I shared some of my struggles with my church small group. Our pastor, who’s in the group, shared some thorts which at the time seemed superficial. But I found that I kept returning to them. It was the “Sin vs. Sinner” platitude. I confessed my anger to others who then tell me that maybe anger isn’t all bad, but rather I must, “Hate the blah, not the blah-blah.” Cliché’s are always such refreshment to tormented souls—like sand poured down the throat of a parched beggar. But after days and days of vexing, circuitous mental cat and mouse, I slowly began to feel the first signs of the release this can bring. I hated—and still struggle with hatred towards—the man who repeatedly raped Rose. I wanted to torture him. Even now I’d probably smirk inwardly if I happened across his bloody, splayed carcass in the road. But my hatred and anger has done nothing to him. He doesn’t know me from a bottle cap on the street. My anger only keeps me captive and destroys my own freedom, peace, and faith. I have got to let it go. I’ve also got to realize that letting my anger go does not let him off the hook or somehow make less of Rose’s suffering.
(Parenthetical paragraph: You know what else... I’d rather hear someone tell me that my bitterness is wrong and that I need to repent of it and let it go then hear someone try to Christianize it and say that maybe I’m experiencing “Godly anger”. Yes, God is repulsed by Rose’s rape. But how can I begin to understand His deep sorrow and anger over sin while I am so wrapped up in my warped rage that evidences no trace of any sense of my own sin or need for a savior? Yes, we should be angered by what angers God. But we should also be quick to confess our unrighteous anger rather than condone it via semantic gymnastics. If I’m obsessed with a desire to torture and punish someone, I ought to be confronted on that, not encouraged that I am simply reflecting my Father’s heart. OK, end of parenthetical thot.)
At this point I realize that I must forgive this beast of a man—if for no other reason than self preservation. But what is forgiveness? Off the bat I know it’s not absolution—blind pretense that nothing happened. I’ve had forgiveness described to me several ways. When a wrong is committed it is as if there has been sunk a hook in both me and the perpetrator with a chord connecting us. Forgiveness then, in this illustration, is for me to take the hook out of myself. It cuts me free without absolving the perpetrator. He still has his hook to deal with. This makes some sense to me. But my problem is that Israel then launches missiles into Gaza to retaliate a Palestinian suicide bomb attack (sink another hook), and oil cartels play war with the planet (another one bites), and AIDS claims another newborn baby (and another), and racism robs us of our humanity (yet another). And soon I’m wondering if there’s gonna be anything left of me intact to snag on to as I’m busy gouging hooks out of my flesh.
I’ve also heard forgiveness defined as giving up my right to get even. Well this also makes some sense to me. But when I have such a deep cry for justice within me, this definition falls short because if my focus is giving up my right to get even, I am still invested in his punishment. I’m just waiting for God to get even. Problem is, I certainly can’t trust God to “get even”—not the way I’d want him to. Remember Jonah? He knew there was a strong possibility that God would forgive and redeem Nineveh. And he just couldn’t stomach that thought.
I discover that, like Jason and his men aboard the Argo, I’ve been driven helplessly between my own Scylla and Charybdis. On the one hand is an abysmal six-headed monster and on the other a deep, terrifying, black hole of a whirlpool. I am stuck between withholding forgiveness and dying inwardly of a foul, cancerous bitterness or surrendering both myself and Rose’s perpetrator over to the justice and mercy of God.
It was on Easter Sunday while we were watching portions of “The Passion of The Christ” that a powerful truth was resurrected in my heart, not just my head. I guess I could label it Forgiveness. Or Grace. Or Gratitude. There isn’t really any difference. You know how people often say “the ground at the cross is level?” Well, another flaccid platitude took on vivid solidity for me this Easter. In diamond-cut clarity I realized that I have just as much to do with nailing Christ to his cross as Rose’s perpetrator does. Jesus went to his death bearing all our sin. Sure there may be degrees of reward and punishment, rightness and wrongness—there certainly are degrees of consequense. But when it comes to forgiveness, we all need it desperately. I’m no different than him. He’s no different from me. Without God’s mercy, we’re damned. And without God’s work in my life—completely apart from my just deserts—who’s to say that I wouldn’t be in his shoes today?
This thought, being in his shoes, got me thinking quite a bit. What would it have taken to turn me into a rapist? What was it that twisted this man into who he’s become? And it is in this posture that I realize the depth of pain and brokenness that this man must suffer. I also realize the depth of pride and sin in my own heart that almost convinced me that I was immune to the plagues common to all humanity. Let me explain. I do not believe that any human is innately or ever wholly altruistic or pure. This is my take on “total depravity.” In other words, I know that we all need a savior. But at the same time, I don’t think that any of us are bent on being as evil as we could possibly be. No, we were created to desire love and acceptance, to thrive in community. At the same time, we are also conscious and discerning and must take responsibility for all of our actions. So how does this relate to Rose? Well, I don’t think her rapist woke up in the morning contemplating how he could best devastate the life of a 10 year old girl. Rather, he probably woke up feeling depressed and angry, broken and good for nothing. He likely lives daily with the overwhelming pain he suffered when he was sexually or otherwise abused. I don’t know these things to be fact, but I realize that I have a choice. I can either see pain in this world as the result of purely malevolent individuals bent on inflicting the most possible pain on others. Or I can choose to see a bigger picture; one that includes spiritual realities and powers. And from this angle I see that pain in this world is suffered at the hands of wounded, tormented people.
It seems that each week in my life brings a fresh and ugly crisis. Whether it’s the woman with a shattered skull interrupting a meeting to ask for prayer or another raped and pregnant teenager getting excommunicated from her church because of…what?! What the h**l was she excommunicated for? Wave upon crashing wave of despairing stories nearly drown my heart. I am driven to the very last drop of strength and determination I can muster to resist adopting the feelings of fear and powerlessness suffered by the real victims. Like them I feel abandoned; without help, without words.
But there is one strong hope in me that will not die. It draws strength from outside of me and thrusts itself into my heart with a willpower all its own. And it is a hope that has been forged and tested in relationship. I just don’t understand so many things. But like Peter said to Jesus as many of his companions turned their backs on Christ, I continue to feel my spirit say, “Lord, to whom else would I go? You have the words of eternal life.”
And I crack open once again that book that contains those everlasting words:
Be still in the presence of the Lord, and wait patiently for him to act. Don’t worry about evil people who prosper or fret about their wicked schemes. Stop being angry! Turn from your rage! Do not lose your temper—it only leads to harm. For the wicked will be destroyed, but those who trust in the Lord will possess the land. – Ps. 37:7-9
Then I realized that my heart was bitter, and I was all torn up inside. I was so foolish and ignorant—I must have seemed like a senseless animal to you. Yet I still belong to you; you hold my right hand. You guide me with your counsel, leading me to a glorious destiny. Whom have I in heaven but you? I desire you more than anything on earth. My health may fail, and my spirit may grow weak, but God remains the strength of my heart; he is mine forever. – Ps. 73: 21-26
Is there hope for Rose? I think so. I don’t know that it will look like I want it to here and now. I pray that she can be surrounded by people who can focus on her and her healing rather than be absorbed in their own filthy turmoil like I have been. Rose needs people who understand grace and forgiveness and gratitude; who understand the proper place of justice and who can reach out in love towards Rose without the snare of confusing hatred. And I believe that God longs to be with her, to completely heal and renew her. And if that recreation cannot happen this side of the grave, so be it. Eternally speaking, this life is not so long to suffer. Neither is it too short to feel the life-giving touch of our Maker.
~*~
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