About Forgiveness
We are doing a Lenten study on the topic of forgiveness at church. I participated the first week, when we were talking about the parable of the prodigal son. The conversation was fairly routine, even a little boring, until one of the participants commented on the fact that the son seemed truly sorry.
"Why does that matter?" asked T, who hadn't spoken at all up to this point. "Should we base our decision to forgive on whether the person is sorry or not?"
This is one of the reasons I love her--she'll seem so quiet and reserved, but it's only because she's saving her words for when they matter. At this point, they mattered.
I looked around the room. When I'd left the church a few years back, it was some of these same people who had hurt me so deeply I was sure I wouldn't be able to come back. I thought, too, about one of the couples there, whose son had recently made a re-appearance. About another woman at our church, not present, whose daughter was finally sober, and back with her--but we'd seen the cycle before, and all of us were holding our breath. I thought about my friend, recently out of prison. I thought about my own daughter, who is sometimes truly, to-the-depth-of-her-heart sorry, and sometimes just saying sorry because she knows it's the right thing to do. I thought about the new information my family was processing about the truck that killed my cousin last year--turns out it had faulty brakes, had been improperly inspected, and that the driver was driving above the speed limit at the time of the accident. I thought, too, of S's biological family and other abusers, how I really, truly don't know if I can ever feel any inkling of forgiveness.
This week the social worker who saved my daughter's life sent me a note about another family who sued the county for not responding to CPS calls--and won. "Sound familiar?" he wrote, and asked if I'd ever consider suing.
Probably not, I said, but there is a part of me that feels like someone ought to pay.
Tonight I decided to scroll through posts on facebook--a last ditch effort to hold onto spring break for just one more night. Several people had posted that Fred Phelps, the infamous minister who became famous for picketing Matthew Shepherd's funeral and never let up, was on his death bed, with many different details about the events that put him there. I tried to find some confirmation, and found an article on Minnesota Public Radio that is likely as accurate as anything can be. His son, Nathan, who left the church, sent an e-mail to a Kansas newspaper indicating his father had been voted out of the church and forced to move out of his home, and he was no longer eating. Another son later apparently confirmed this account. Of course, church members refused to comment.
Regardless of the facts, the reality is this: this man who has caused so many people so much pain is about to die. And there are a lot of angry people out there, including some of my facebook friends, who would like to picket his funeral.
In the midst of posted rumors, cut-and-pasted notes from Nathan Phelps' facebook page, etc., I found an article on a blog called The Gay Christian that a friend had posted: http://thegaychristian.com/fred-phelps-lets-picket-funeral-love/
Here is my favorite paragraph: "My final prayer is that people do show up to his funeral as a show of pageantry. I hope they show up with large, decorated signs and billboards. I hope they line the streets leading to the funeral home, and I hope that they make sure they are seen. Finally, I hope every one of those billboards and signs read, “We forgive you.”
Well, admittedly, I'm not there yet. I can't imagine forgiving this man--whether I were his son, or one of the granddaughters who recently left the church, or one of the family members of the dead whose funerals were picketed. But I'd like to be at that picket line nonetheless--just because sometimes we have to do something audacious that represents how we hope to feel, even if we don't feel it yet.
Being at that picket line with an "I forgive you" sign would be like my daughter, when she says she's sorry even if she isn't--I could get mad at her, tell her to wait until she really feels it, or take it for what it is, a flawed attempt at feeling something she knows she ought to feel, but doesn't, not yet.
Being at that picket line would be like opening the door to a prodigal daughter, again and again, as my friend has done--always believing that this time, maybe it will stick, maybe she'll stay sober and connected.
Being on that picket line would be like getting out of prison and being able to show up at church again. It would be like saying, "Thanks for sharing your concern" to the guidance counselor who condescendingly tells you she hopes you are planning to stick around awhile and understand the importance of providing your children with stability--and, when your daughter wants to talk with her each week, saying yes, of course.
Being on that picket line would be like forgiving everyone who has ever told me they would pray for me--meaning that they would be praying I might become straight--and everyone who's ever jeered or yelled things out their windows or called me a dyke, to my face or behind my back.
It would be a radical act--and even if I can't be there, I hope others will be, and that even if they don't feel forgiveness, they'll offer it, over and over, until, someday, maybe they will.
"Why does that matter?" asked T, who hadn't spoken at all up to this point. "Should we base our decision to forgive on whether the person is sorry or not?"
This is one of the reasons I love her--she'll seem so quiet and reserved, but it's only because she's saving her words for when they matter. At this point, they mattered.
I looked around the room. When I'd left the church a few years back, it was some of these same people who had hurt me so deeply I was sure I wouldn't be able to come back. I thought, too, about one of the couples there, whose son had recently made a re-appearance. About another woman at our church, not present, whose daughter was finally sober, and back with her--but we'd seen the cycle before, and all of us were holding our breath. I thought about my friend, recently out of prison. I thought about my own daughter, who is sometimes truly, to-the-depth-of-her-heart sorry, and sometimes just saying sorry because she knows it's the right thing to do. I thought about the new information my family was processing about the truck that killed my cousin last year--turns out it had faulty brakes, had been improperly inspected, and that the driver was driving above the speed limit at the time of the accident. I thought, too, of S's biological family and other abusers, how I really, truly don't know if I can ever feel any inkling of forgiveness.
This week the social worker who saved my daughter's life sent me a note about another family who sued the county for not responding to CPS calls--and won. "Sound familiar?" he wrote, and asked if I'd ever consider suing.
Probably not, I said, but there is a part of me that feels like someone ought to pay.
Tonight I decided to scroll through posts on facebook--a last ditch effort to hold onto spring break for just one more night. Several people had posted that Fred Phelps, the infamous minister who became famous for picketing Matthew Shepherd's funeral and never let up, was on his death bed, with many different details about the events that put him there. I tried to find some confirmation, and found an article on Minnesota Public Radio that is likely as accurate as anything can be. His son, Nathan, who left the church, sent an e-mail to a Kansas newspaper indicating his father had been voted out of the church and forced to move out of his home, and he was no longer eating. Another son later apparently confirmed this account. Of course, church members refused to comment.
Regardless of the facts, the reality is this: this man who has caused so many people so much pain is about to die. And there are a lot of angry people out there, including some of my facebook friends, who would like to picket his funeral.
In the midst of posted rumors, cut-and-pasted notes from Nathan Phelps' facebook page, etc., I found an article on a blog called The Gay Christian that a friend had posted: http://thegaychristian.com/fred-phelps-lets-picket-funeral-love/
Here is my favorite paragraph: "My final prayer is that people do show up to his funeral as a show of pageantry. I hope they show up with large, decorated signs and billboards. I hope they line the streets leading to the funeral home, and I hope that they make sure they are seen. Finally, I hope every one of those billboards and signs read, “We forgive you.”
Well, admittedly, I'm not there yet. I can't imagine forgiving this man--whether I were his son, or one of the granddaughters who recently left the church, or one of the family members of the dead whose funerals were picketed. But I'd like to be at that picket line nonetheless--just because sometimes we have to do something audacious that represents how we hope to feel, even if we don't feel it yet.
Being at that picket line with an "I forgive you" sign would be like my daughter, when she says she's sorry even if she isn't--I could get mad at her, tell her to wait until she really feels it, or take it for what it is, a flawed attempt at feeling something she knows she ought to feel, but doesn't, not yet.
Being at that picket line would be like opening the door to a prodigal daughter, again and again, as my friend has done--always believing that this time, maybe it will stick, maybe she'll stay sober and connected.
Being on that picket line would be like getting out of prison and being able to show up at church again. It would be like saying, "Thanks for sharing your concern" to the guidance counselor who condescendingly tells you she hopes you are planning to stick around awhile and understand the importance of providing your children with stability--and, when your daughter wants to talk with her each week, saying yes, of course.
Being on that picket line would be like forgiving everyone who has ever told me they would pray for me--meaning that they would be praying I might become straight--and everyone who's ever jeered or yelled things out their windows or called me a dyke, to my face or behind my back.
It would be a radical act--and even if I can't be there, I hope others will be, and that even if they don't feel forgiveness, they'll offer it, over and over, until, someday, maybe they will.
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