Sermon 2/20/22: Mending Walls

7 Epiphany​
20 February 2022​

Psalm 37:1 – 12, 41 – 42; Genesis 45:3 – 11, 15; I Corinthians 15:35 – 38, 42 – 50; Luke 6:27 – 38

A righteous person speaks words of wisdom and justice is always on his lips. Ps. 37:30

It was in my Midwestern high school that I was required to read the New England transplant Robert Frost’s (1875, San Francisco – 1964, Boston) poem Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening (1923). You are familiar with it, I am sure.

Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

However, it was another poem, written earlier by Frost, perhaps less well known, but which caught my attention during my high school journey and has remained with me. That poem bears the title Mending Wall (1914). You may well ask yourselves, why I dare remind you of those seemingly interminable hours in English classes, when you had also to read and analyze the poems of this transplanted New Englander To paraphrase the late comedian Skip Wilson, whose signature comic rationale for his actions always was “the devil made me do it,” my answer to your question is “The Bible made me do it.” Spoiler alert: That poem, Mending Wall, addresses the complexed issue which is presented today in both the lesson from Genesis and the Gospel from Luke.

Unlike the records left us by the gospel writers Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, or the letters to various churches and individuals by the Apostle Paul, no one has stepped forward to claim authorship of the first book in the Hebrew Bible, the Book of Genesis. Yet, I suggest this morning that the author of the horrific story about Joseph and his bothers addresses walls and what they signify in our daily lives, in February 2022.

Long before the Biblical Hebrews recorded their history, there were other peoples and nations who knew and recognized the value of walls and boundaries. Closer to home, the notion of national boundaries is not novel to us. When we cross over into Canada, restricted presently by Covid-19, no matter how friendly the men and women are at the Peace Bridge on the Canadian side, en route to Niagara Falls, we know that we have ventured into non-US territory, because the wheels on our automobiles must learn to rotate no longer in miles per hour, but in kilometers per hour.

In our own land, for the sake of order and the common good, we encounter countless visible and invisible walls. Usually, no one stops us, when we cross over into Rhode Island or New Hampshire, or Maine or Connecticut, or Vermont or New York State, states which border our Commonwealth. Yet, we know that we are no longer in Massachusetts, but have become “foreigners,” because a sign informs us: “welcome to ‘blank,’ the honorable XYZ Governor,” or as is the case when on I – 90 West, a road well known to me, we are informed “You are now leaving Massachusetts.” We overlook these frontiers, these invisible walls, because we are not usually impeded by them. And now, we must no longer stop even to pay the toll, a previously accepted inconvenience.

When we buy and sell real estate, the boundary pin with its pink or red ribbon marks the beginning and end of that property which we will purchase or sell. And, thus, we live, by and large, in peace with our neighbor to either side or in back, because we have parameters, the fabled white picket fence being one such demarcation, which inform us of the extent of our property. Walls help to establish community. Thus, walls and boundaries, both tangible and intangible are good, so we declare.

However, then along comes Robert Frost and challenges that concept. Imagining himself asking his neighbor, he writes about walls: “Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it where there are cows?…Before I built a wall I’d ask to know / What I was walling in or walling out, / And to whom I was like to give offense.” Ever so gently, even more subtly than the question about the neighbor, Frost implants into our subconscious the following thought: “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,/ That wants it down.’”

This brings me back to the Bible, our Book of Records, and to our neutral to positive assumption that walls, both tangible and invisible are inherently good. According to Hebrew laws of ritualistic cleansing, which were essential for reasons of health, walls could be erected. Anyone and everyone who suffered the affliction of leprosy, known today by its medical name as Hansen’s Disease, after the Norwegian physician Armauer Hansen, d. 1912, had to remove himself or herself from the general population. For the common good, lepers were sent off to live in caves or in colonies, walled off, removed from healthy folks. And lest an unsuspecting individual were to come near, the leper was required to cry out “unclean, unclean.” The ancients’ level of medical sophistication, research and care, had not reached that which we enjoy in the 21st century that allows certain diseases caused by viruses and bacteria to be treated, and if not cured, then relieved.

In our own day, Covid-19, even as it appears presently to be on the wane, has forced us to undertake similar measures, but minus tangible and visible walls. We understand, you and I, however regrettable it may be, the need to quarantine, to separate an affected population, so as to stem the perpetuation of communicable diseases, for life, for order and for peace. But Robert Frost asks a different question: Have we taken into consideration diseases of the heart, those caused by the virus “fear”?

Often, boundaries are erected for far less noble reasons and with more horrendous effects—you name your own list of boundaries—boundaries that are almost impossible to cross or eradicate. It is my sense, that the writer of the Book of Genesis was interested in telling more than an interesting tale. Joseph’s brothers had erected around themselves a wall which did not permit free, unhindered entrance of Joseph into their compound, into their company. Their wall was one of fear. Their fear of losing their father’s love moved them to declare Joseph “unclean.” They deserted Joseph to wild beasts; they threatened him with fratricide; they sold him into slavery. Their wall remained impenetrable, until it became also a matter of life or death for themselves.

Within Judaic theology there is taught the necessity of the “Mitzvah,” the commandment of God: of honoring God, of giving thanks to God, through acts of kindness, of welcome to strangers, of caring for those less fortunate. This is the story of Joseph and his brothers. On the surface, the story is about survival, the physical survival in a time of famine, as well as a survival of the Hebrews as a nation. Imbedded in the story of Joseph’s tribulations, even in instances when retribution and retaliation are or can be justified, God through Joseph gives us a crystal clear example of the more possible and desirable outcome, if we acknowledge the joys that come our way, when we remove those limiting walls, and work instead with those who love God and whom God loves. No retribution, but tears of love are what Joseph bestows upon his errant brothers. Joseph, in Judaic tradition, performs a Mitzvah, the commandment to love.

By accident of birth and geography, we find ourselves, you and I, in a land, in which most of our physical needs can be met. Aside from food and drink, what is that one thing which we humans desire and need most, some to greater or lesser degree than others? As a non-social scientist, I maintain, it is a sense of belonging, of being part of the community, of being in communion with another human being. We need to be touch, sometime physically, sometimes emotionally, and sometimes spiritually, if we are to be whole. The story of Genesis lays that out for us. We will not be and cannot be whole, if barriers keep others from touching us, or us from touching others. Robert Frost, if my high school teacher was correct in her interpretations, spoke through his poetry that LOVE was the enduring force which would sustain the human spirit against isolation, alienation, fear, and whatever else the universe would throw at us.

This is rehearsed by Frost, when he writes: “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall, / That wants it down…” Crossing boundaries is not always the easiest thing. It can be scary, intimidating, anxiety-producing. In some cases, mending walls is not the safest thing to do. We can point to the Gandhis, the Sojourney Truths, the Louis Pasteurs, the Elisabeth Stantons, the Martin Luther King, Jrs, the Jonas Salks, the Mother Theresas, the Rosa Parks, the Dietrich Bonhoeffers, the Nelson Mandelas, the Archbishop Desmond Tutus, the Bonos of the world, for they are emblematic of the action which is expected of us all, each of us, in our own environment and in our own time. Where would humankind be, were it not for those who say, “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall, / That wants it down.”

In each of us, as disciples of Jesus Nazareth in Galilee who declined to let walls stop him, there lives that urge to mend walls. Our faith in God’s Messiah calls us to imitate him, but especially in this Season of Epiphany when he, at his epiphany, was made known to those who came seeking physical and spiritual healing. Jesus elevates old Mitzvot, (e.g. “Treat others as you would have them treat you.” Luke 6:31); but determining all Mitzvot is the singular Mitzvah, that single, supreme commandment: our act of thanksgiving to the God who caused our creation and supports us and allows us to participate in a creation that is yet unfinished. “A righteous person speaks words of wisdom and justice is always on his lips.” (Ps. 37:30) Let the psalmist’s Mitzvah direct our way this week. Amen