Forgiveness IX

Eight years ago a Christian magazine asked me to write an article about forgiveness. This is the story they didn't buy. I see why: your average mainline Christian didn't want to read about child abuse, pedophilic preachers, and communing beyond the grave. Their loss, your gain.

The first time someone asked for my forgiveness, I had no idea what to do. Someone had admitted to hurting me and promised amendment. How was I to 'forgive' and continue the relationship, without discounting the damage or setting myself up for a repeat performance?"

When I thought about it, I didn't even know what the word meant. I'd heard all my life, "Don't be bitter. Jesus forgave everybody." This kind of statement seemed to gloss over my hurts as unimportant. The same people who said it seemed to feel that their hurts indeed were worth holding a grudge to the grave.

Many faiths, however, agree that the bitter stones of resentment block access to God. I believe Jesus was speaking a spiritual truth rather than spiteful revenge when he said, "If you do not forgive others, then your Father will not forgive the wrongs that you have done." [Matthew 6:15] Put another way, if you fill a pipe with stones and dirt, nothing can flow in or out.

When my friend asked for forgiveness, I searched the Bible in vain for instructions on how to perform this feat. The closest I came to the specifics I wanted was Jesus' directions in Luke 6:28: "Pray for those who treat you spitefully."

Finally, some concrete action I could take! It wasn't so difficult to let go of a wrong under the ideal circumstances of having a loved one who sincerely wanted to mend the relationship.

Other situations didn't resolve themselves so easily. A survivor of childhood sexual abuse, I gradually came to know and understand what had been done to me. Yes, I was angry. Or rather, I now understood why I was angry.

I had no interest in forgiving the perpetrators. I had great interest, however, in repairing my life. And I was a member of a spiritual group that assured me that releasing resentment was vital to my survival. The closest I could come was to avow that I was willing to be willing to forgive, but I couldn't do it right now. I had enough to do just trying to make sense of my life. I strictly followed the discipline of praying for those who had harmed me, though my prayers frequently began, "God, you know I don't mean this" I often punctuated my prayers with descriptive epithets.

It amazes me how little God needs to work with.

During this time of discovery and recovery, the media seemed full of sexual abuse articles. One story told of a minister in my town who was being sued by two women he had abused as teenagers. The article said that he was now in a sexual recovery program and that his church was standing behind him. How horrible, I thought.

In fact, when I found out my compulsive-eating recovery group frequently met in that church, I almost didn't go. I changed my mind because I desperately needed the group and I knew the group had no affiliation with the church other than as a renter.

A kind man many years older than I often attended the meetings. I knew him only as Bob G. He apparently was a church member, since he had keys to the rooms. We had many things to talk about: my father was suffering from mental deterioration; so was his wife. He was fond of music and an amateur singer; I was a symphony musician. He liked to hear about my concerts, and I basked in the concern and interest I was losing from my father as he slowly died.

Somehow I never heard Bob's recovery story. It seemed I frequently walked in just after he'd finished speaking.

The less I ate, the more I felt. As a performer, I had always prided myself on never having stage fright. Robbed of my addictive substance, I could hardly walk on stage, even to play with sixty-eight other people. Besides that terror, I became frightened that I wouldn't be able to hold my job. How could I live through constant panic attacks?

I confided in my friend Bob at one of our meetings. He understood. He told me how he had suffered the same fears in the pulpit, how he realized that he had become a minister for all the wrong reasons, but after moving through the fear and reexamining his life, he came to know that he did belong in the ministry.

The pulpit. That church. The initial of his last name. Suddenly I knew who I was talking with: That horrible man who had molested young girls was my friend Bob. I fled back home, shaking and crying.

I had a choice: to accept Bob both as an abuser and as the kind, understanding man I'd known, or to deny one view or the other. Hating requires seeing the other as an alien and a barbarian.

It was too much work to keep my hatred in place or to pretend not to see. I didn't know how to accept Bob, so I turned each encounter over to God.

I continued to say my prayers, and I cursed less often during them. It became increasingly difficult to pore my energy into the past. I wasn't directing my feelings at this point; I simply followed them.

One day I was in my kitchen preparing a meal when a rush of pity swept over me for my abusers. Tears streamed down my face as I as I fell to my knees, begging God's mercy for them. I didn't understand it; I didn't ask for it; but from that day on I knew I was free--not necessarily from the effects of sexual abuse, but from the obligation to sustain them.

I still have flashbacks. They hurt. But I face them as events from the past that have no power in the present. When they're over, I'm glad to have another piece to fit into the puzzle of my life.

Life went on. Bob nearly died in a car accident. His wife was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. My father died, my last parent, my last illusion of childhood comfort. Desperately I called Bob to perform the memorial service. I had written it, using parts from Marianne Williamson's Illuminata, and I wanted to hear it, especially the part about taking a moment of silence to let go of all unforgiveness. So often we convict even nonabusive parents for not being the gods we expected.

Dad's chaplain at the nursing home had said he would read it if it didn't offend his theology, but I was in no shape to have my theology judged. Bob still used a walker, but he performed the service just as I wrote. He thanked me for the privilege and went home to write a similar service for his wife, whom he'd just had to put in a nursing home. "I can't pray for her life to continue like this," he sobbed. His burdens seemed beyond bearing.

"God, he doesn't deserve this," I pleaded.

Later that day I lay on my bed in the dusky light, not thinking or feeling, just drifting. A voice seemed to fill my head: "I'm sorry I hurt you." I whispered back, "I forgive you, Daddy. I know you loved me." And I relaxed into the arms of both my fathers and slept.

Had I never taken the earlier steps to clear away my own bitter debris from the pipeline, I would never have experienced that moment or uncovered this mystery: Like so many spiritual gifts, forgiveness is not something we can give or control, any more than we can make someone forgive us. Whether perpetrators or victims-- can we honestly say we are not both?--we can only make ourselves ready to receive it, to let it flow through to heal the world.

Update: The friend who wanted forgiveness is still my friend, after fifteen years, marriages, and children. I did not do the victory dance when I heard that the man who abused me is now confined to a wheelchair. Bob is still pastor of his church. As for my childhood pain, it's receded so far from the front burners of my issues that I feel about the same involvement as telling you about the time the door fell on my foot and nearly sliced off my toe. I can remember having suffered, if something calls it to mind, but the pain has healed. I'm not sure when that happened. God doesn't always leave Her footprints.

9:59:39 PM    

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To See Ourselves as Others See Us

Gary Younge: God help America. Comment: US law insists on the separation of church and state. So why does religion now govern, asks Gary Younge. [Guardian Unlimited]

Good question.

2:23:40 PM    

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Not a Safe Place

The International Red Cross is cutting back operations in Iraq. Now we know it's dangerous. Any bets on how long it will take Wash DC to figure it out?

2:15:37 PM    

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