Forgiveness

I am a Christian, the son of many generations of Christian. My father is even a missionary. If any belong to the elect it is us missionary kids who feed on Bible verses from conception. Grace has surely been bestowed upon me. My Father also serves as pastor, so I sit on the front pew. All eyes are on me, to see if I live sanctified. If anyone is holy it should be the preacher’s kid. I can do this, I can play this game. I will live up to everyone’s expectations; and when I don’t, I will at least look like I do.

This “Christian life” is hard to live. I can quote Habakkuk when called, but did anyone ever ask me if I wanted to be like this? Why am I expected to live differently, better, than the rest of my elementary school classmates who seem to have more fun and slightly worse grades? I get the best grades, and all they say is, “He’s Joseph.” With this explanation they are satisfied. This is sweet poison to me. I hate that they come to see it as normal for me to do better than everyone, but at the same time, I come to expect it, and love it. I am seen as being better, and I enjoy that reputation.

Slowly, I grow and recognize that what I do is called hypocrisy. I do my best to change. I want to be what everyone thinks I am. My perfection mask sometimes cracks and something ugly peers through; there’s a woman on the TV screen, and all she seems to be wearing would barely keep my Chihuahua warm during winter. I look away. How holy I am; but part of me also wonders if anyone noticed that I looked away. That dramatic hand motion to cover my eyes as I turned away should have helped them notice how holy I am. I wake up early to go and pray with other saints. As I leave, I can’t help frowning at my roommates for sleeping in. They should be more like me, who sacrifices sweet slumber for prayer.

I have come to love the praise of men. Do I memorize the liturgy to worship God more fully, or so that I can close my eyes as I sing and look holier? God, look at me, I have done all you have commanded, what you ask in your law. I am not a Pharisee, I am better than them because I actually do what you ask! My cries echo in the darkness of my soul.

Is there hope for me? I saw the light and I did not really understand it. It was too elusive. I would try to obey and, somehow, it always came out wrong

I read Augustine, an older saint whose passion moved me. He awoke in me the desire to find rest from my vain attempts to keep an image I wish was a reality. I wanted what people believed of me, that I was good, to be true. And even then I realized that I shouldn’t want this because of what people thought. I wanted to be loved by God and love Him in return without all those judging eyes telling me if I’m doing it right.

So maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe I have misunderstood this gospel, this message that promises freedom, maybe having it thrust to my face all the time has dulled me to it and made close my ears dismissively.

            In Lordship class Mr Appel expounds on the parable of the prodigal son. I begin to see my problem. I am that older brother who does everything the father says, and when your younger brother has been forgiven, I cannot forgive, even though the sin was not towards me. I think, “He doesn’t deserve to be called a son anymore. He should have been dismissed for what he is, a sinner.” And I am right, but I don’t deserve being a son either. I have misunderstood forgiveness, no one deserves it. I am worse than my younger brother because I have come to expect it; it is only the payment for my righteousness, for my success in living the Christian life so well. All filthy rags…

If we began a Pharisees anonymous group, and we were all sincere, we would confess the same sin, pride. We would say it appeared in all areas of our life. When we volunteer to clean the church, to babysit the pastor’s children, doing the actions that would be seen by all, and praised.

“Not of works, lest anyone should boast…” (Ephesians 2:9). A gift is too simple, why would God want to accept something as pathetic as me. Let me work on cleansing myself Lord, so that you can accept me.  

But His forgiveness covers my wretchedness. I hear His still small voice. He doesn’t praise my works or encourage me to greater ones. He tells me what He has been doing all along: “Your sins are forgiven.”

A relationship between a child and his father is not based on the actions of the bumbling toddler trying to measure up to his parents’ expectations; that would be pathetic and I would have been an orphan long ago. Flesh of my flesh, I was made from them. That is why they love me. It is the same with my Creator. I bear His image, however badly, and He loves me.

Gratefulness, this is how I should have carried His easy yoke, but I wanted to drag it with my feet. Now I understand my actions should be a reciprocation of His love, His grace towards me.

My love was misplaced, what I wanted was good but misplaced. I wanted acceptance, but I searched in the wrong place. I wanted love, but I was seeking it in myself. He tells me to stop trying to impress Him with a meal and sit at His feet, and then He feeds me an eternal meal.

Cleansed in Baptism, nourished by Communion, shaped by His Word, and strengthened by prayer, my life is given back to me. He restores it and makes is new once more. Like a child who hugs his parents at Christmas, showing his appreciation for receiving just what he always wanted, I want to give my life back to Him. The prophet Isaiah compares our souls to a dessert that God turns into a river. Only Jesus could do this. “Only the Greatest of a Becoming greatest of all can make Himself small enough to enter Hell.”[1] Becoming greater than I am requires more than what I have. He not only descends to Hell, but raises me with Him. I have a barren field, and nothing grew from it when I was the gardener. But I have ceded I have torn down my barbed wire fence and let a perfect landscaper in. With a smile in his eye, he tells me there is still some hope in me.

He has changed me. Another brother has decided to turn prodigal. I don’t curse his name and wish his death. I run after him, trying to get him to come back. I don’t wish his hurt. In my flight to God I will raise whomever I see, for He did that for me.

            I don’t say I’m perfect, and I am fine with that. It grieves me to hurt His creation, but I can turn to Him and know He will not turn His back to me. When I fail, His grace cleanses me. When I sin, His forgiveness sustains me. I don’t work for it, I can’t, and this keeps my pride imprisoned.

I am a character in a story, and my mistake was believing that I played the role of the hero. Nate Wilson belabors this point in Notes from the Tilt-A-Whirl. We are placed in this grand story God wrote. Being prideful, I thought I had center stage. I wanted to be more than a glop of blue painting overlooking some sunflowers. But knowing that I’m not the star brings me contentment. The heavy yoke of trying to achieve something I could never do is taken off my shoulders. This was the answer to my pride. Running away from it would never be enough, it was one speedy beast. Having someone to run to, a hope of something greater than I who would do what I couldn't  to be perfect, succeeded in giving me rest. And in His perfection He raises me with Him. My life is in His hands; the hands that have written my story, and since He loves me, I can trust that it is a good one.