“…forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us….”
I was forty years old before comprehending that part of the Lord’s Prayer, the prayer Christ taught his Apostles. I could rattle off the words, but didn’t grasp the full import of that particular phrase until I heard two Christian comedians—one playing God, one a woman reciting this prayer—humorously break down the lines. When the woman, for example, said, “Hallowed be Thy name,” God reminded her of the curses she uttered when stuck in a traffic jam. When they arrived at the line on forgiveness, the import of Christ’s words, sounding almost a threat, sunk like a fisherman’s hook into my heart.
I was forty years old before comprehending that part of the Lord’s Prayer, the prayer Christ taught his Apostles. I could rattle off the words, but didn’t grasp the full import of that particular phrase until I heard two Christian comedians—one playing God, one a woman reciting this prayer—humorously break down the lines. When the woman, for example, said, “Hallowed be Thy name,” God reminded her of the curses she uttered when stuck in a traffic jam. When they arrived at the line on forgiveness, the import of Christ’s words, sounding almost a threat, sunk like a fisherman’s hook into my heart.
Forgiveness and mercy are words little used today in the public square, perhaps because they are little practiced. In a world larger than my own—the world of politicians, business tycoons, and media moguls—the rule is to go for the throat. The Chicago Way, made famous by Sean Connery in The Untouchables—“They pull a knife, you pull a gun”—overrides any sense of forgiveness. Rather than rationally debate national issues, rather than respect their rivals, our presidential candidates, news reporters, and online bloggers engage in personal attacks, innuendo, and accusations without any show of mercy or pity for their opponents.
In our own daily lives this battle between mercy and vengeance is also at play. The student who plagiarizes a passage in a paper: does her teacher flunk her out of hand or take into consideration her depression over the death of a grandparent? The friend who gossips behind our back: do we scratch him from our list of associates or forgive and forget? The parent who rarely visits us but then complains of feeling distant: do we offer judgment or mercy?
And of course, this mercy is an intimate companion of justice—“the assignment of merited rewards or punishments.” The repentant criminal throws himself “on the mercy of the court.” The teenager busted for drugs seeks the mercy of his parents. The friend apprehended betraying a trust begs for mercy and understanding.
When those we have wounded refuse mercy in the face of our transgression—and many do refuse—then believers seek the mercy of God. To turn in this direction sometimes provokes scorn and derision, yet God’s mercy is not of this world. At the end of Graham Greene’s novel, Brighton Rock, the young protagonist, Rose, enters a confessional booth. She is pregnant with the child of Pinkie, a murderer and teenage sociopath now dead. At one point in the confession, when Rose doubts the love and mercy of God, the elderly priest tells Rose (the ellipses are in the original): “You cannot conceive, my child, nor can I or anyone the appalling… strangeness… of the mercy of God.”
Why appalling? Because the mercy of God doesn’t fit our sense of justice. Not only are we appalled; we may well be enraged by these apparently inequitable acts of forgiveness. Does the man who went on a murderous spree, but who then repents and becomes a Christian before his execution, merit eternal life?We may say no, but Charles Colson met such men in his prison ministry and believed they were with God in heaven. Does the soldier who at the moment of death begs God to forgive a lifetime of sin earn God’s grace? We may declare this grace unfair, but in her poem, “The Great Mercy,” which describes just such a soldier, Katharine Tynan wrote these lines:
Betwixt the saddle and the ground
Was mercy sought and mercy found.
Examples of this supernatural mercy abound in the New Testament. “Blessed are the merciful,” Christ says, “for they will be shown mercy,” and again and again throughout the Gospels Christ offers that mercy to sinners. In the parables as well—the prodigal son, the unforgiving servant, the workers in the vineyard, and others—we see evidence of a mercy that staggers both our imagination and our sense of fair play. Even on his cross Christ opens the gates of heaven to a thief being crucified with him.
For Catholics, 2016 is the Jubilee Year of Mercy—“a time,” the Pope has declared, “to offer everyone, everyone, the way of forgiveness and reconciliation.” It is a year given over to reconciliation and forgiveness. It is a year devoted to a restoration of broken hearts, a year in which people like me, weak in my faith and a sinner to boot, are called by mercy to try and enter into a stronger relationship with Christ.
The appalling strangeness of the mercy of God.
May it be so.
In our own daily lives this battle between mercy and vengeance is also at play. The student who plagiarizes a passage in a paper: does her teacher flunk her out of hand or take into consideration her depression over the death of a grandparent? The friend who gossips behind our back: do we scratch him from our list of associates or forgive and forget? The parent who rarely visits us but then complains of feeling distant: do we offer judgment or mercy?
And of course, this mercy is an intimate companion of justice—“the assignment of merited rewards or punishments.” The repentant criminal throws himself “on the mercy of the court.” The teenager busted for drugs seeks the mercy of his parents. The friend apprehended betraying a trust begs for mercy and understanding.
When those we have wounded refuse mercy in the face of our transgression—and many do refuse—then believers seek the mercy of God. To turn in this direction sometimes provokes scorn and derision, yet God’s mercy is not of this world. At the end of Graham Greene’s novel, Brighton Rock, the young protagonist, Rose, enters a confessional booth. She is pregnant with the child of Pinkie, a murderer and teenage sociopath now dead. At one point in the confession, when Rose doubts the love and mercy of God, the elderly priest tells Rose (the ellipses are in the original): “You cannot conceive, my child, nor can I or anyone the appalling… strangeness… of the mercy of God.”
Why appalling? Because the mercy of God doesn’t fit our sense of justice. Not only are we appalled; we may well be enraged by these apparently inequitable acts of forgiveness. Does the man who went on a murderous spree, but who then repents and becomes a Christian before his execution, merit eternal life?We may say no, but Charles Colson met such men in his prison ministry and believed they were with God in heaven. Does the soldier who at the moment of death begs God to forgive a lifetime of sin earn God’s grace? We may declare this grace unfair, but in her poem, “The Great Mercy,” which describes just such a soldier, Katharine Tynan wrote these lines:
Betwixt the saddle and the ground
Was mercy sought and mercy found.
Examples of this supernatural mercy abound in the New Testament. “Blessed are the merciful,” Christ says, “for they will be shown mercy,” and again and again throughout the Gospels Christ offers that mercy to sinners. In the parables as well—the prodigal son, the unforgiving servant, the workers in the vineyard, and others—we see evidence of a mercy that staggers both our imagination and our sense of fair play. Even on his cross Christ opens the gates of heaven to a thief being crucified with him.
For Catholics, 2016 is the Jubilee Year of Mercy—“a time,” the Pope has declared, “to offer everyone, everyone, the way of forgiveness and reconciliation.” It is a year given over to reconciliation and forgiveness. It is a year devoted to a restoration of broken hearts, a year in which people like me, weak in my faith and a sinner to boot, are called by mercy to try and enter into a stronger relationship with Christ.
The appalling strangeness of the mercy of God.
May it be so.
RSS Feed