Humble Pie

Just nine o’clock in the morning and I’ve already eaten a slice of humble pie. Last night I sent an email which said something that needed saying, but rather than wording it graciously I spiked it with one or two sharp criticisms. So I have apologised.

I don’t know the woman I was writing to, but she is a former high school classmate (out of a class of 1200). She is organising a class reunion and had chosen a subject line which I found alarming and insensitive in light of the world we live in.

It wasn’t anything important. A high school reunion. I won’t be able to go anyway. On reflection, though, this poor woman is striving to make something happen for a lot of retired people scattered across the globe, and my remarks were not helpful.

Forgive me, Lord. Give me grace, Lord Jesus. Grace to speak the truth in love. Grace to be part of your kingdom, on earth as it is in heaven. Grace to live a supernatural life, inspired by your Spirit.

Support?

‘Don’t you want a support, Michele?’ the yoga teacher asked. Well yes I do, but my back doesn’t arch high enough to get that blinking brick underneath it. ‘Yes, it does,’ she counters, padding over to ‘help’ me arch a little higher. And discovers that actually, I was right. My back doesn’t arch a little higher, so she fashioned a lower support on which I could rest. Whew.

Forgive, Jesus says. Some folk have been hurt so deeply that actually, they just can’t. They may be trying, but they just can’t. I was trying to arch my back more, but I just couldn’t. But maybe with practice, a bit of flexibility and strength will come.

Jesus came to carry our pain. He understands when we just can’t live the life which is best for us, and that’s why he’s given us his Holy Spirit. To support us. To enable us to let go of the hurt, resentment, anger, whatever, bit by bit, however long it takes. 

He is our support. He has infinite patience, and love for every one of us, especially those wounded and limping through life. He will never break a bruised reed, and underneath are his everlasting arms. So we can go ahead, give it a try, and know that even if we can’t quite do it, he’s there for us, keeping us safe, loving us.

Father, Forgive

Forgive. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they are doing. Forgive us ... as we forgive them ... him ... her...

But we cry out for justice! Why should ‘they’ get off scot-free?  

Yet holding on to unforgiveness does not mete out punishment to those who trespass against us. Instead, holding a grudge metes out punishment to the one holding the grudge, in terms of physical, emotional, spiritual sickness.

There is evidence that nursing a grudge is sometimes connected to heart attacks, rheumatoid arthritis, even diabetes! Not that everyone who suffers from these and other ailments does because they are holding on to grudges, but just that these illnesses occur in a higher prevalence among people who haven’t been able to forgive.

It is just emerging that the co-pilot of the German plane which slammed into the French Alps Tuesday and killed 150 people deliberately crashed it. As the relatives of the dead gathered today in the nearby town, the parents of this co-pilot were among them and were there to grieve and mourn. Suddenly they have been separated from the other mourners and their own grief has been ratcheted up. Rather than mourning together with others, they now bear a lonely guilt and no doubt a hurt and an anger and a disbelief. And grief. Gut-wrenching grief.

Forgive, for they don’t know what they are doing. Jesus prayed that prayer as the Roman centurions nailed him to the cross. He prayed it not just for the soldiers doing the hammering, but for all those involved in bringing him to this point – Judas, Pilate, Herod, Caiaphas, the Pharisees, the mob. Sinners. You and me.

There was no justice for him. Not at that point. Not ever. He paid the price of sin though he was sinless. He took my punishment. And yours. Voluntarily. 

Forgiveness comes at a cost. But so does unforgiveness. To allow unforgiveness to fester is to extend the offence against you. 

Some offences are so horrific, though, that it takes an act of supernatural grace to free us to let go. It needs prayer for God’s intervention to enable us to forgive, to move on, to continue to live a life in grace, through the power of God.

My prayer tonight is for those affected by this tragedy. May they be given the grace and the power – immediately or over the next days, weeks, and years – to forgive. May they be comforted tonight, held close in the arms of our Saviour.

Rolling in it

No, not money. Muck.

Why do dogs do that? You turn your back for a minute while marching through a newly harvested field, which must be full of so many enticing smells for a dog – mice, rabbits, pheasants, deer. 

And muck.

When you turn back there she is, shoulder and back squirming on the ground. 

I thought it was cute. I thought she was just getting a good back rub on the hay stubble. But when we got back to the house and shut the door, the truth was obvious. What a stink!

So outside on this cold morning to have a bath. Now that’s another thing. Why does Dusty so hate baths, and yet so love leaping into any watercourse we may be near? 

I guess I have a vague idea how Jesus feels when he’s walking along, thinking I’m right behind him, and when he turns around I’m rolling around in some sort of muck. Maybe gossiping. Or refusing to forgive an infraction against me. Or being lazy. Or worse.

It took more than a bucket of water for him to wash me clean. It cost him his life, and yet I continue to roll around in the muck sometimes and need him to wash me all over again.

I am so ashamed. And so sorry.

Well, tomorrow’s another day, and he, being full of grace and mercy, has given me yet another chance. I am so grateful.

The thing is, I am now watching Dusty like a hawk to make sure she doesn’t flop into a pile of muck. But Jesus trusts me, and expects me to be following right behind him. 

I hope he helps me to do that. I can’t do it on my own. The muck is too tempting.