Some time ago a priest I know told me that he had preached a sermon about racism. It had been a hard sermon to hear in some ways. He had talked about the humiliation, the inhumanity, the lynchings, the continuing legacy. He told me that he had gotten a letter from a man in his parish who was deeply offended and angry. The man didn’t disagree with any of the points my friend made; he disagreed with whether he should have been making them. "Sermons," he said, "should be uplifting, inspiring, and pleasant to listen to. They should give us advice that we can use in the coming week, and they definitely should not deal with depressing subjects. When I come to church, I want to hear a sermon that makes me feel good."

While I totally disagree with the man who wrote the letter, I understand his fantasy, because I sometimes share it. It is the fantasy that Jesus could have done his work without the cross, without the pain. It is the fantasy that we Christians can be faithful without having to look into the darkness of suffering. It is the fantasy that sermons, and by extension all Christianity, can be all about positive thinking, good advice, and feeling good.

None of us enjoys pain, so I think a lot of us occasionally indulge in the fantasy that says that when we consider delving into the pain of the world, we can faithfully say, "God forbid it! I’m sticking with something less depressing.

I have remembered that letter to my colleague for some time, and this week, it inspired me to write a sermon that is something of a short story and explores that fantasy. The story is called:

Sunset

Peter sat down slowly, carefully, wincing slightly as the arthritis in his old knees registered a complaint. He had come here often for years. It was a magnificent tomb, suitable for a man of power and influence. When Peter came to the tomb, he remembered his old friend as young and vital, not as the wasted old man who had been carried there amidst great fanfare after finally succumbing to a weak heart.

In the beginning, when the tomb had been newly occupied, many other people came, too. They wanted to honor the much loved, much admired occupant. In those early days, when memory of the accomplishments was still fresh, when the pain of the death was still raw, were was often a pile of gifts carefully placed in front of the elaborately carved rock that served as a door. Flowers, lace, notes. Peter had once seen an elderly woman bring a vial of expensive ointment to leave at the tomb. "Did you know him?" he had asked hopefully. She did not look up. "No." Then, with a touch of embarrassment that made Peter regret having asked, she said, "He . . . he wouldn’t have known someone like me. I was never . . . very . . . well . . . he just wouldn’t have know me." Then, as she placed her precious offering on the pile, she said, "But I wish I had know him."

That had been years ago. On this day, sunny and bright in the late afternoon, there were no gifts at the tomb. Peter almost never saw anyone there anymore. It was to be expected, he told himself. Even great leaders, even leaders who had accomplished so much political and social and religious reform, were destined, before long, to be remembered only as a collection of inanimate, historical facts, a chapter in a book that students read only because they are afraid it might be on the test.

So, Peter, reluctantly, wasn’t surprised that there were no gifts, no people, no disciples sitting at the grave. But he thought back to how it used to be. The adoring crowds. The parades. The finest rooms in the finest hotels. Kings and princes who would not dare pass through the region without asking for an audience. People showering them with money, gifts, affection, adoration.

And Peter remembered with pride how important he had been to it all. How he had been the most trusted advisor, the most steady hand, the keel to the sailboat that often wanted, foolishly he often thought, to just catch the wind and run. Peter was always the practical one, the corrective to his friend’s idealism. He had greatly admired his friend’s idealism, his passion, and his ability to inflame passion. Peter knew he had none of those qualities. But he also knew that they had been a team, that his friend’s accomplishments had been built as much as a result of Peter’s steady, practical, sensible behind-the-scenes advice as his friend’s passionate speeches and ability to command loyalty.

Peter, after all, had understood two things. First, that politics is the art of compromise. And second, that everything is politics. It was Peter who had, quietly, behind the scenes, engineered the crucial compromises with the religious and secular authorities. It was Peter who had given the advice that had cemented the alliances that had allowed his friend’s ideas for reform to take root and flower. It was Peter who had steered him away from talking about depressing subjects (pain, suffering, poverty, injustice, oppression, things no one could have any lasting impact on and which had ruined many a career), and steered him toward talking about the positives in life.

"People don’t want to look at the darkness," Peter had said.

"But the darkness is true, it is part of life," his friend had argued.

"Maybe so," Peter had replied, "But people would rather pretend that everything is sweetness and light than look into the darkness. No one ever made a career inviting people to examine their shadows."

It had taken years of steady influence, but finally Peter had converted him. After that, his speeches were all uplifting, and almost always contained at least one piece of good advice. And his popularity exploded.

Peter remembered one speech in particular. "I dedicate myself to you," his friend told the screaming crowd. "All of who I am, body and blood, I dedicate to you," he said. And then, the coup de gras: "My success is your success." The crowd thundered its approval, its adoration, and that day many joined the movement. It was a fine memory. "Perhaps," Peter thought, "the single pivotal moment."

Then he thought better of it. "No," he thought, "there was a more important moment, but it just wasn’t public; no one knows of it." With a sense of the loyalty his friend could command even from the grave, Peter thought, "And no one ever will. I for one will never tell."

Peter heard a noise and looked up. Two young men were walking down the path, still some distance away. "Perhaps I’ve underestimated him," Peter thought. "Maybe another generation will come to remember him."

He looked again at the carved rock, and thought back to that day when disaster had been so narrowly averted. His friend had been gaining popularity, but was still a green idealist. "Who do people say that I am?" he had asked. His advisors had given him the results of the latest polls. New to this business, he wasn’t very interested in polls.

"But who do you say that I am?" he had asked. Peter had responded: "The anointed one. God’s son. The one who can really pull it off." Peter remembered being immensely relieved and gratified to hear him accept this assessment, and, not only that, but to praise Peter lavishly and promise to build his success around Peter. Peter knew in an instant that he would be first among the advisors.

It was then that disaster almost struck. The more Peter thought about it, the more he realized that this really had been the pivotal moment. Even now, all these years later, when he thought about how close they had come to everything being so different, so unimaginably different, so unimaginably horrible, so unimaginably senseless, he shuttered.

His friend, this man with so much potential, this career to which Peter had hitched his wagon, began to tell them that he had to go to Jerusalem, to be tortured and killed, and then promised to come back for them. "The way to real life is through voluntarily accepting the pain," he had said. "Suffering is in the fabric of the universe," he had said. "It is what ultimately binds us. It is what we all share. It is the foundation of real relationship. I will suffer for you, for you all, and if you would be my followers, you must dedicate your lives to sharing in other people’s suffering. I know it seems odd, but the only way to see the light is first to turn toward the darkness."

"Thank God I talked him out of that," Peter thought as he looked up, the footsteps coming close now. "Thank God, thank God, thank God," he thought. He remembered how it had taken all night. "We are accomplishing so much," Peter argued. "It cannot be that God wants you to waste yourself this way." He could see that his friend was conflicted. Finally, Peter said, "Live to fight another day. There is so much to do. We can go to Jerusalem later. Just don’t do it now."

He saw his friend hesitate, struggle, then, reluctantly, nod. "Later," he said. But, of course, "later," as it is wont to do, never came.

The footsteps were very close now; he could make out their voices. Peter felt a cautious sense of excitement as he waited to see if they turned toward him, toward the tomb. They looked at the tomb and came close, but they didn’t turn. He could hear their conversation:

"Fancy grave. You know who’s in there?"

"Nope. Some big shot, I guess. I’ll never have a fancy tomb like that."

"No, neither will I. But he’s just as dead in his fancy tomb as we’re going to be in our plain ones."

His companion laughed. "Yeah, I guess so," Peter heard him say just before they got out of range.

It was late now. The shadows were long on the ground, and the sun was almost below the horizon. Peter slowly got to his feet, wincing. He looked at the rock. It was elaborately carved, but to Peter, who remembered, it looked so plain with no gifts, no disciples. "Well, my old friend, " he said out loud, "I’ll be going now," and he turned to leave. But, thinking of the two young men, he paused and turned back toward the rock. Again, he spoke out loud: "They walk away now. It’s a new day for them. But we had our day, my friend. We had out day."

And then he turned and walked away, hurrying to catch what was left of the fading light.