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A Congregation Of The "Never place a period where God has placed a comma." - Gracie Allen |
From September 11, 2005 Ever the teacher, Jesus has just finished giving his students, the disciples, a brief lecture on community health - faith community health, that is. If someone in the church sins against you, don't do what's easiest for you: withdraw, tattle, gossip, plot revenge, or call in your troops. Do what may be difficult, Jesus says. Do what may even feel risky. Take the initiative; seek out your offender and reveal your hurt in private If you're heard, you're blessed with a renewed relationship. If not, Jesus teaches, ask a couple of your wisest members to go with you and give the conversation a second go. If that doesn't work, ask the church to listen in and see if together you can't repair the breach. If even that falls flat, then love the offender all the more even as you recognize that the offending behavior is not acceptable. While their teacher has been lecturing, the disciples have been taking notes, thinking of examples from their journeys together. Thomas remembers vividly the day in Bethany when Andrew said something terribly unkind to him in front of the others. And John is still seething about the night his brother James forgot he was an adult and gobbled John's bowl of lentil stew when he was called out on a dinner time errand. "Lord," Peter asks, "if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?" They all knew that convention dictated that a person was obligated to forgive three times. Peter's guess sounds good to him - seven is a 150% improvement on the social standard. "Seven times?" Peter asks, liking how generous that word sounds. "Not seven times," Jesus corrects, "but seventy-seven times." The certainty on Peter's face quickly turns into puzzlement. "Could you run that by me again," Peter asks wordlessly. And so Jesus tells a parable to make his point about the unbelievable generosity of God's grace. How often should forgiveness be given? Seventy-seven times, Jesus says. If he were living now, Jesus might be inspired to borrow from Toy Story's Buzz Lightyear and say "Forgive...to infinity and beyond." Because the kind of forgiving Jesus encourages is a thorough, thorough process. It's aim is quality not quantity. At the center of our Christian faith is this charge: we the forgiven are to forgive. Made in the image of our forgiving God, we are to reach out even when we have been wronged. Especially when we have been wronged. The sins church members commit against each other happen all the time. Most of the time, such wrong are garden variety sins. Yes, there is the church treasurer who finally gets caught with his hand in the offering plate or the member who contracts with the trustees to do expensive repair work that winds up being especially substandard. Yes, there is the youth pastor who is given to regular outbursts of unsavory language. There are even those great sins, ones that defy explanation, as when a minister abuses a parishioner. But mostly our sins against each other are rather ordinary. One member promises to come through but doesn't, leaving others in the lurch. Another member consistently says the wrong thing at the wrong time to newcomers. One member insists on editorializing (and badly) while she reads the scripture. These two on this committee snicker at every new idea that comes their way. Those teenagers in the back play cards while the preacher preaches and intentionally pop their gum when the soloist sings. Most of our sins are garden variety. But even these sins, if not tended to, can put the health of the community at risk. Resentments build. Anger simmers. Shame festers. Hurt hides behind a forced smile. The one who was brother slowly comes to be viewed as other. If we are not given to forgiving, we are gambling. Slowly, imperceptibly even, a community gathered in grace can easily become weighed down by incidents and offenses in a past it cannot change. Imagine listening to a parishioner tell about the latest misdeed and then be treated to a list of offenses reaching back 25 years. Imagine having to go to a parishioner's home after church and explain that the passing of the peace is not a good time to come to terms with long-standing issues by telling fellow church members that they are hate-mongers and should find another place to worship. Imagine sitting in on a committee meeting--pick a meeting, any meeting--and being aware that some cannot participate in the conversation at hand because they are too busy taking inventories of past violations committed against them by members sitting across the table. Imagine putting harnesses on a congregation of ants and asking them to budge a boulder; this is what its like to be part of a church with no inclination toward forgiveness. Without an ongoing practice of forgiving, faith communities simply cannot move into the future. The dead weight of the past holds them back. You and I are stewards of our experience. Stewards. Taking on the practice of forgiving each other is to be a caretaker of even the worst that happens to us in the life of the church. You and I are responsible for what we do with what we have been given. The hard news is that we cannot change what was has been done to us. The good news is that with God's help we can change how we relate to both offenders and their offenses. Before we get ahead of ourselves, let's remember that forgiving doesn't begin with us. It starts with God. It starts with a God who looks upon each one of us with kindness, with understanding, with a keen perception of our willful ways. A God who, in spite of everything, does not let our past color how God sees us in the present. Forgiveness in and beyond the church starts with God. I had someone sin against me horribly once. By the world's standards, it was a rather common offense and looking back, I see that it had nothing to do with me. Nevertheless, I took it very personally and was so hurt and insulted that I could scarcely speak. Separated by miles shortly thereafter, I took the matter to God in prayer, calling upon Jesus for help. "Jesus," I said silently, "I've been sinned against. Please come with me to speak to this person." And so in my prayerful imagination the two of us traveled the many miles to the offender's home. Grateful to have Jesus with me as my very own spiritual enforcer, I knocked hard on the door. I could hardly wait to see what Jesus was going to do with this guy. When the door opened, Jesus turned to me quickly and said, "I'll take it from here. You wait outside." And then he quietly slipped inside, leaving me sputtering on the step. I waited. I waited some more. I wandered the yard. I kicked at the curb. As I prayed, I realized Jesus was not coming out any time soon and that something more than waiting was being asked of me. So every day for an entire season I prayed. And for a season, bit by little bit, day by numberless day, God showed me how I was not exactly blameless. Although I had believed myself to be a person of good intent, the utterly innocent one, very slowly God showed me how I had been insensitive here and unkind there. Yes, I had been sinned against. Nothing excused this. But I was not without sin. In light of this revelation, the only honorable thing to do was ask for forgiveness. So I asked to be forgiven, not by my offender but from my God, because that's where my offense began. My failures in love were ultimately sins against my maker. And because the offender and I were separated by many miles and not able to speak face-to-face, by way of the spirit I asked him for forgiveness for having offended. Gradually, this process brought closure. Peace, too. I cherished the newfound gift of serenity. But I had no idea there was yet another gift waiting for me. Months later, I took a risk and dropped a note in the mail. I'll be passing through your town, I wrote. Would you like me to stop by? Yes, came the answer, by all means do. I was uncertain as I drove up. Would we fight? Would I cry? Would the doors of our hearts be open or closed to one another? When I pulled up, the man was standing in his doorway, that same doorway Jesus refused to let me cross when I had begun praying many months before. Getting out of my truck, I quickly scanned his face. He looked like he always had and yet a moment later he changed entirely: all around his body was a light I can only describe as thick and golden. The golden, radiant, perfect love of God. Immediately I understood: God had already forgiven him for his offense against me. God had forgiven it even without needing to be asked. And now, mercy of mercies, I could see how God had inched me, day by numberless day, to a moment when, forgiven myself, being asked for forgiveness was not something I needed anymore. My only need was to take in the holy glow that wrapped itself around this man whom God loved completely and eternally. And to express my sorrow for any hurt I had caused him. Forgiveness cannot and should not be reduced to platitudes. To do so is dangerous and even damaging. But as I listen to Jesus, as I listen to my own experience, I know forgiveness is not something people of faith decide on. It is something we pray for. A spirit of forgiveness may come after just one pass, perhaps even after two or three passes. Or it may come after we've quit counting altogether. But forgiveness does come. And it so needs to. Amen. © Rev.
Karen Winkel |
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