Monday, October 2, 2017

Empty pockets.

Does a man harbor anger against another, and yet seek healing from the Lord? Does he have no mercy toward a man like himself, and yet pray for his own sins? Remember the commandments, and do not be angry with your neighbor, remember the covenant of the Most High, and overlook ignorance. Sirach 28:2-3

Bless the LORD, O my soul, and forget not all His benefits, Who forgives all your iniquity, Who heals all your diseases, Who redeems your life from the Pit, Who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy. Psalm 103:2-4

Then Peter came up and said to Him, “Lord, how often shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? As many as seven times? Matthew 18:21

Everette got a little distracted by all of the goings on in the plaza on Sunday morning, so actually only Marco and Cameron and I made it to eleven o’clock mass. Where we were joined by the non-armed forces who restored the alps and its villages after WWII celebrating their 50th anniversary.

But God reached in and poked my heart and I wept over my Peterish question that has been taking root in my heart…how often?

And this is the first time that I have wept in over a year.

And Jesus could not have been clear. Every time we pray we are told to forgive those who trespass against us, as far as the east is from the west. Forgive and you will be forgiven. Show mercy and you will be shown mercy.

Every single time we pray, we are to leave those trespasses behind. Before we bring our gifts of worship to the altar.



And never ever pick them up again.

In His last conversation with His Father as He hung on the cross, He showed us how it is done: Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.

But no, I snatch those memories up again, and stick them back into my crowded pockets. And retell the stories to myself, again and again. Burnishing them, polishing them, until they are hard smooth rocks. To throw. To hurl accusations.

He who is without sin, throw the first stone.

I know a lot about memories because I helped a friend write a book about False Memory Syndrome, and the truth about memories, is that they are all false. Every time we relive or refresh a story and press “save” it erases the old, and stores the new in its place.

The new version, in which miscommunications and circumstances and back stories are carefully edited to make myself look better, kind and wise and gentle, and the other not so much.

How can you see to pull out the speck in your brother’s eye, when you have this big honking beam in your own?

Or maybe Jesus was talking about everyone else in the world except me.
Over and over again I retell these stories, me and my buddy The Accuser, to whom I have invited into these conversations. He’s pretty good at making up spicy details.

Platitudes abound as to how unforgiveness doesn’t hurt the other, just me. That unforgiveness is like one of those heavily laden roller suitcases, dragging behind us, boom bopitdy boom, up and down the cobble stone roads of life. We drag it everywhere we go. Sometimes we almost get used to the weight, until smash crash, it smooshes against our fragility, and breaks open the barely healing heart scabs.

But that is a big fat lie, once again a gift from The Enemy. Unforgiveness sours every relationship we with accusations, and the older and deeper and actually most important relationships can reverberate with the “You always” finger pointing in every interaction. And when the going gets rough, or things are tired and busy, things fall apart quickly.

But it is really not about me and my heavyladeness, or my busted relationships with the world.

It is really about me and Him. My Lord and My God. My Redeemer. My comfort. And nestling myself into His bosom. And resting my soul in His mercy.


Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” Matthew 11:28-30




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