Let’s talk about sex offenders for a moment.
If we can’t talk about them on Good
Friday
when Jesus gave up his body for the
sins of the world
—including not just we God’s faithful
people
but also all the people we look down
on or are disgusted by
—when can we?
I’ve been in a pastoral relationship
with someone on the Sex Offender
Registry for several years now.
And I’ve been pondering for most of
that time
why there are such extreme reactions
to this person’s offense.
Over and above other kinds of offenses,
that is
—it’s a different reaction than if
you disclosed to me
that you’d stolen a watch
or even that you’d murdered someone.
It’s a powerful, visceral, angry
reaction
which leads not only to creating the
Registry in the first place
but also to everyday folks regularly
checking out that Registry
for people in their neighborhood.
Because…why?
Registered sex offenders are the
second least likely to reoffend…just behind murderers.
Why do we do this to ourselves? And
to them?
It’s something to do with our
essence, our being, our bodies.
A sex offense is…intimate and
personal,
and an offense against our bodies
is somehow an offense against more
than our bodies.
It’s like when you’re badly hurt with
a broken leg, say,
or when you’re throwing up everything
you ever ate,
the world condenses to this one
primal, vulnerable space
where your body is.
All your being is concentrated on the
misery of your body.
But somehow a sex offense magnifies
that feeling.
Regardless of what the offense was
—and believe me, there is a wide
spectrum
represented on the Registry—
knowing that a hurt was sexual in
nature
brings up bone-deep revulsion
which seems to be the only truth.
To be clear, yes to all those
feelings.
Violation of the body is deeply
painful and emotional
and no one who perpetrates such
violation should be given a pass.
If you’ve experienced such hurt,
please tell someone
—don’t suffer alone.
It turns out, the violence of those
encounters
leaves its scars on the perpetrators
as well.
This person whom I know has struggled
and been to jail
and to all the therapy and has
transformed themself
in ways I frankly envy.
Even after all that, they fear
reoffending
and even more the emptiness that
comes
when a new friend finds them on the
Registry.
Which happens all the time.
This person is outcast from social
media, from employment,
and from more than one or two
long-term friendships.
Perhaps you might justifiably say,
“good.”
And perhaps you might also notice
the similarity between this person
and the people Jesus spent much of
his time with.
Not because they were paragons of
virtue
but because they were imprisoned by
something
and wanted to be set free.
* * *
Let’s talk about close male friendships for a moment.
There was a time, as recently as the first World War,
when men who were friends
might be seen holding hands or
hugging in public,
slinging their arms around each
others waists, cuddling of a sort.
If you don’t believe me, just Google
“male affection photo”
for an article called “Bosom
Buddies.”
Human beings need touch—you know the
studies
about babies who die because they’re
not touched.
But more than that, we all need
loving, gentle, consistent touch
for brain development and for
spiritual development.
Our children are built for it,
demanding cuddling at wonderful and inopportune
times.
But in the last 50 years, such touch
between adult males has become rare.
Some folks wonder if societal
homophobia
has robbed us of close male
friendships.
My husband tells me his high school
students
can’t even express the bare minimum
of verbal friendship
without someone suggesting they might
be gay.
Could we as a people be so concerned
over the possibility of a come-on
that we’ve lost something precious?
“Boys imitate what they see.
If what they see is emotional
distance, guardedness, and coldness
between men they will grow up to
imitate that behavior…
What do boys learn when they do not
see men
with close friendships, where there
are no visible models
of intimacy in a man’s life beyond
his spouse?”[1]
Women may
be more able to show affection,
yet we
participate in a culture of homophobia and touch-me-not.
We are
made in the image of God and we are built for physical intimacy.
Perhaps
you might justifiably say,
“But it
can go so wrong so easily, even without assault.”
And
perhaps you might also note that Jesus spent the Last Supper
reclining
beside the beloved disciple John
whom our
Celtic brothers and sisters say was so close
he heard
the heartbeat of God.
No matter how enlightened we are,
we are
imprisoned by our fear of closeness and we need to be set free.
* * *
Let’s talk about being unworthy
for a moment.
I know students at UC who can’t
fathom
that
anyone would respect or love them.
They may
seem happy or calm on the surface,
but it’s a
cardboard cutout of themselves.
I know folks at UC who fill their
days and nights with work
because
they can’t trust themselves or others
to have
their back and they fear failure.
I know friends who know deep in
their hearts
that
they’d never really be welcome in church
because
they haven’t attended in years
or because
they think God hates what they do with their bodies
or because
they’re not good enough.
I know people who, because of
their gender identity or homelessness
feel
invisible.
And when
they hear that God loves them,
they scoff
or cry or get angry because how could God possibly love them. It’s patently
ridiculous.
Peter at the Last Supper shows us
a silly version
of this
deeply-held self-revulsion.
When Jesus
arrives at Peter’s feet, Peter says,
“wait,
what? You can’t wash my feet! They’re gross.
And
you’re…you know…God or something.”
And Jesus
patiently explains it again and Peter says,
“Oh,
right, I’m so filthy, I need you to wash my whole self!”
We don’t wash the feet of our
dinner guests anymore.
But my friends
Chris and Kevin once did something similar for me.
After my
entire family had been sick simultaneously
with a
stomach bug for several days,
my friends
came to our house and cleaned up.
While we
were still weak,
they swept
and mopped and did dishes
and
sanitized counters and doorknobs.
They
didn’t hesitate to touch
where our
disease had made things unclean.
How could
I have been worthy of such a gift?
Perhaps you might justifiably say, “oh man, that’s me. I’m
just the worst.”
And perhaps you might also recall
just how many times our scriptures
record
the consistent and overwhelming love
of God
for some really filthy people.
All of us are imprisoned by sin and
we need to be set free.
* * *
Now, let’s talk about Jesus’ body.
We say that he was God made human
and centuries of theologians have
written
about how he was REALLY HUMAN.
It’s not that he just looked like us
but was actually smoke and mirrors.
He didn’t have a glowing God center
with a crunchy human shell.
He was really, really, physically,
emotionally a person.
Jesus is God becoming a vulnerable,
squalling, pooing baby
and a vulnerable, squalling, pooing
adult
—that’s his whole deal.
That’s the whole point.
Our God who created the universe,
who made this world in all its
amazing variety,
who made us—
these complex, thinking bodies
charging through space—
our God didn’t just watch from afar,
munching popcorn like we’re some kind
of soap opera.
God got themselves a body and ate
hummus
and snuggled with Mary and Joseph
and in the teen years refused to be touched
and walked the dirty roads of
Jerusalem
and touched disgusting sick people
and touched unworthy prostitutes and
office workers
and touched cruel sinners
and then died in extreme pain in
front of his earthly parents,
watching them sob.
And then—spoiler warning—came back to
life for real.
It’s all about God’s body.
Jesus body standing in for all the
bodies in the world.
All of them.
Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection
is about our bodies being strong and
resilient
and vulnerable and imprisoned and…worthy
of being set free. And it’s about God loving us more than enough to do it.
That freedom is scary.
It’s a painful and fascinating transition.
But as the Psalmist says in the 31st Psalm,
“Be strong, and let your heart take courage, all you who wait
for the Lord.”