FORGIVENESS - Part II

I struggle with forgiveness sometimes. It’s strange to me – how I can pour it out lavishly, as Jesus taught me, over the big things but in the scratches and the bumps I am so prone to keep accounts. I hold onto words – I get spiteful over the silent treatment. I listen to my children say, Now you know how it feels, and I know they are sampling revenge. They don’t see me modeling forgiveness.

I think about Jesus’ debtor’s story of The Unforgiving Servant in Matthew 18, and I ask myself why did that man have such a hard time forgiving another, after he himself had been unburdened of so very, very much? The one who is forgiven much loves much – but it does not always stand to reason that the one who is forgiven much forgives much.  

Life has been teaching me over and over again that being forgiven of a debt does not necessarily leave you without need. Forgiveness isn’t money in the bank – it is only a release from what is owed. The King did not say to his servant, I forgive you of your debt – and here’s a little something extra to get you back on your feet again, and a budget so this doesn’t happen again. In Jesus’ story, the servant left the King in virtually the same condition he went in to him – with empty pockets.  

Free indeed but with nothing stored up, empty of currency, and not yet any wiser. Fear can stick its foot in. And the surprising thing – the thing you would never expect – is that mercy can sit sour in your belly when you have had too much of it to drink. You can resent to your core the pain of ever having needed it at all.

When you have known burden, when you’ve felt it lifted, you don’t ever want to feel it again. I can imagine the liberated servant dancing out of the King’s presence singing freedom songs – As God is my witness, I’ll never need mercy again. But I know how pride and fear can tempt to self-preserve. You never forget the taste of dust. You can begin to take notice of people who bump you and stir up feelings of heavy. You can become accutely aware of people who took from you when were already barely holding on. You can start making mental notes of those to whom you once gave out of your excess. You can shovel out a pile of blame – why you ended up on your knees, in the hole.

Jesus’ story is really, really not about an imaginary thing like money. It is about real taken things like trust, childhood, reputation, dignity, pride, self-worth, a sense of personal safety, faith in humanity, boundaries, family, innocence, and sleep – things that we sometimes lose to one another in the normal course of life, which we need and to which we are sincerely attached. It can be hard to release those kinds of debts, though we know even as we write them down that there is seldom any way that they can ever, ever be repaid to us.

The Greek word for forgive is aphiemi – to send forth, to lay aside, to let go. It is not apokathistemi – to restore. It is not epilanthanomai – to lose out of mind, to forget. It is not a lot of other words that mean things like, it didn’t happen, it doesn’t hurt, it wasn’t wrong, one more chance, don’t call the police, don’t talk about it, just be grateful it wasn’t something worse, God is gonna get ‘em in the end. There are other words for those things, but none of them mean forgive.

Forgiveness means you choose not to count your debtor as a resource to draw from. Forgiveness means, I don’t need back from you what you took from me.

Forgiveness can be painfully costly – but I have learned a very great secret. Forgiving a debt is a whole lot easier when you’ve still got lots.

Sometimes I think we don’t want to say it – but we believe that God gives mercy because God can afford to forgive. We believe that God gives and forgives without partiality because of the generosity that comes from abundance, not because of God commandments like grace or compassion or love. We think, but don’t say out loud, It’s not like God is losing anything. God has more where that came from. Of course God forgives – God is good. It’s expected. Because when God asks us to do the same, we believe that God has not fully considered the nature of poverty – what it means to be way beyond empty. We feel that sometimes we simply cannot afford to forgive what is owed, because we still happen to need it.

I believe in love your neighbour as yourself. I really, really believe in love always forgives. But I have triggers. When I feel the unforgiving spirit well up in me, I know what it is because I start to feel mean. I start to feel spiteful. I start to want people to know. But I am starting to learn to say to myself – what is it that is making you so greedy? What is it that you are so very attached to, or that you think you don’t have enough of?  

I pray to remember that God has lots – more than I could hope, think or imagine – and to never forget the words, All I have is yours.  

For this reason, I bow my knees before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth derives its name, that He would grant you, according to the riches of His glory, to be strengthened with power through His Spirit in the inner man; so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith; and that you, being rooted and grounded in love, may be able to comprehend with all the saints what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ which surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled up to all the fullness of God. Ephesians 3:14-19

TRAINING UP A CHILD

I know a lot about sin – where the seeds are, how they root and grow into underground webbings, making beanstalks overnight. I have Master’s Class experience. Since I became a mother, I don’t let myself get quite so buried under rocks about it. I haven’t scratched the surface on holy, but I sure understand mistakes better.

I have an alphabet and a label maker for spelling out soul struggles like separation anxiety, obsessive compulsive, attention deficit and inadequate impulse control. I have a lot of people – some professional, some not so much – advising me all the time what and what not to do. In the midst of that I try to laugh and be wise, and not exhibit signs of oppositional defiance disorder. I monitor the level of my outside voice, and I try not to let aggression turn passive. I try not to quench the spirit. I dodge prescriptions. I study DaVinci and Martha Stewart and Simon foot-in-mouth Peter. I look for precious gifts to polish – for anything true, excellent, worthy of praise. I see, clear as a glass house, how frustration can wear a spirit down. Try this, maybe that, persistent, consistent, don’t blink, don’t sweat, don’t ever drop the ball. I give thanks to God that I already know how to sweep to the corners of error. I give deep thanks to God for swimming in grace.

I do not want my children to hurt.

But sometimes they will hurt. Sometimes they will hurt other people. From my side of it, some days I’m not sure which of those is harder. I put tape over the mouths of old-time voices in my head that lob guilt bombs. Didn’t your mother teach you NOT to – crumple your homework, colour on walls, kick off your shoes, leave the house without socks, gossip, yell, wipe your mouth on your sleeve, hammer nails in your dresser, say f**k, punch people? There are an awful lot of don’ts to remember, in between Family History forms and permission slips and reading and math and World Peace. Sometimes I just want a t-shirt that reads, Don’t tell me what to do.

Few people really like error. It is offensive. It is annoying. It is distracting. It is wounding. It is hurtful. It is messy. It is damaging to relationships. It is very, very time-consuming. It is better not to make mistakes – so you have life, time, money, energy, limbs and relationship for all the right choices you want to make. If I could take mistakes away, I would. Maybe.

The truth is, I believe Jesus when he says, The one who is forgiven much, loves much. And I so badly want my children to love much. I so badly want them to grasp and wield the unsurpassed power of forgiveness and to build their lives on a foundation of grace. I don’t want them to ever think to paint white.

But I still let them peek at what the paint looks like, and I show them how to hold the brush. I tell them all the rules. I speak the words, Be good, as they go out the door and I hear God say to me, sharp, urgent, with the outside voice. Stop, My child. Stop. That is not how I have taught you.   

 Just as I am. I have to get brave to tell my children what I know – all the priceless that God has shown me through the pining of my sin and error. Do justly, love mercy, walk humbly with God. Do not be afraid of pain. Do not fall into sin – do whatever you do on purpose. Own your choices, and learn from them. If it’s a mistake, then it’s a mistake. Tell the truth to yourself and to God – God will speak Truth to you. God is Grace. All is grace.

MIDLIFE CRISIS - Part I

I was once the prodigal, a long time ago. I used to pull off my dress and splash neck deep in grace. I was really wasteful with it. I used to know ocean. I understood boundless. I used to believe it will never run out. But I, like a great many prodigals, have long since become the Father’s prudent daughter. I have learned to sit respectfully at the table and drink God’s sufficient for all my needs grace from a cup. Life is filled with should and, unless I am having a really bad day or I didn’t sleep very well, I usually do. I have grown responsible. I have gained strength. I have become mature. I rarely make mistakes on purpose, tallying risk and reward before jumping brazenly into wrong. I have the beginnings of wisdom. I have faith more than enough to please God. I think, sometimes, maybe I might hear, Well done.

Except lately, that’s not been entirely true. I’m not really that crazy to hear, Well done. Honestly, I’m just not. Lately, it feels like too little, too late, and I don’t feel like it fits. I’ve been licking the skin of my teeth and thinking, Well – in is still in, is still in. Lately, I’ve been making mistakes on purpose.

The truth is that I’m just plain old weary of well-doing. I am exhausted from bearing all things and from overcoming evil with good. I have post-traumatic stress disorder from all the error I’ve had to put in the ground. I have all the symptoms of someone who’s been in the trenches. I’m thinking a lot about how evil you will have with you always – and how life just plain hurts no matter what you do.

I’ve been listening to Jesus, how he wants me to notice that the same sweet rain falls on the just and the unjust, and I’m answering him with anti-Christ words like, I don’t think that’s really fair. I don’t remember anymore what it means when the Father says, All I have is yours already. I want to say, Oh really? Well, what exactly do You have? Because if there’s something I’ve missed, I’ll write it down. I’m taking inventory.

Lately I’ve been taking bigger and bigger swigs of that cup of grace at the table, and looking God Father square in the eyes. Irreverent. He keeps full the cup in front of me – a bottomless, spilling out, running over measure – but it’s still measured. My daily portion. Sufficient for all my needs. I am expected to be mature. And lately He’s been eyeballing me. He knows I’m getting itchy feet.

I say, God, You know all things. I’m still here – I’m not going to run from You, even though I want to. Even though I’m crawling to get out of my own skin. Even though I’m sick in my belly from drinking that cup. But I’m so broken and so bored and I don’t remember what it feels like to choose.

His eyes blink ocean water, and His words to me are raw and warm like blood – All I have is yours. He loves me. Oh, how He loves me. He pushes away from the table – slips out of His shoes and pulls His shirt up over His head. He looks at that spilling over cup of grace and says, Ok, so We’ll be wanting more than that.

TRUTH TELLING

Some stories are true that never happened. ~ Elie Wiesel

I have some literal thinkers in my house. I gave birth to a fledgling fundamentalist. Black and white. Right and wrong. Justice. Truth. Rules. She’s beautiful in her way – baby, she was absolutely born that way. However, this does present challenges for a slightly more grace hungry, both-sides-now thinker who likes to say things using expressions and metaphors and sarcasm, especially if that person is the parent. It can make for some very intense conversations about nuanced things like time frames and sleeping in and hell. I get stumped a lot.

I like to talk about gray things – questions that don’t have answers, the weather in London, the elephant in the room – but children are rarely equipped for this.

What is truth?

The Bible is full of people who ask some pretty fantastic questions, but I love this question. Pilate asks it of Jesus, after Jesus' arrest. He takes a lot of heat for asking it – and, ok, perhaps it was his tone – but I think it’s a monster sized question.

“Jesus answered, ‘You say correctly that I am a king. For this I have been born, and for this I have come into the world, to bear witness to the truth. Everyone who is of the truth hears My voice.” Pilate said to Him, ‘What is truth?’”  John 18:37-8

WHAT is truth? What IS truth? What is TRUTH? Well, it’s true that sometimes we wouldn’t know Truth if it was staring us in the face.

When my children ask me if the story of Adam and Eve is a true story, I know what they are asking me. They are asking me, Did that really happen? They want to know, is the God Story the same kind of story as Santa and Little Red Riding Hood and the Tooth Fairy – something to keep them good, out of dark woods and asleep on time. They ask as though true and actually happened were interchangeable. They ask as though actually happened is more meaningful than Story. I understand why they ask this, but I don’t think it’s the right question.

You have to know that as soon as Jesus finished telling the story of The Prodigal Son, some kid in the front put up his hand and asked, Did that really happen? You know someone did.

What makes a story a true story?