In Chapter 7 of Mark’s Gospel we find two healing stories – and they are both about crossing boundaries. We define ourselves by our boundaries, that is, our differences. Boundaries, borders, barriers, we hear those words a lot these days. Mostly, I think boundaries are perceived to be good, or at least necessary. They protect us. They secure zones of security and comfort. Boundaries define tribal, national, or individual space. They enclose us of like minds, beliefs, and backgrounds. We don’t like our boundaries violated. We say that a nation has the right to secure its borders. We object to people violating our “personal space.” Beyond the boundaries lie the threats.

            I will focus this morning on the first story in the Gospel lesson. Jesus is ranging beyond his familiar tribal neighborhood of Galilee, traveling up the Mediterranean coast to Tyre. A woman comes to Jesus and begs his help for her daughter. She is separated from Jesus by three boundaries – her ethnicity (Syrophoenician, not Semitic); her gender, (female, not male), and her religion, (Gentile, not Jew). It is a bit shocking to us that Jesus himself seems quite willing to define their encounter by what divides them, boundaries taken for granted. He answers her request for help rather sharply, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” In other words: He takes care of Jewish children first. Ever heard someone say, “Charity begins at home” or “We can’t allow our workplace to be overrun by newly arrived immigrants,” or “Our over-burdened schools are being engulfed by children with all these special needs”? Jesus is saying what we all say. But, I think maybe this female outsider had already heard Jesus’ parable about the importuning woman who won’t let the judge alone until she gets justice. Remember that one? The woman won’t quit. She wears the judge down. Well, this woman gives it right back to Jesus. “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” Her passionate concern for her child emboldens her, makes her brave enough to cross the barriers. And this, in turn, opens Jesus’ eyes, and empowers him to reach back to her in compassion. Technically, legalistically, both have now transgressed a boundary and are at risk. A man and a woman, a Jew and a Gentile have spoken together. They are now in relationship. Religion and tribe say that is wrong. Why did they become transgressors? So that a little girl might be healed; that a child might be saved. And that very act of courageous transgression itself was an act of healing.  True love transgresses the norms of community and religion.

            Bishop John Shelby Spong said something striking at a special worship service last Sunday afternoon honoring the completion of Cross Walk America. He said that if anything good can be said to have come out of the attacks of September 11, 2001, it was that, for once, we collectively as Americans experienced what it is like to be subjected to religious hatred. Spong went on to say that he has received some sixteen death threats – ones credible enough to report to the FBI. But he said that none of those threats was from a Muslim, or a Jew, or a Buddhist, or a Hindu. All were from Christians angered about his view that the Bible is not inerrant and for his stance in support of gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people. He has transgressed.  He has crossed a line that some speaking for Christianity have put in place, and are now ferociously defending.

            What makes religious hatred so intense? Hate is needed to keep boundaries in place. And it is fear that keeps hate in place. And, there is a special hatred reserved for those who dare to cross boundaries. The past President of Iran, Mohammed Khatemi, has been traveling in the United States. He is the relatively moderate former president of Iran, whose proposed reforms were thwarted by the conservative mullas. He has been welcomed to speak at Harvard and at the National Cathedral here in Washington. His trip can be seen as an attempt to open dialogue. But it is hard, and dangerous. Politicians like the Governor of Massachusetts and others stress the sins of the Iranian regime and feed suspicions that dialogue is dangerous. Yet, whatever this person’s credibility, at least he dared to step over the line and be in conversation.

            When we feel under threat, we secure the borders, reinforce the boundaries, and tighten the circle. And the more we do, the more we fear. And the more we hate. But there is an alternative. Instead of hate sustained by fear, there is love sustained by trust - or at least a willingness to risk trust. But every act of true compassion and courage involves a stepping over the line, an unwillingness to accept a boundary as real. I remember hearing Dan Berrigan, the activist priest of the sixties, say that society conspires to tell us again and again that before each of us there is a line drawn by the powers that be. And the powers that be say, “Don’t cross that line or you are in big trouble.” And as long as we believe that, we stay in our place. We are then good and obedient citizens, dutiful sons and daughters. But he said, there are times when God and your conscience call you to step over the line, and when you do, nothing happens. The powers and principalities don’t know what to do. They re-group and still try to get you, but the line has moved. But, in fact, the point is that the line really doesn’t exist at all. It is there only if you believe it is. “Criticize me, you are not patriotic.” That’s such a line.

            Perhaps the greatest moment in our American literature is when Huckleberry Finn is presented with the choice of turning in the runaway slave, Jim. He knows that according to the law of the land and the teachings of the Christian Church (as delivered to him), to turn Jim in is the right thing to do, and not to would be a grievous sin that would send Huck to hell. He genuinely agonizes over this. Finally he tears up the note that would return Jim to slavery and says, “All right, then, I’ll go to hell.” In the eyes of God and country, and in Huck’s own eyes, he has chosen to become a transgressor. He has stepped over the line drawn by church and state. Why? Because he cannot help but be compassionate. Literary critic Harold Bloom says simply, “Hatred is alien to Huck.” Sadly though, hatred is not alien to the Christianity of many, then and now.

            In a relative sense, perhaps, compassion appears transgressive. But love really says the boundaries don’t exist at all. They are only in our imagination. Or, to put it a little differently, as compassion grows, the boundaries expand. In a sense the woman confronting Jesus caused him to broaden his understanding of the scope of God’s love, the range of God’s embrace. Edwin Markham’s famous poem is simple and powerful:

            September 11th 2006 is the fifth anniversary of the terrorist acts that so impacted on our national heart and soul, and on this congregation, as we tried our best to comfort the Caswell family on the loss of Bill that terrible morning. But September 11, 2006 is also the one hundredth anniversary of another kind of action. It marks the beginning of Mahatma Gandhi’s non-violent resistance to injustice.

           In August 1906 the South African government announced its intention to pass legislation requiring every person of color living there to register with the authorities and carry a certificate at all times, on penalty of deportation or imprisonment. Gandhi and others organized a meeting and some 3,000 Indians packed into the Empire Theatre in the Transvaal to discuss what to do about what was called “The Black Law.” That meeting was held on September 11th.  A number of resolutions were proposed including one which called upon all Indians to take an oath before God not to comply with the Black Law if it was enacted. Gandhi was himself electrified by the implications of such a resolution. Serving as their legal advisor, he addressed the group:

We all believe in one and the same God, the differences of nomenclature in Hinduism and Islam notwithstanding. To pledge ourselves or to take an oath in the name of God or with Him as witness is not something to be trifled with. If having taken such an oath we violate our pledge we are guilty before God and man.

He went on to talk about the possible consequences of such group defiance to the legal authorities, being as realistic as possible. But what is so moving to me is his stress upon the spiritual nature of the illegal course they were charting. He said:

This pledge must not be taken with a view to produce an effect on outsiders. No one should trouble to consider what impression it might have upon the Local Government, or the Government of India. Every one must only search his own heart, and if the inner voice assures him that he has the requisite strength to carry him through, then only should he pledge himself and then only would his pledge bear fruit.

            This September 11th event marked the beginning of the movement of non-violent civil disobedience that would shape change in South Africa, India, and eventually, the United States. It is interesting to note that Gandhi felt very strongly about what this movement should be called. Initially he had, by default, used the term “passive resistance” but didn’t really like it. After much deliberation it was decided to coin an Indian word: Gandhi wrote:

Truth (Satya) implies love and firmness (Agraha)…serves as a synonym for force. I thus began to call the Indian movement “Satyagraha,” that is to say, the Force which is born of Truth and Love or non-violence.

            As we recall the suffering and destruction of September 11, 2001, the result of the force of hatred, let us also remember the courage and imagination of September 11, 1906, and the hope today for the force of love.

AMEN.

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