Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you. Ephesians 4:32
Unforgiveness will turn you into someone you never intended to be, displaying the attitudes and qualities you detest in others. – Nancy DeMoss
There is no revenge so complete as forgiveness. – Josh Billings
A happy marriage is the union of two forgivers. – Ruth Bell Graham
At that point Peter got up the nerve to ask, “Master, how many times do I forgive a brother or sister who hurts me? Seven?” Jesus replied, “Seven! Hardly. Try seventy times seven.” Matthew 18:21-22, MSG
I’ve heard some amazing Lenten sacrifices in this year’s offerings, from much-needed radiation treatment for an advancing cancer to finally laying down grief in the loss of a dearly loved parent.
Here’s one I have not heard, although I have no doubt it’s being offered:
How about forgiving?
There are some really great wins and guarantees to our forgiving an offense:
(1) it lessens its intensity
(2) it reduces its frequency of reminding you of the offense
(3) it expands my capacity to (finally!) be a loving, inoffensible person
If we truly see the wealth of what can be gained by simply forgiving, we might not only adopt it as a Lenten possibility, but a lifetime reality.
To fail to extend forgiveness–even to someone who does not request it–puts the offended person in a bunkered-down state. Moving forward is out of the question. There is no future for an unforgiving person, only the baleful reliving of the past. Over and over again. It is deadly toxic and crippling.
Of all the things that choke and poison spiritual growth, resentments are probably the most devastatingly effective. E. Stanley Jones
Stop living as though someone else is to blame for your life. Get revenge on whoever offended you by letting them out of your debtor’s jail. The joke will be on them. While they think they are getting a reprieve, it will be you who will finally breathe the fresh air and run through fields of wildflowers beneath cobalt skies. Go on, forgive them. Release it. Let it go.
My bragging rights persist, so please indulge me with this repost. It still rings true today. I love you, Dad. You’ll never know what the words “I’m proud of you” do to this heart of mine. I’m very proud to be your son.
My Dad can beat up your Dad.
Today is Father’s Day and I am reflecting on my one true example of fatherhood and, I can tell you, he’s got your Dad beat by a mile. Okay, so he only took me to White Sox games in the 60’s when they were awful instead of Cubs games as I was growing up on the south side of Chicago. And I never remember them winning. Not once. But I complained long enough that he took me to the north side one time to visit Wrigley Field when Fergie Jenkins was pitching.
And yes, the Cubbies won. 4-2. See? It made an impact on me. Dad did that.
Sure, it’s true that he worked for the phone company and they kept transferring him in the middle of the school year, making it hard to make new friends and easier as time went by to say bye to old friends. So what if I learned over time not to get too close to people. I did, in fact, learn to make friends quickly and my penchant for cave-dwelling has turned me on to spending long hours shut away with God (a ‘plus’ in ministry) and learning though other friends may come and go, He will never leave me nor forsake me.
Yeah, my stinking memory still holds onto the ONE time he looked so disappointed in me after a little league game where I had muffed a pop fly and caused us to lose a big game, amid all the other times he praised me in all things big and small and taught me the art of encouragement. Sorry, Dad. I did get over that a long time ago, and the fact of the matter is, I was kind of a goof at baseball. Thanks for all those years of leaving work early to pick me up from basketball practice and for rarely missing any of my games. You rock.
I say again, my Dad can beat up your Dad.
He’s a study in meekness and gentleness. He’s one of the kindest men you will ever meet. Many have been the times I’ve heard it said of my Dad that “he’s so cute.” Yeah, he kinda is. He’s just a short man but he stands head and shoulders above most. He’s also the youngest looking 81 year old you’ll ever know. And he doesn’t drive like an old man, which is always nice. ‘Tis true he has more hair than I do and in MUCH better shape but the one thing about my Dad that I can honestly say I have never known him to do is make fun of anyone. You won’t hear put-downs from his mouth. He builds up. He doesn’t tear down. And I have never, ever felt degraded by him.
Thanks, Dad. You rock.
And another thing. This man I am talking about? This man who is my Dad? Well sir, I’ve never seen a man love a woman like he loved my Mom. Throughout their almost fifty years together, right up to her passing from a three-month battle with cancer, he put her first every time. Not before God, mind you, but her needs always came before his own. The man’s a saint, I tell you.
There’s a whole litany of things I could say to honor my Dad but all of them would fall way short of the one thing that has stood out in my memory above all others. Growing up in my house, you always knew where Dad would be before the sun rose on his day: at the breakfast table with an open Bible and bowed head. His life has always been a worship to His Lord. And because of his devotion, his life has the mark of integrity on it. Before there was PromiseKeepers, he was the mold for what a promise-keeper should look like. I never knew him to leer at another woman or cheat God with the tithe or shirk his work responsibilities. They don’t make ’em like Dad anymore.
My Dad can beat the tar out of yours.
Dad was a great provider, a committed husband, a kind father and he showed me it’s never out of place for a grown man to cry, indeed it is quite masculine—all these things, yes, but there will never be a more bold statement over his life than that sweet head bowed in a fixed amen to the Holy Book that shapes every moment of his life.
All which has me asking: How?
He didn’t grow up in a Christian home. He never received much in the way of love from his Dad or stepmom, and yet he filled my sisters’ and my life with it in abundance. Man, it just leaves me shaking my head. Here’s to you, Dad, with love. Thank you for being Jesus to me with skin on.
Sylvester Stallone still has one more Rocky to write: YOU are the Rocky Balboa of Dads.
So I was thinking all the way through south Georgia yesterday afternoon. Actually, the ghost of my “old man” spooked me a couple times this week. Earlier in the week someone close to me spoke a hard word into my life and my self went into self-defense mode immediately. I wouldn’t even take it to the Lord to see if this was Him. I knew it wasn’t. Couldn’t be. Not from this person. Flames shot from the orbs of my eyes and smoke billowed from flared nostrils. I told my wife about it and promptly opened the screen of my laptop intending to write them the mother of all emails.
“Don’t do it, Scott,” the Holy Spirit warned.
How strange that He looks a lot like Sandy, I thought to myself.
“If you can’t support me, then leave!” I commanded Him (her).
“I’m telling you, you’ll regret it.”
“No I won’t. Now leave me alone!”
Out she walked. I fumed. Pecking out a string of words, I could feel the evil rise up in me. A mirror of sorts materialized and I saw my old self grinning devilishly, egging me on. Oh, he’ll pay, it said. And you will feel so much better. That gave inspiration for another phrase or two and yet another niggling unsettledness prompting me to go “Pac-Man” on them with my backspace key. Y’ever get so mad you don’t know who you’re mad at? That’s the place I was in. Although I never sent the email my mirrored image was dying for me to send, my heart was wrong. And the anger only festered. Yeah, I ‘obeyed’ the Spirit, but there was no life in it. The Lord had me dead to rights and was setting me up.
I suppose that ire was bubbling away inside me still as I came upon the shaved-headed so-and-so in the red car outside of Tifton, Georgia yesterday afternoon. He was in the left lane and traveling slower than Christmas so I flashed him. Immediately I saw his fist go to the air and watched it sprout a middle digit. About this time, Sandy looked up from her book when she heard me snort. Just in time, I add ruefully, to see the middle finger and me hitched to his rear bumper. It was then she looked over at me and gave me the finger, albeit with her stare.
“What are you doing?”
“I want this…this…JERK to get out of the way. Can you believe him?” my voice shrilled, looking for sympathy from my beloved.
Alas, there was none.
“Stop it, Scott!”
“What?!?” I could see immediately it was going to be my issue.
“Slow down, you’re going to get us all killed!”
“All? I think this bozo needs to die.” The words came out like toothpaste from a tube. Too late.
Sandy went back to her book. I sulked. I fumed. God bided His time. No one was speaking, not for the longest time. I’d turn to God in my thoughts with a C’mon, give me a break! Can’t you see how crappy this week has been? And I’m the innocent one in all this, but I could feel Him looking down at whatever He was reading too.
A few hours ago, the Lord summoned me. They were the first words I’d heard Him speak in my direction for some time, so I was glad. What I didn’t know was He had opened the door to a woodshed and invited me in. I was so delighted with the attention I gaited merrily inside, thinking it’s about time. I opened my journal and began pouring out my heart to him, defending myself from the get go, reminding Him I was His man and this must be persecution and all that. Instantly, He went into silent mode again. I wasn’t listening. I was doing all the talking and defending, so He quietly shut the door behind Him and cleared His throat.
I stopped. Looking around, I could tell I didn’t like this room at all. Then I had the strange sensation I’d been here before. Many times. I sat still as a stone, knowing I’d best listen as what I was about to hear was going to be the answer to my cry for so long: Lord, whatever is in me that needs to die, painful as it is, do it. Do me, Lord!
The one thing about God, He doesn’t tap dance very often. Mostly, He gets right to the point.
“You were wrong, Scott.”
“You mean, the other day? Well, I know I was yesterday. But, Lord…”
“You were wrong. I sent My servant to tell you.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“If you continue to reject his word, you reject Me.”
He told me I was to write this person, humiliating myself in the process, telling him I was wrong, he was right and (gulp) asking his forgiveness. He also told me what to say, no more, no less. But still I found a way to obey God and get an old man ‘dig’ in as well. That should do it, I thought somewhat satisfactorily. I wanted to save a little face at least, to hold onto some measure of dignity. Ah, but that’s the stuff of self.
(There you are, you old codger. I thought you were dead.)
“Take that out,” the Lord said. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Yes, Lord.” And I took it out.
Did it hurt to do it? Oh my, and how. But I could never want to be on the other side of God’s holiness. The woodshed is as far as I want to ever go. Funny thing how it is also such a grace-filled room. There’s some real one-on-one attention in the woodshed, some real heart-to hearts in there.
Even still, I think I’ll steer clear of it for awhile, thank you very much.
