Forgiven

One of my favourite books (and favourite movies) is Les Miserables. I read the rather massive tome when I was in my early twenties (and ambitious). I must admit, I skipped over some of the descriptions of the Parisian sewer system, and others of Hugo's lengthy descriptions, and I focused my energies (still considerable) on the wonderful story of Jean Valjean.

I first saw the musical on stage with my "little" brother, starring the incomparable Colm Wilkinson in the role of Valjean. Most recently, I sat spellbound through the screen production starring Anne Hathaway and Hugh Jackman. It is the only movie I have ever watched twice in the theatre.

Why does this tale grip me so? Because it is the story of a wretched sinner, saved by grace. It is the story of forgiveness and redemption and a life reborn. It is the gospel.

"Take an eye for an eye, turn your heart into stone.

This is all I have lived for. This is all I have known.

One word from him, and I'd be back

Beneath the lash, upon the rack.

Instead he offers me my freedom. 

I feel my shame inside me like a knife.

He told me that I have a soul. How does he know?

What spirit comes to move my life?

Is there another way to go?

I am reaching, but I fall, and the night is closing in

As I stare into the void, to the whirlpool of my sin.

I'll escape now from that world,

From the world of Jean Valjean.

Jean Valjean is nothing now. Another story must begin."

And so it does. The hardened sinner is reborn into a man of grace and compassion. The man forgiven becomes the one who forgives, even when it means great personal sacrifice. In a story replete with angry people who are disappointed with each other and with God, Valjean shines like a star in the darkness. It is a beautiful, beautiful tale. I love the story, because I want it to be mine. I want to live that kind of life of forgiveness.

But living that kind of life is hard. Forgiveness is hard. It is one thing to see it played out in the pages of a book, or on a theatre screen. It is entirely different when I am the one who has to look into the eyes of those who have hurt me, and let them go free. That is hard. So hard, in fact, that sometimes I think it is impossible outside the cross of Jesus Christ.

Let's face it; there are wounds, and then there are wounds. There is the careless word that cuts, and then there are the words deliberately spoken to wound and destroy. There is the moment of forgetfulness, and then there are the moments of neglect and abandonment that pile up like thick scabs over bruised and bleeding hearts. There are the unintentionally broken promises, and then there are the promises that are deliberately thrown to the floor at my feet, where they shatter into shrapnel that penetrates deep and festers. There are the misunderstandings, and then there are the blows of abuse that rain down on us, drowning us in an ocean of pain and tears. "Take an eye for an eye. Turn your heart into stone." It sometimes seems like the only way to survive. To retain a tender heart feels too costly. It seems right, logical, sensible to prevent further injury by locking my broken heart behind a fortress of bitterness and unforgiveness where it cannot be further blighted. Forgiveness feels impossible.

But God says, "Forgive one another, just as God in Christ forgave you."

I've heard all kinds of nonsense about this. I've heard people say things like, "If you really understood the depth of what you have been forgiven, you'd realise that the sins committed against you are nothing." Do we really want to look at the atrocities which fill our newspapers daily and call them nothing? Hardly. I've heard people say, "Forgive and forget. If you haven't forgotten, you haven't forgiven." Do we really want to suggest that somehow forgiveness means a purging from our memories of the travesties committed against us? Do we really think the Holocaust survivor will ever be able to forget the memories of the camps? Do we truly want to suggest that the abuse victim will have no recollection of the abuse committed against him? Are we really going to believe that, one day, the grieving widow whose husband was kidnapped and brutally murdered will one day wake up and "forget" that he had been murdered? It's not even logical. To remember her husband is to remember how he died.

And yet, God says, "Forgive one another, just as God in Christ forgave you."

There is something in forgiveness that drives me back to the cross. Back to the cross, again, and again. And it is there, at the cross, that I find my answer.

It is not that if I truly understood the magnitude of what I have been forgiven that forgiving others would be a cake-walk. It is that when I look at the cross, I recognise the supreme all-sufficiency of God's grace to cover sin. ALL sin. My sin toward God. And the sin committed against me. Christ's sacrifice on the cross is not sufficient only to cover the overwhelming cost of my debt to God. It is sufficient to also cover the considerable cost of others' debt to me - and my debt to others. Christ's sacrifice on the cross covers ALL my debt - and leaves me debt-free. With everyone.

So forgiveness becomes possible. Not because your debt to me is insignificant - it may be vast. Not because I am simply "forgetting" the debt, as if it never happened. No, forgiveness is possible because the debt has already been paid in full. But not by you. Forgiveness means that I am driven not to you to cover your debt to me, but back to the cross. When I look at Jesus' broken and bleeding body, I am compelled to recognise that "grace is enough" to cover not just my debt to God, but your debt to me, however big that debt may be. I don't need you to pay me back the debt you owe, because I am no longer wanting. When I stand at Jesus' nailed feet and look up into that battered dear face, I must have the humility to stop demanding that you pay me back for the debt you owe me, and accept from those pierced and bleeding hands the grace-payment that covers all debts.

And that's why Jesus can say, "If you do not forgive others, you will not be forgiven." It isn't a threat. He's not saying, Do this, or else. It's simply a fact. I either accept the all-sufficiency of his sacrifice on the cross, or I do not. I don't get to pick "part-sufficiency". I don't get to pick "sufficiency to cover my debt to God" but walk away from "sufficiency to cover your debt to me". There is no part-sufficiency. It's all or nothing. Either grace is enough, or it is not. There is simply no in-between. So when Jesus says, "If you do not forgive others, you will not be forgiven," it is because if I don't recognise the sufficiency of his sacrifice to cover those horizontal debts, then I don't recognise the sufficiency of his sacrifice. Period. I have walked away from his grace.

Valjean understood grace. He knew his soul belonged to God. He knew his debt was covered. When the Spirit comes to move your life, there is another way to go, and he had found it. So, when he had the opportunity to revenge himself against his pursuer-through-the-years, instead, he set his enemy free. He forgave. He stood eyeball-to-eyeball with his accuser, in a situation where he had all the power, and his enemy had none, and he cut the cords which bound the man he feared, and set him free, and walked away. Forgiven. And forgiving.

Because when your soul belongs to God, his grace fills you so that no debt remains. None at all.

"One word from Him, and I'd be back

Beneath the lash, upon the rack.

Instead He offers me my freedom."

All debt. Forgiven.

And I walk free.

Known Altogether

I have a text of Scripture taped to the sun visor in my car. It is a well-known one: "Before a word is on my tongue, you, O LORD, know it altogether" (Psalm 139:4). This morning, as on many mornings, as I was on my hour-long commute, with the car on cruise and the radio off, the import of those words struck me again.

You see, my head is a pretty noisy place. There is always something to think about, always something to notice, to wonder at, always a new path to explore. Some of those paths lead nowhere at all, but provide several hours of delightful wandering. Sometimes, I can grab hold of an idea that forms a logical path that leads to ideas that can be explained and shared. Sometimes, there is no discernible path, only a flash of insight that defies all explanation but that explains everything.

Living with that noise in my head means that I love my long lonely commutes, and that my radio is often off. I value the gift of silence. Noise, or even sound, sometimes feels like a physical barrier that imprisons me. It presses in on me, binds me tight like a straitjacket. The expectation of conversation can sometimes feel overwhelming. Silence sets me free. Silence is standing in the middle of a wide-open field, or on the top of a cliff, with an unobstructed view. In silence, my mind can soar, and I feel free.

So, this morning, in the silence, with my mind soaring, thinking I don't-even-know-what-all, my eyes fell on this text. "Before a word is on my tongue, you, O LORD, know it altogether." And in that moment, in that moment when all moments coalesce in one perfect, heart-stopping breath, I felt known. I felt seen. And I felt loved.

Known by a God who knows all those tangled, noisy thoughts better than I know them myself. Seen by a God who does not require me to translate my thoughts into spoken word. Loved by a God who is comfortable in the silence, who is quite willing to sit in the silence with me, and who does not find it odd.

"You have the gift of silence. It makes you quite invaluable as a companion."

And in that moment, for a moment, the noise in my head stopped, too.

And all was silent.

Known. Seen. Loved. Altogether.

And I breathed in peace.

About That Nail

There is a short video on YouTube called, It's Not About the Nail. It's about a woman, who is talking to a man, presumably her boyfriend or husband. She laments the pressure in her head, the throbbing pain, the fact that all her sweaters get snagged. When he tries to point out the nail she has sticking out of her head, she rips into him. "It's not about the nail!" She just wants him to listen, to empathise, to "hear" her. And so he tries to do that. And everyone laughs hysterically when they watch the video.

Can I be honest?

I didn't laugh. I don't really get why it's funny. I'm not really sure if it is making fun of women or making fun of men. It seems to be making fun of something or someone, but I don't get who or what. I understand that it's hyperbole, and that we're not talking about literal nails literally sticking out of people's heads. I understand that this sort of conversation is repeated probably by the minute in relationships all around the world. But I don't get why the video is funny.

In fact, the video makes me kind of mad.

Now, there are occasions when people have a metaphorical nail sticking out of their head, but they don't know the nail is there. As obvious as it is to others, they are unable to see it themselves. They can see the symptoms of the problem, but they cannot identify their source. I understand that. It's called denial, and it's a powerful force. I have fallen under its spell myself, many times, and, indeed, probably am still. We all have blind spots about our own character. I get that.

What I struggle to understand is this: if my symptoms are so severe as to warrant my complaining about them, would I not want to identify their source? Would I not want to solve the problem? I've been in the position of having a nail poking out of my forehead, and I will remain eternally grateful to the people in my life who said to me, "You've got a nail in your head." The prison doors opened that day. There was a problem, and it was solveable. It wasn't an easy solution. It was gut-wrenching. I cried buckets of tears in the weeks, months, and years that followed, as I struggled, by God's grace, and in his strength, to extricate that nail. But there was hope. For the first time, I could imagine a life free of headaches, free of pressure in my head, and free of snagged sweaters. I could see a life free of the problems that kept me from getting close to others. I could see a life beyond the nail.

Likewise, I will remain eternally grateful to those who listened, who heard, who saw me as I struggled to remove the nail. When I cried that it was painful, they cried with me. And reminded me that the nail had to go. When I bled as the nail was extricated, they staunched my wounds. And reminded me that the nail had to go. When I wanted to stop the process and just sit around moaning about snagged sweaters, they called me on my bull-hooey. And told me, without compromise, that the nail had to go. When the last bit of the nail was finally removed, they rejoiced with me. And reminded me that it was all worthwhile, because the nail had to go. There is certainly a place for tenderheartedness, for empathy, for affection and grace and really listening. But the nail has to go.

But this woman seems to want to learn to live with the nail.

I see people, both men and women, behave like that woman way too often. There is a glaring problem, a problem about which they are fully aware, but they do nothing to solve it. Instead, they spend all their time playing the victim, expecting others to "hear" them, to "empathise", to "care". No, no, don't tell me there's a problem. Don't try to fix the problem. In fact, I don't really want to solve the problem at all. I love the problem. I love being a victim. Poor me, I have a nail in my head. But when it is suggested that I could solve my problems by removing the nail, I argue that it's not about the nail. "I don't need you to solve it. I just need you to listen."

Can you imagine trying that with God? God, I feel so sinful. I feel so guilty. I have such shame. I feel so unworthy. I feel so unloved. And God says to us, "That's because you ARE sinful. You ARE guilty. You ARE unworthy. But I love you and I have a solution." And we say to God, "Come on, God, you just always try to FIX things! I don't need you to fix this. I just need you to listen. I just need you to care."

But that's just it. He does care. He cared enough to fix it. He cares enough to yank the nails out of my head.

And allow them to be hammered through the hands and feet of his Son.

Sometimes, it IS about the nail.