One word makes a difference

I think “belonging” is a hot topic in churches right now. I want to say that it always has been, but we did go through several centuries where obligation, requirement and fear were pretty powerful motivators. Maybe they still are, for some. But, in these days of declining attendance and participation, churches that thrive do so, I think, because they cultivate a sense of belonging.

It’s not just churches, of course. Any institution, organization or group that wants to create community, especially sustainable community, needs to pay attention to what it means to belong. And you know what that means. It means there’s experts, surveys, studies and reports and everyone has an opinion. If you’re keen to look into it, just Google it and see.

One, in particular, is a multi-year study begun in 2015 by Community Foundations of Canada as part of their Vital Signs initiative. I’m sure that everyone has their own definition of  belonging, with varying degrees of complexity, but they began with two very simple points: belonging is about “being part of a collective we” and that it’s a two way street. It’s not just about the community being welcoming, it’s about how a person feels they’re a part of it. Then they went in depth through a variety of lenses, including social, arts, sport, community systems and more.

I’m not an expert, but I do have some thoughts on it. As you might imagine, that springs from something Jesus said. Or maybe I mean intended.

Let me just clarify that. There’s a passage in John’s gospel in which Jesus describes himself as the Good Shepherd and attempts to describe his relationship with his followers as that of a shepherd and sheep. It’s a rather testy exchange with a divided crowd and towards the end of it, John writes that Jesus says to them “you do not believe because you are not my sheep. My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me.”

It could just be our 21st century sensibilities, but there’s lots of people who struggle with the whole sheep and shepherd image from the start. But even if you’re not concerned about the connotation of being a sheep, it can be easy to hear that passage as Jesus saying the sheep are mine and they follow me. And that can quickly become all sorts of negative. It can sound like ownership and unthinking allegiance or, at best, blind faith. Not to mention, exclusive.

But hang on a minute. I don’t think that’s what Jesus intended.

I don’t want to get into a debate about different translations of the Bible (another time perhaps), but reading this in a variety of them, I notice most say what I quoted above from the New International Version. The New Revised Standard Version, though, throws in a little something extra here. It says “you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep. My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.”

Do you see it? I think that’s what Jesus is talking about. It’s not about ownership or control, it’s not about follow-the-leader, it’s about belonging. It’s about being part of “we” and the two-way street that makes it a “we.” It’s about a relationship with Jesus. And that means how we live our relationships with each other, too.

I think Jesus wants us to be who we truly are, in our hearts. You know, created in the image of God. And I think Jesus show us how to do that by showing us how to love, fully and openly. To follow Jesus means living that, not just an hour a week, but every moment. Not just in church, but everywhere.

I hope churches want to be welcoming, as should anyone who aims to create community. I’d also like us to be open and inclusive and engage people where they’re at, not just wait for them to come to us and do what we do. I think a welcoming community is one that respects people for who they are, engages them and encourages them to grow and live positive and affirming relationships, honours the gifts and the questions that they bring with them, and recognizes what they contribute to the wholeness of the community. The common ground of how we understand God is just the start.

And for those who seek belonging - and I’m pretty sure that’s all of us - I’d suggest that it’s not just about fitting in, it’s not about always agreeing with everyone, and it’s certainly not about being all the same or even doing as you’re told. Real belonging comes from knowing that you bring something to the community that impacts the community, just as it impacts you. You being there is part of what makes it what it is or can be, just as what it is impacts who you are and what you can be. Respecting and honouring that in others is part of making the community. Any community. Any flock.

Who are you?

In the history of the Christian church, Paul is certainly a “somebody.” His letters - the epistles - form a significant chunk of Christian scripture in the Bible, though some may be more authentically Paul than others. Perhaps even more significantly, we have those writings because he travelled, establishing communities of faith around the Mediterranean. Responding to the experiences, issues and concerns of those young communities are much of what those letters are about. Peter might have been the rock (Matt. 16:8), but Paul laid the foundation for the church. He probably did a little framing and drywalling, too.

Paul didn’t always love Jesus, and the story of Paul’s conversion is pretty epic. Paul was a devout Jew who persecuted the followers of Jesus. He was at the stoning of Stephen and, records the author of Acts, he “began to destroy the church.” He went out of his way to root Jesus out of synagogues and homes. On his way to do just that in Damascus, he’s suddenly stopped by a bright light and he hears a voice asking him “why do you persecute me?” Paul asks who is speaking, the voice says it’s Jesus, “whom you are persecuting,” and tells Paul to go into Damascus where he will learn what he’s to do. Paul is blinded by the vision, but his companions help him into town.

In Damascus, a disciple of Jesus named Ananias hears “the Lord” tell him to go to Paul and restore his sight. Ananias is understandably wary - he’s heard of Paul - but does as commanded. He returns Paul his sight and tells him that Jesus “has sent me so that you may see again and be filled with the Holy Spirit.” From then on, Paul is a follower of Jesus, preaching and teaching about him. People are skeptical at first and found this sudden switch hard to believe. As you might expect, many of Jesus’ followers were afraid of him and didn’t trust him.

If we were there, we might think the same. But we know the story and we know what followed, so it’s pretty easy to characterize this sudden and epic moment of conversion in pretty clear cut terms. With one great flash of light, the villainous persecutor of Jesus’ followers becomes the saint who establishes the communities of the faithful and helps them grow. With the flick of a switch, even.

In fact, we often characterize this shift with his name. All through that story about Paul in Acts, he’s referred to as Saul. So the villain is Saul, the saint is Paul. 

Like he’s a different person.

Except he’s not. Saul is simply his Jewish name. Paul is his Romanized name. Paul was born in Tarsus and there are a couple of references in Acts to his Roman citizenship, but whether he was or not, he would have likely had both names since birth anyway. The vision of Jesus calls him by his Jewish name, of course, and he’s Saul throughout this story and not referred to as Paul until much later: “Saul, who is also called Paul” (Acts 13:9). Since most of his mission work was to non-Jews, it makes sense that they’d know him as Paul. As we do.

But it’s still the same guy and that’s the thing about Paul. He never hid his past. And, while we might know him as only the great apostle and saint, he was more. Our one dimensional portrayal of him doesn’t do him justice. He’s much more complex, just like you and me.

Saul was a good Jew who, in his love for God and his faith, lost his way. Like others, he felt his faith threatened by these Jews who claimed Jesus was the messiah and followed his teaching. He defended the institution of his faith by attacking the blasphemous People of the Way, even to the point of violating the very commandments that, according to Jeremiah, should have been written on his heart. It blinded him.

We’re easily blinded, too: by fear, by different and unfamiliar things, by things that seem to question or challenge what we think we know. For as often as we hear the expression “outside the box” these days, we’re so much more comfortable in one. And the walls of that box must be defended at all costs. Sometimes to death.

What if there wasn’t one? What if we could take the blinders off and see possibility for growth, better understanding and more appreciation of the world around us, whether we agreed with it or not? What if we weren’t so afraid?

For me, one of the great things about Paul is that he’s complicated. Just like you and me. He’s got a past, some of which he’d probably rather not have, but it did bring him here. Just like you and me. What he repented - what he turned from - was fear and hate. I think that, going forward, his faith wasn’t begun with Jesus, it grew, it was renewed and refreshed and opened to others, just like the followers of Jesus he had persecuted. All that Paul could be was already there, it just needed to be freed and brought into the light. The light he saw on that road didn’t blind him, it opened his eyes. The light he saw was love.

Faith alive with doubt

Every year, on the Sunday after Easter Day, we tell the same story. And I don’t mean the same story but a different source. Like, on Easter Day, we tell the resurrection story every year but from a different gospel. The schedule we follow for readings, the Lectionary, says one year it’s Matthew, or John. Another it’s Mark, or John. And then Luke. Or John.

Okay, you could read the story from John every year, but usually we alternate to get a different perspective, different features and different ways to get into the most important story of the church year.

But not the Sunday after Easter Day, the second Sunday of the Easter season. That’s always the same story from John, the story of Thomas who, gulp, doubted.

And that right there is the traditional point of the story in a nutshell. The resurrected Jesus appears to the disciples, but Thomas isn’t there. When the other disciples tell him, he refuses to believe until he sees for himself. The next time Jesus appears, he’s there and Jesus shows him his wounds and Thomas believes. John’s point seems to be don’t doubt, believe.

Consequently, we’ve tended to cast Thomas as the doubter and told this story as a means to encourage faith. Blessed are those who believe without needing to see, Jesus says. If only we could aspire to that!

So we tell that exact same story every year. So, please forgive me, but I’d like to tell the story again here. But not exactly like that.

See, Thomas wasn’t the first to doubt Jesus was alive. The empty tomb seemed to catch everyone by surprise. Mary didn’t recognize Jesus when she saw him and thought he was the gardener. The other disciples were hiding when Jesus appeared to them and the first thing he does is show them his wounds. Later he’ll walk to Emmaus with other followers who don’t recognize him and the disciples again won’t recognize him at first after they go back to fishing and he comes to them. Why? I think they didn’t expect to see him. He was dead, after all. It’s perfectly understandable. They saw him die, it would be impossible for him to be alive.

But Jesus has demonstrated the impossible frequently in all the stories we know of him. So let’s not use that as an opportunity to give doubt a bad name. I think we need doubt. I think doubt is a part of faith, the same way that death is a part of life. The inevitability of one shouldn’t stop us from living fully into the other. Doubt can inform our faith, questions increase our understanding, engagement with our faith deepens our faith.

Instead, we’ve demonized doubt like it’s the opposite of faith. It’s not. Fear and certainty are, the two things that can paralyze our openness and willingness to engage the uncertainty of life and instead cling stubbornly to “what we know for sure.”

So I want to tell the story like this.

The disciples were gathered together, sharing in their grief. Thomas wasn’t there. And Jesus didn’t ask “where’s Thomas?” I think he might even have known what he was doing. He might have known that Thomas, who always had lots of questions, also had a different idea of how to work through his grief about the death of Jesus. He believed. He believed Jesus that time when he asked him about the way to God and Jesus said “I am the way, the truth and the life.” He believed Jesus when Jesus said “go and love one another as I loved you. That’s how people will know you are followers of me.” He believed what he saw in Jesus life and he believed what he saw when Jesus died. He believed Jesus when he said “don’t be afraid.”

Thomas wasn’t with the others because he was out sharing the story of Jesus. He was already telling people to love one another and showing people the power of love, even in the face of grief. Jesus was already alive in Thomas. When he saw his friends again, it wasn’t Jesus he didn’t believe in, it was their grief-stricken story of a living, breathing, wounded Jesus. And when he saw Jesus, he said “My Lord and My God” as an affirmation of all he believed. He may have doubted his very human friends, but I don’t think he doubted Jesus for a minute.

He's not there, he's here.

The tomb was empty.

The stone was rolled away from the entrance. The linen burial shroud they wrapped him in was still there, but the body of Jesus was gone.

Isn't that just like Jesus. He never seems to stay where we put him.

Good thing: if he did, we might never really see him.

That’s the important part of the Easter story to me. The tomb is empty. He’s alive. Impossible? Exactly. Even though Jesus told us to expect it, it can’t be happening. It’s just not possible.  Even the disciples, even Mary, suspected that someone had just moved the body somewhere else.

Wow. It's not even that Jesus wouldn't stay where we put him, it's that someone else moved him. That's an elephant-sized metaphor.

Still, I don't think that where he isn't is nearly as important as where he is.

As the Gospel of John tells the story, Mary turns from the empty tomb and sees him. Well, not at first. It takes her a minute to recognize him because she wasn't expecting to see him. You've probably experienced one of those moments. You know, when you pass someone on the street, or in a store, maybe, and you don't recognize them at first, just because you weren't expecting to see them there. You probably know the feeling.

Mary wasn’t expecting Jesus to be alive. He was dead. It would not be possible to see him upright and walking around.

Except. This is the Jesus who had, himself, raised Lazarus from the dead. This is the Jesus who healed the sick, rid people of their demons, performed acts that can only be described as miracles, inspired people and restored people. This is the Jesus who called people to love, to love their neighbour as they love themselves, to love even their enemy. Talk about making the impossible happen.

So, having done all that, there’s one more impossible thing to do: he would rise from the dead. Given his track record, maybe Mary should have been looking for Jesus anywhere and everywhere. Rather than mistaking Jesus for the gardener, maybe she should have assumed that everyone was Jesus until she could see otherwise.

Maybe that’s a learning from the Easter story. Whether you hear this story of death and resurrection as literal or metaphorical, maybe it’s okay to acknowledge that it’s about the impossible happening. And then remember all that seemed impossible in the life of Jesus and remember, too, that things are really only impossible because we haven’t done them yet.

I think that’s a key part of Jesus’ teachings about love and grace. Loving your enemy and those that are difficult to love is hard, but it’s not impossible. Forgiveness is hard, but it’s not impossible. Peace is hard, but it’s not impossible. Inspiring new life in the broken and hurting is hard, but it’s not impossible. Are we ever one hundred percent perfect at doing that? Of course not. We fail. A lot. But Jesus never asked for perfection. Jesus asked for love. And when we love, we bring life and create possibility. We just need to let it out. Keeping love to ourselves doesn’t protect us and it’s not being safe. It just entombs it.

That’s the Easter story, too. We can’t contain Jesus, in a tomb, on a cross, in a book, in a tradition or in a church. Jesus lives. Everywhere. He is love and love is not ended by death. If we first looked at everyone around us as if they were Jesus, wouldn't that change the world? If we were to see Jesus - first - before all the assumptions and biases of appearance, status, culture and religion, if we were to love one another as if we were loving Jesus, just as Jesus loves us, wouldn't that breath new life into our world? Wouldn't that let us out of the tomb, too?

Is this what you were expecting?

Palm Sunday’s a big deal in most churches.

It should be, it’s the beginning of what’s called Holy Week, the week that also includes Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, leading to Easter. It’s pretty much the only time we can chronologically follow Jesus’ story day to day. Sunday, Jesus rides triumphantly into Jerusalem on a donkey while the crowds shout “hosanna” and wave palm branches (hence the name); Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday (depending on the gospel) include Jesus throwing the money changers out of the Temple, teaching, altercations with the Temple authorities and other interesting things; Wednesday may also include the story of Judas selling out Jesus to the Temple authorities, earning the name Spy Wednesday in some traditions; Maundy (meaning “commandment” from the story in John’s gospel) Thursday includes the Last Supper, Jesus washing the disciples feet, praying and the arrest in the Garden of Gethsemane; Good Friday is the trial, crucifixion, death and placing in the tomb; Saturday’s the Sabbath, leading to Easter, the day of resurrection.

Busy week. And that’s just an embarrassingly brief synopsis. So you should read the story in the gospels, day to day. No, really, you should. It’s a profound and amazing story, made all the more so by the four different views of the gospels.

From our 21st century perspective, one of the questions most bothersome to people about this story is how the people turned against Jesus so quickly. There was cheering and celebrating his arrival on Sunday and by Friday, they demanded his death. To quote Pilate, of all people: “what evil has he done?”

Of course, the Temple authorities had been working for some time to get rid of Jesus. He was a threat to their power. Herod also saw Jesus as a threat. Pilate doesn’t seem to have thought Jesus was a threat to the Empire, but even if the Romans did, Jesus preaching about peace and loving your enemy would not have been as significant as the numerous armed rebels and zealots like Barabbas. Still, the Temple  and Herod could be persuasive, especially if the people could be convinced that someone foolishly claiming to be King of the Jews would bring only trouble, not freedom.

And I don’t think that would have been too hard for them, either. That brings me back to Palm Sunday and how Luke tells the story.

The story I summarized above with the most familiar features of what we named “Palm Sunday” isn’t how Luke describes it. In the gospel of Luke, it’s not a donkey, it’s a colt that Jesus rides, there are no palm branches being waved and no one shouts “hosanna.” Even the crowd isn’t a crowd of average citizens on the street happily welcoming Jesus into Jerusalem, but rather a crowd of disciples, followers who, well, follow him in, cheering on the way.

In Luke’s story, Jesus rides a colt into Jerusalem from the direction of Mt. Olivet and the crowd of disciples lay down their cloaks and coats to make a path in front of him, a “red carpet” fit for a king. That’s exactly what the story is meant to portray: the prophet Zechariah foretold that this is how the messiah would arrive at Jerusalem (Zech. 9 and 14). “Your king,” says Zechariah, will come to Jerusalem from the direction of Mt. Olivet, riding a colt, and bring peace, ruling from sea to sea and restoring double what they had. That’s right, double.

The other gospels tell this story, Matthew even mentions Zechariah by name, but Luke leaves out the hosannas and a wider crowd waving palms (the only thing handy) in celebration. Instead, the disciples following Jesus shout “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!” and “Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!” That’s reminiscent of the angels announcing Jesus’ birth back in Luke 2:14.

Here’s why I think it’s important that Luke tells the story this way. For Luke, it’s not just about announcing the arrival of the king that was promised, it’s also that Jesus isn’t at all what was expected.

It’s a conversation we often have at Christmas: the kind of messiah the people expected was a warrior king with mighty armies that would overthrow the oppressors by force and re-establish the power and glory of mighty Israel. The people would be rich and prosperous again, enemies would be vanquished and the king would reign over all, from sea to sea.

What they got was a baby in a manger, the child of poor parents from a backwater town in an occupied country. Not a great prospect for fulfilling their idea of the prophecy.

And here’s that same king, preaching love for all (even enemies), healing for the sick, compassion for the broken, care for the poor, calling for justice, inviting relationship.

I imagine that by the end of the week there might well have been more than the eleven chosen disciple that would speak for Jesus. But it couldn’t have been difficult to convince people that he simply didn’t deliver what he promised and that should be the end of him.

But it wasn’t. And it isn’t. Even though we have walked this same journey over and over again - and still do - the darkness of the end of the week still gives way to the light of the resurrection morning. Love wins.

It's a matter of life and death

I think that one of the greatest gifts of the Bible is the capacity of the stories it holds to reveal truth far beyond an obvious meaning.

Maybe I’ve been reading too many parables lately. Parables aren’t just stories with an obvious point, they’re meant to offer insight into Jesus’ revolutionary way of looking at the world. The Good Samaritan, for example, isn’t just a story about someone helping someone else. That’s a good idea in itself, but look a little closer and you’ll see the truth is that the person who stopped was someone the first audience for that story wouldn’t have expected, someone who their society says shouldn’t have stopped. That’s the kind of love Jesus was teaching: everyone is your neighbour, especially those you’re not supposed to love. Dig deeper and you might have more questions about the other characters in the story, too. Look from a different angle, a different perspective, and maybe you’ll find more than you thought.

I think all the stories of Jesus are like that. This week, I’m looking at the story of Jesus being anointed with expensive oil by a woman. That sounds like a bare bones summary because it is. The story appears in all four gospels, but each telling has different features and there’s even some debate as to whether it’s the same incident. That’s worth looking into another time, but I’m looking at the Gospel of John right now, where the story is placed in a very unique context (John 12:1-11).

There’s a dinner “in Jesus’ honour” in Bethany. The disciples are there, too, perhaps others, and Mary, Martha and Lazarus. That’s the recently dead Lazarus that Jesus brought back to life in the previous chapter. It’s the day before Jesus will go into Jerusalem, celebrated by a crowd on the day we call Palm Sunday, and six days before his crucifixion. While Martha serves, Mary brings some costly oil which she pours on Jesus’ feet, wiping them with her unbound hair. Judas complains that it’s being wasted and they could have sold it and used the money to feed the poor. Jesus tells him that she’s anointing him for burial. “You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me.”

The two obvious points to this story seem to be the anointing and the place of the poor. The latter may sound like Jesus is condoning poverty (he’s not - he’s once again pointing out a societal flaw) and the former shows Mary foreshadowing Jesus’ death. Somehow, Mary knows what’s ahead next week and makes this extravagant gesture of love and devotion.

Sure, and that’s important. But, hang on a minute: let’s look the other way. Let’s look back for a moment.

It’s Jesus who interprets Mary’s actions. She doesn’t say why she’s doing it. And “it” was something truly outrageous: not only did she poor costly oil on Jesus’ feet, but she wiped them with her unbound hair. Touching a man and undoing her hair in public were things that were just not done. Yes, that’s an extravagant, even outrageous, act of love, but maybe it isn’t just about death.

What if Mary was expressing her gratitude for the return to life of her dear brother Lazarus? That story immediately precedes this one, separated only by the pharisees planning to kill Jesus and Jesus retreating from the public eye. The dinner itself might even be honouring Jesus for giving them Lazarus back. Mary’s actions would then be about celebrating life, not honouring death. Mary thanks Jesus with her own radical act of love, just as Jesus’ own radical act of love raised Lazarus.

Here’s the thing, though. I’m not suggesting for a moment that this is an “either/or.” It’s an “and.” Lazarus was dead and is alive again, Jesus will soon be dead and alive again. Perhaps a further thought here is reflecting on how death is a part of life, that death and life are part of our everyday. Each day we encounter experiences of beginnings and endings, the end of a life and the birth of another, the natural inclination of creation to grow and to die, the movement of the seasons, even the day itself. There are moments of grief and celebration coming in all shapes and sizes.

And how will we handle that? Do we avoid the one that makes us uncomfortable and just try to push past it, living only in the one that seems easiest? Life is not simply preparation for death and the life to come. Nor is death and grief something we can avoid. Jesus embraced both with love and experienced them to the fullest. There’s more to life than death. Ask Lazarus.

Is it "like this?"

I love it when Jesus tells a parable.

Parables are those little stories that have a message and illustrate a point or a lesson Jesus is teaching. They’re his “it’s like this” stories. 

At least, that’s the way they seem to appear in the gospels. Jesus tells a story and moves on. Point made. Except even the simplest parable is way more complex and deep than that. So I like to think that Jesus thought of them as more “it’s like this. Now, discuss.”

See, I think the gospel writers, for their narrative, were mostly interested in what Jesus had to say, with occasional responses that helped the point he was making or furthered the story line. I don’t think, for the most part, that they were too interested in recording any discussion or back and forth between Jesus and the listeners.

So, for example, in Luke 15, Jesus is talking to a crowd that are identified as “tax collectors and sinners.” Jesus knows the temple authorities are listening so he tells a series of parables with a “lost and found” theme. Lost Sheep: shepherd with a hundred sheep loses one so he leaves the ninety-nine to look for the one. Great celebration when he finds it. Lost Coin: woman loses one of ten coins so she lights a lamp and sweeps the house until she finds it. Great celebration when she does. Prodigal Son: son asks for his inheritance early, takes it, leaves and squanders it in a foreign land. When he runs out of money, he realizes he’s better off at home so he returns, ready to beg for help. His father welcomes him with open arms, doesn’t even let him finish his apology speech and calls for a great celebration because the lost is found, the dead is alive again, hallelujah. His other son, though, is a little put out. He stayed and worked for his father while his brother squandered what he was given. But his father says yes, you’ve always been here, but, again, your brother was lost and is found, dead and is alive again.

The end. Jesus moves on with other stories to challenge those temple authorities.

But hang on. Here’s the moment where I think something might be left out. I don’t imagine that everyone, whether tax collectors and sinners or temple authorities just sat there, nodded wisely and said “oh yeah, I get that.” I think some might even have had questions.

Like, say, sure, Jesus, we can see that each of those parables has a “lost and found” theme. But there’s a “prodigal” theme to them all, too. “Prodigal” simply means to be wastefully extravagant, to be reckless with resources, especially money. Wasn’t the shepherd a little reckless abandoning the sheep? Or the woman a little wasteful lighting a lamp to look or the coin? Who know how much oil she burned through looking for it.

And in that last story it’s not just the one son - the one who squandered the inheritance on reckless living - who’s prodigal. What kind of a father would have handed over the money in the first place? And what about the other brother? Some people might consider that he missed his chance and squandered an opportunity to go and experience the world like his brother did. And what about the father when the son returns, ignoring the opportunity to say “I told you so,” punish or ignore his son, simply loving him and throwing him a party? That’s some seriously prodigal forgiveness and love.

Yes, I think Jesus would say. Yes, precisely, that’s what love is supposed to be like: more prodigal than the loss, hurt or brokenness that it forgives.

Wow, his listeners might say.

And Jesus would go on and say I’m not just talking about God’s love for you, I’m talking about your love for each other. You, too, can love like this.

Think about the two things that most challenge our ability to forgive. First, we’re conditioned for retribution. There must be punishment or payback: you hurt me, I want you to hurt; you broke me, I want you broken; you took a life, I’ll take yours. Forgiveness demands that we let go of that.

Second, we think there must be more than change, there must be exchange: my forgiveness is conditional on your repentance or, at the very least, my forgiveness must result in your repentance. But it’s not and it doesn’t. Forgiveness is our love in action. The transformation or change it brings is in one who forgives, just as repentance bring transformation to the one who repents. One doesn’t force itself on the other.

That sounds hard, his listeners might say, and complicated. Let’s look at that story again. Who are we in it?

And Jesus would say, good, let’s keep working at it. Who do you think you are in the story?