We have a third reading today, from the author Katherine Patterson. Ms. Patterson has written award-winning books for children and is also a Presbyterian (so it's OK). This is from her acceptance speech for the National Book Award in 1977:
People ask me why I write for children. I don't write for children, I say, I write for myself, and then look in the catalog to see how old I am. But it's not true that I simply write for myself. I do write for children. For my own four children and for others who are faced with the question of whether they dare to become adult, responsible for their own lives and the lives of others. They remind me of the Biblical children of Israel, trembling on the bank of the Jordan. You'll remember that Moses sent spies ahead, who came back to tell of the richness of the land. But ten of the spies advised the Israelites to turn back. The cities are fortified, they said, and the people are giants. It would be better to return to slavery in Egypt or to wander aimlessly in the desert.
I want to become a spy like Joshua and Caleb. I have crossed the river and tangled with a few giants, but I want to go back and say to those who are hesitating, Don't be afraid to cross over. The promised land is worth possessing, and we are not alone. I want to be a spy for hope.
In the book of Deuteronomy, when Moses tells the people, "Honor your father and your mother," it's been nearly 40 years since Joshua and Caleb and ten others spied out the promised land. The children of Israel are still trembling on the banks of the Jordan, but with the exception of Jacob, Caleb, and Moses, it's a new generation. The older generation—the generation that knew slavery in Egypt, that crossed over the Red Sea, that heard God give the 10 commandments at the foot of Mount Sinai—that generation is dead. The generation that followed Moses into the wilderness, ate manna from heaven and sent spies into Canaan—that generation is gone. They had been frightened by the reports of their spies. They had complained against the Lord, they had begged to go back to Egypt, so God decided they weren't going to enter the promised land, and God dispatched of them in various ways. The land was to be for their children. It is those children now trembling on the bank of the Jordan, looking over into the land of Canaan, wondering if they dare cross over, and listening to the words of Moses. Moses—who will not enter the promised land himself—Moses reminds this younger generation of all God has done. He recounts the liberation from Egypt and the sojourn in the wilderness. He reminds them of the commandments given at Sinai, including this one: Honor your father and your mother, as the Lord your God commanded you, so that your days may be long and that it may go well with you in the land that the Lord your God is giving you.
What a perplexing command it must have been to that younger generation standing at the feet of Moses! For, from everything Moses told them, their parents hadn't behaved honorably. They had complained about everything, from the lousy taste of the manna from heaven to the giants they spied out in the promised land. They had strayed and worshipped Baal. They had turned back towards Egypt. So God kept them from the promised land and killed them off with plagues, battles, fires and other disasters. (In the book of Numbers, God could use an anger-management class.) Yet this second generation are not only commanded to honor their parents, the commandment is singled out. It's the only one explicitly tied to the promise of land, long life and well being. Those parents were to be honored? Those parents who had done nothing but anger God and who themselves had been denied long life and the land?
Sadly, it's not only that generation, listening to Moses, that's had reason to be perplexed, even troubled, by this command. For succeeding generations of parents have continued to behave dishonorably, some generations worse than others, some fathers and mothers worse than others. On the macro level we have generations who joined the crusades, ran the slave ships, or closed their eyes during the Holocaust or the stockpiling of nuclear weapons. On the micro level we have mothers and fathers who abuse or neglect their children, even to the point of death. Are those parents to be honored? John Calvin got around the problem by saying we only need to honor parents if they follow the ten commandments ... and for those of us with loving parents, this command may not be problematic. But is it so conditional?
If by honor we mean obedience, admiration, or deference, this commandment could only apply to a select group of parents—parents who always demand what is right and who deserve admiration. When cruel or abusive parents use this scripture to command obedience, the Word of God is being violated. Even when good, loving, parents quote this scripture for wholesome purposes—as in "Clean your room NOW because I say so and the Bible says to honor your father and your mother"—yes, even in the hands of kind and loving parents this scripture can be dangerous. (I want to go on record as saying children should be obedient and clean their rooms.) And surely the children of Israel on the banks of the Jordan weren't being told to obey or follow in the footsteps of their idolatrous and ungrateful parents.
But deference, obedience, and admiration are not the only ways we can show honor. The Old Testament scholar Walter Bruggeman suggests the Hebrew word we translate as "honor" means to "give weight to" or "take seriously" rather than obey. Certainly Moses, and all who came after him, took seriously the lives and experience of the generation that came out of Egypt. They told the stories of those parents, which was also God's story, over and over again. Those parents may not have been models of faithfulness, but they were remembered, in the words of Moses and in the Psalms and even in the stories of Jesus. And the stories of the second and third and fourth generations were also remembered and recorded and treasured and told over and over again. The children honored their parents by learning and remembering their stories, and they also gained hope. They remembered who they were, and to whom they belonged.
We may also honor our parents in this way. We can learn their stories and honor their experiences—if not those of our own parents or grandparents who raised us, those of others. Sometimes those lives will be stories of heroism and Christian conduct, as in the story of Elizabeth Jennings that Ethel Knight told us this morning. Or in the story of "Nana," that Ruben Santiago has given us in Lackawanna Blues. Sometimes they will be cautionary tales, stories of mistakes and pain and violence. Most often they will be both. And as we listen, learn, remember, and seek to understand, we honor them with our care and love as well.
Byron keeps saying that the ten commandments are counter-cultural, and in no other commandment is this so true. Of course, many people do honor their parents: with time and love, nursing them in illness, and supporting them financially. Others may not care for their own parents but honor parents by volunteering in hospitals or befriending neighbors or working to make sure older, more vulnerable people have proper housing and good long-term care. But overall, we don't listen to our elders; we worship the new and dismiss the old. We live in an age-segregated society, beginning in kindergarten. Even as adults, we tend to associate most with people who could have been in our high school graduating class. Teenagers are the most isolated group among us. They are expected to hang out with their own kind, and through TV and movies and so on they are told adults are fools when not downright evil. They get the message—by adults trying to sell them things—that they should have their own clothes and music and activities and culture. As adults, we fall for the myth of the impossible teenager who needs their space, and generally speaking we're content to leave them alone, especially when there's a charismatic youth worker or noble high school teacher to supervise. We tell ourselves they need to separate and individuate—which they do—and then we push them away. Youth can't honor us because we don't let them. We don't invite them to talk with us or work with us or learn about our world, we don't tell them our stories or ask to hear theirs. We aren't "honor-able." How sad and lonely for everyone!
Katherine Patterson compares adulthood with the promised land, and gives us this wonderful image of children peering across the Jordan, wondering if they dare cross over. She knows that if they are to make the leap, they need to know more about the land and to have hope that it will go well with them. They need to know more of the adult world then what they see through TV or movies or so-called "popular culture." So she tells them stories, wonderful stories of parents and children that are full of suffering and hardship but also hope. We need to tell our stories too, to spend time with our children (not just our own children), and to let them spy out the land. We need to be honorable parents by letting them honor us. And maybe they'll learn they're not alone, and there are people to help them on the other side of the river.
But as people who inhabit the world of adulthood, we know that we are not yet in the promised land. God is still calling us to cross over yet again, to a land where there is justice and peace and enough for all. There are giants to wrestle with on the way, and if we are to ever reach it we can't go alone. We need each other, those who are older and those who are younger. We need those who we honor by listening to their stories and those who we honor by telling them. We need to honor our fathers and our mothers, and to be honorable parents as well.