves. It is just. But you may choose to handle it another way. You may choose to be merciful, and grant a second chance.
When a bank extends a high risk mortgage, and the consumer fails to keep up the payments, the rules say the bank can foreclose on the mortgage. Legally, it is what the consumer deserves. It is just. But the bank may choose to handle it a different way. It may choose to be merciful, and restructure the mortgage and grant a second chance.
When a financial institution buys up bundled high risk mortgages and they go belly up, the rules say the institution loses much of their investment. Legally, it is what the institution deserves. It is just. But the government may choose to be merciful, and grant a second chance.
Should adulterers be forgiven? Should those who default on mortgages be granted a second chance? Should large corporations be bailed out by the feds? I leave that to you to determine. I simply remind us that these things are not simply about justice, they are also about mercy. And mercy is indeed a hard virtue. It comes with challenges and consequences for all those involved. But "blessed are the merciful," says Jesus, "for they will receive mercy."
Last spring the entire softball season for two teams came down to the final doubleheader between Central Washington and Western Oregon University. Whoever won the games would be assured a spot in the NCAA Division II playoffs.
Sara Tucholsky is only 5′2″ tall. And her batting average was only .153. During the opening inning of the first game, she had been heckled by eight guys sitting near her position in right field. But then, in the second inning, after first taking a strike, she hit the ball out of the park—a home run. The first one ever in her softball career.
The rules of the game are clear, when you hit a home run, you still have to run the bases— and you still have to tag each one. Jubilant, Sara ran towards first, but as she watched her ball sail out of the park, she missed touching the base. Six steps later, she realized her mistake, and took a sudden turn to return to first. Suddenly, she felt something give way in her right knee, and she collapsed in pain. "Our first base coach was telling me I had to crawl back to first base," she later told reporters, "I can't touch you . . . or you'll be out." The rules are clear; a runner can receive no assistance from a teammate or coach. (The Oregonian) And so she did. She crawled back to first, and touched the bag. But that was it. She can't go any further.
The umpire informed her coach he could substitute another player for Sara at first, but the hit would only count as a single. Her coach didn't want to pull her out of the game. "It was her only home run in four years," he said, "[she'd] . . . kill me if I took her out and put in a sub." (Ibid)
But then mercy entered the picture in the form of Mallory Holtmann, a senior player on the opposing team. What if we helped her around the bases? The rules say her teammates can't do that, but what about us? The umpire agreed—there was no rule prohibiting an opposing team member from helping out.
So Mallory, and shortstop Liz Wallace, picked up Sara in a fireman's carry, and hauled her around the bases, stopping at each one so that Sara could gently put her foot on each one. And when she got to home base, she was surrounded by her teammates. She was a hero, because her opponent had taken mercy on her. In fact, her opponents ended up losing the game because of their own actions.
It turns out the rules had been misinterpreted, and a sub could have run the bases for Sara. But nobody on the field knew it at the time. It was a true act of mercy.
"In the end," said Mallory Hoffman, "it is not about winning or losing. It was about this girl." (Ibid)
And so it is with mercy. It is always about the other girl, the other boy, the other man, the other woman. It is always about the other soul. But, in the economics of the kingdom of heaven, it is also about you. For those who are merciful, says Jesus, will receive mercy themselves.
Sometimes the Pesky Poles are bright yellow and clear—and justice can be served. But sometimes they are not. It is then that mercy steps up to the plate.
Amen.
John H. Danner