Third Sunday After
Pentecost— June 14, 2007
Quality of
Forgiveness
Deacon Carole
Maddux, St. Aidan’s Episcopal Church, Alpharetta,
Georgia
The first time I ever went to private confession, I was scared to
death.
I was a member of an Anglo-Catholic parish in the city where private
confession was not only encouraged but required of all confirmands.
And while I had long ago been confirmed, I was newly returned to the
church and had screwed up my courage to enter the confessional booth.
Yes, that’s right;
this parish even had a confessional booth.
A tiny closet with just enough room for a priest and a penitent.
No screen---just a kneeler polished with the guilty sweat of hundreds
of parishioners.
I waited my turn that Saturday evening with the anticipation of a root
canal patient, turning over and over the list of sins I had written
during my preparation.
There sure were a lot of them.
Never having been to confession before, and unsure of the protocol, I
had reached all the way back to puberty. Luckily, many of my sins were
reruns
and while this didn’t make me feel any better,
it kept the list from being more than two pages.
When the priest opened the door, I slunk in, kneeled shakily, and
began the sacrament of “The Reconciliation of a Penitent.”
I’ll never forget how hot the booth was or how kind the priest was;
but most of all, I’ll never forget the complete and absolute joy I
found when hearing the words:
“The Lord has put away all your sins.”
The same words that we hear today from Nathan when David confesses his
sin with such utter contrition.
I left the church that evening feeling about 50 pounds lighter.
Went home and burned that list in my driveway.
My relationship with God and His people was restored and I felt
whole, grateful and full of love for my Creator.
The same way, I imagine, that the woman in our Gospel today felt. Her
sins having been forgiven,
she was compelled to show great love through service.
There is a priest in California who has a similar story.
James Tramel was 17-years-old when he participated in the murder of a
homeless man. He and some friends from his prep school had gone to a
Santa Barbara park looking to fight a gang who had attacked some
friends the night before. Not finding the gang, they took out their
frustration on an innocent homeless man in the park.
Tramel’s companion stabbed the man 17 times and
James did nothing to stop him or to get help for the man afterwards.
A brutal crime.
Just like King David, James had participated in the taking of innocent
life.
He was sentenced in 1986 to 15 years to life in state prison.
After a few years imprisonment and seeing the toll of AIDS on his
fellow prisoners, James volunteered for the prison hospice.
Late one night he was called to the bedside of a dying man, Steve, who
asked James what he believed about God.
Tramel describes the encounter this way:
“There was God asking through Steve. I was the last person Steve was
going to see. I had to give him the real truth.”
He looked Steve in the eye and said, “I really believe God loves us
beyond measure.”
Steve died in James’ arms soon after and James changed forever.
“I wasn’t running from God any more,” he said later about that moment,
“God had come to find me in dark, desolate place. He can reach into
the streets; he can reach into a prison. He can reach into a guilty
heart.”
Healed by his knowledge of God’s love and forgiveness, James turned to
a life of service and sought man’s forgiveness.
He studied to become an Episcopal priest and found a champion in a
bishop who believes in the restoration and redemption of people.
Bishop Swing of California ordained James to the diaconate in July of
2004 while he was still incarcerated and also argued for his parole,
which James received in March of 2006.
Fr. James Tramel is now a rector in an historic parish in San
Francisco with a wife and young son.
Forgiveness repaired the breach between God and James.
It can also repair the relationship between society and the
transgressor.
It cannot, however, undo the sin.
James is well aware of that. His grief and contrition over his role in
the murder is something he will always live with. He cannot bring his
victim, Michael, back; and he has been unable to receive the
forgiveness of the victim’s family.
Contrast James Tramel’s story with Charles Heaton’s:
Also at age 17, Charles was convicted of aggravated assault. He and
his brother had a fight with a 15-year-old neighbor. He was sent to a
Georgia prison, where he found himself incarcerated with his own
father.
That’s when he decided to turn his life around.
He began to think about what he’d done wrong and, as he says,
“I put a value on life that I had never had before.
I was worth something to me.”
Paroled after two and a half years, and determined to turn his life
around, he earned his AA degree at Young Harris and was admitted to
Emory University. He graduated with a bachelor of arts in 2001.
Finding a second chance out of college, however, was harder. His
felony conviction made him unable to get a job,
even as a Publix bagger or a cook at Burger King,
or pursue his ultimate dream of becoming a lawyer.
Eventually Charles,
an Emory graduate,
was nearly homeless and begging at the corner of I-85 and Clairmont.
It wasn’t until a Christian business group in Forsyth County heard his
story,
that a man gave Charles a chance
and employed him at his cabinet workshop.
With his wages, Charles started his own business.
Man’s forgiveness was not something that Charles found easily or,
often, at all.
But back to my sins…
When I left that confessional booth, the reason I was so happy was
that my relationship with God was restored.
As the psalmist says today…
My sins were “put away” and my life was whole.
Mercy and absolution were complete and unstinting.
God took me back.
Not with conditions.
Not with reservations.
But completely.
God’s love and forgiveness can only prompt great love in return.
Why then, is it so hard for us to show the same love for each other?
How often does being forgiven by someone, prompt feelings of
resentment or inadequacy
instead of love and gratitude?
Why is our response so different to the forgiveness of people instead
of God?
Is our forgiveness of each other different than that of God’s?
Some years ago, I remember a sermon here at St. Aidan’s by Noel
Burtenshaw on forgiveness. He told a story that I didn’t understand at
the time so I’ve pondered it now for years.
The story was of two men who “buried the hatchet” but never forgot
where they buried it.
I think I finally get it.
When we forgive each other, but only with conditions and suspicions,
are we truly living into the Lord’s Prayer?
Do we really want God to forgive our trespasses as we forgive those
who trespass against us?
If we were to truly forgive,
wouldn’t our relationships be strengthened,
not weakened with uncertainties?
If we forgave remorseful children with the assurance that our
relationship was not just restored but stronger,
wouldn’t they be less likely to break that trust than
when we forgive them but with reservations?
If we forgave our spouses with love and gratitude for the rekindling
of our relationship,
wouldn’t our marriages grow deeper instead of getting weighed down by
more and more baggage?
Is it forgiveness if you’re just going to add it to the arsenal?
If we forgive ourselves for our shortcomings,
could we find that we move on instead of getting mired in doubt and
defensiveness?
And if we forgave as a society those who have repented and paid their
debt,
could we reduce the recidivism rate?
Through God’s grace, will we allow sinners to show great love or
will we,
like the Pharisee,
banish them from our house?
As people of the resurrection, our way is clear.
© Deacon Carole Maddux. All Rights
reserved.
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