The
Asian-Americans who have endured hate crimes during our current pandemic
brought me back to this post from the week following Holy Week of 2016, March
30, 2016. This year, 2021, I read The Temple of God’s Wounds earlier in Lent, so
in need was I of its spiritual insights and spiritual sanctuary. The friend in
recovery mentioned in this post still
struggles, and we alongside him, after multiple programs before and after a
year incarcerated.
Something
burning in my heart is demanding the oxygen of expression.
Regular
readers of this blog know I am not persuaded by one line of thinking about the
crucifixion: I don’t believe God demanded the death of Jesus to forgive our
sins. Of the Passion narrative, I’ve written that the crucifixion was our idea,
while the resurrection was God’s idea, however we understand resurrection.
Yet
I do believe the story of the crucifixion reminds us that we wound God.
I
know that’s not an original thought—many theologians, contemplatives, writers,
and preachers have written about this. But it’s being brought home to me in
several ways that culminated this past Holy Week as I read again The Temple of God’s Wounds.
Monday
night of that week I attended the fourth and final class on the themes of the
Confession of Belhar, which the Presbyterian Church U.S.A. is in the process of
welcoming into its Book of Confessions. It was adopted during the days of
apartheid in South Africa by the Dutch Reformed Mission Church resisting the
government’s separation of the races.
Johnson
C. Smith Theological Seminary offered it online, but I attended its meetings in
person at the Martin Luther King Center near our home in Atlanta because I
wanted to engage in the conversation directly. I thought this would be a way to
hear concerns that current movements such as Black Lives Matter raise, but in a
context of shared faith. As an aside, I felt very welcomed as a gay man.
The
class was small, about 70% African American and 30% Anglo-European, though the
final Monday I was the only white person attending.
Long
before the course I had concluded that there is no way white people will ever
understand the experience of black people in American society. The
brutalization of slavery and the degradation of racism and segregation that
followed (and still follows) cannot be erased, no matter how forgiving African
Americans may be and no matter how transformed Anglo-European Americans may
become.
During
one class session, we listened to the tape of the families of those murdered in
the Charleston church offering forgiveness to their vicious and racist
assailant, and I noticed that alongside “I forgive you” were cries of pain and
anguish and grief at their loss, calls for repentance of the perpetrator and an
expectation of justice for the victims so that “hate doesn’t win,” something
the media largely left out in its eagerness to report their forgiveness.
Their
mercy was transforming for South Carolina, bringing down the confederate flag,
while affecting broader American sensibilities as well.
But,
as one woman pointed out to me after class, “There was a lot of anger in black
communities for how easily they forgave” that young man. Yet hearing their
forgiveness while holding him accountable suggested they were not offering
cheap grace.
In
class I told the story of participating in a “dog and pony” show at four venues
around the state of Iowa for UCC pastors as their denomination was changing its
positions on LGBT issues some years ago. One pastor had asked, “Where’s the
repentance?” At first we thought he was expecting repentance from LGBT folk,
but what he meant was, where was the church’s repentance for its mistreatment
of LGBT people?
I
suggested to the class that maybe the church needed something like South
Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission where wrongs could be named—the
wounding of all kinds of folk because of race, gender, disability, sexual orientation,
and gender identity. Ultimately this is how we wound God.
By
the next session of the course I had learned that several presbyteries have
passed “A Healing Overture for the Admission of, and Apology for Harms Done to
the LGBTQ/Q Members of the Presbyterian Church (USA), Family and Friends.”
Hallelujah!
When
I’ve written on this blog about the need of being forgiving in the spiritual
life, I’ve sometimes received friendly pushback from those who have been abused
or work with the abused. It’s been pointed out to me that forgiveness in
certain circumstances may not always be possible, even may not be a healthy
choice.
In
“Forgiveness: The Last Step,” Marie Fortune writes in the context of family
violence, “Once justice has been accomplished, even in a limited way,
forgiveness becomes a viable opportunity. Prior to justice, forgiveness is an
empty exercise.” She points out that Jesus said, “If another sins, you must
rebuke the offender, and if there is repentance, you must forgive.” [See Luke
17:3-4 NRSV.]
That
suggests at least four steps toward reconciliation: confrontation, confession,
repentance (as in metanoia, an “about face”), followed by forgiveness. Only
when justice is served, she writes, is “a victim of violence and abuse…freed to forgive.”
On
Maundy Thursday last week, Wade and I were part of a support community for a
friend in a recovery program. After an afternoon meeting with our friend, a
counselor, and a dinner out, that evening we attended what was essentially an
Al-Anon meeting for support communities of others in recovery. Emotions ran
high, as they must have when Jesus shared his last meal with his disciples:
communion and hope, but also shared grief and feelings of betrayal, denial,
abandonment.
Some
could tell stories in which the recoveries of their loved one held; others told
stories of multiple heartbreaking attempts; many acknowledged that they too
were powerless over what addictions were doing to their loved ones. I was
deeply moved by the love and commitment in that room. I awoke Good Friday
morning with involuntary tears streaming from my eyes thinking of them.
The
Twelve Steps are all about truth-telling, another requirement of justice. And
the eighth and ninth steps are about making “a list of all persons we had
harmed” and making “amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do
so would injure them or others.”
I
had thought that I should find some service to attend the evening of Good
Friday, when a close friend told us that the day was the 20th anniversary
of the death of his beloved partner to AIDS. So he came over and we ordered
Chinese take-out. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend Good Friday. And I
better understood his flash of anger about the Reagans when Hillary Clinton
misstated after Nancy’s funeral that they had been instrumental in the
“national conversation” about AIDS.
A
blog reader once pointed out to me that Jesus did not forgive those who
betrayed, denied, abandoned, tortured, and crucified him, but rather, asked God
to forgive them. That makes sense, for only God could administer the justice
required for mercy. Could that be how Jesus’ sacrifice came to be understood as
expiation for our sins?
It
is a sacred challenge to administer justice without vengeance. Jesus calls us to
go the extra mile beyond retribution (“an eye for an eye”) and love our
enemies. But real love holds the beloved accountable.
The
biblical witness is of a God of justice and mercy. Both are required for
transformation. But scapegoating is never just, even if it is Jesus as the
sacrificial lamb. Justice requires truth-telling, changing our ways, and making
amends (penance). Only then, to
paraphrase Psalm 23, can “mercy and justice follow us all the days of our lives,
and we shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
Copyright © 2016 by Chris R. Glaser.
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