A Hypocrite Speaks
That I am a hypocrite, I say with no pretence. I am a hypocrite because I claim to believe in a Person who forgave those who went a few extra miles in torturing and dragging Him to the hilltop where He was to die; forgave those who killed His followers; forgives habitual sinners; forgives those who have one foot in hell but I do not forgive. I was forgiven, I am forgiven and I will be forgiven if I repent. That is the assurance the Scripture gives me.
But I do not forgive.
Mercy I get readily, 24/7 and with no strings attached. Mercy I give with a reluctant heart, after a long pause and with a laundry list of clauses. Sometimes I do not have mercy on others at all. Somehow, I missed one of the most important take home messages of my faith, in fact a map back home.
I missed the lesson of forgiveness, I missed Christianity.
I’ll tell you frankly that to me ‘Forgiveness’ is a cliché, another boring Sunday homily, something that moves me only when I read a testimony of forgiveness in a Spiritual magazine or on the internet, something that, unfortunately, I don’t see every day in the world I live in, which is mostly because I do not forgive. But for God, forgiveness is no cliché, love is no cliché, you and I with our incredibly punctual sins are no cliché. He does it every day, showing mercy. To show us how, He sent us Himself. Many saw and experienced that Mercy in person. Some wrote about it. Billions read it. Few follow it; least of all, me.
I know what my problem is. I’m human. I have instincts, impulses, desires and hormones high or low. And when I am asked, even commanded to love and forgive it is the Nineveh-Tarshish problem all over again. When I, a fallen human, am called to be like Him in His infinite holiness, the battle of the flesh and the Spirit gets bloodier. The Spirit prompts me to forgive but the flesh is reluctant, because the flesh sees the abuser, hears the accusations and feels the pain. The Spirit on the other hand however, listens. Forever it listens, listens to the whisper in the breeze. When I am asked to forgive, I am asked to rise above the flesh, to walk the extra mile, to keep knocking, to keep giving, to remain silent, to turn the other cheek, to forego, to die. And when I consider that, I board the ship in the opposite direction.
Can my friend who spilled ketchup on my favourite shirt be forgiven? YES! Of Course! Can my colleague who back stabbed me and took credit for my hard work be forgiven? YES! Can my daughter who keeps getting into unhealthy relationships be forgiven? YES! Can my neighbour who killed my family while I suffered in a 3*4 toilet with seven others for ninety days be forgiven? YES! Can that soldier who blindfolded my sister and shot her in the head at close range because he thought she might be a rebel be forgiven? yes… Can God who allowed my entire wealth and all my children to be gone in a day and my body to erupt with boils all over be forgiven?
My ketchup spilling friend, back-stabbing colleague, careless daughter, cruel neighbour and beastly soldier etc. are all humans and like me hypocrites. They fall just like me. They act just like me but God? Forgiving God? Well that’s going to take the stomach of a rather big fish.
It is hard but I must. It hurts but I must. The most secure and deadly prison is not in the Caribbean or in the Middle-East. It is in my heart. There in each rotting cell are the people who made a difference in my life, the wrong kind. And trust me there’s room for more.
I have so rarely forgiven that I cannot recall the feeling. All I can remember is a sensation of being physically churned inside my abdomen, a false sense of immense energy in the form of anger within me, the confidence and determination to hurt or even kill the other person but soon the crashing realisation that I can’t. Even worse is the feeling that the Person I need to forgive is invisible. I cannot pin Him to the ground and deviate his nasal septum given the form he chose to take on the night of the Last Supper. Only one person succeeded in tackling Him physically but ended up with a limp.
How long before the Mercy and compassion I receive in the Bread of Life is passed on unblemished on to those creatures that I hold captive? How many times will I kneel in the confessional, come out and demand explanations and apologies? How many times will I relive the horror, the fires of hell and the pangs of the pitiful human condition and take a step back from forgiving?
I can ask these questions because I am a hypocrite.
I cannot answer them because I am a hypocrite.
-Sam.
But I do not forgive.
Mercy I get readily, 24/7 and with no strings attached. Mercy I give with a reluctant heart, after a long pause and with a laundry list of clauses. Sometimes I do not have mercy on others at all. Somehow, I missed one of the most important take home messages of my faith, in fact a map back home.
I missed the lesson of forgiveness, I missed Christianity.
I’ll tell you frankly that to me ‘Forgiveness’ is a cliché, another boring Sunday homily, something that moves me only when I read a testimony of forgiveness in a Spiritual magazine or on the internet, something that, unfortunately, I don’t see every day in the world I live in, which is mostly because I do not forgive. But for God, forgiveness is no cliché, love is no cliché, you and I with our incredibly punctual sins are no cliché. He does it every day, showing mercy. To show us how, He sent us Himself. Many saw and experienced that Mercy in person. Some wrote about it. Billions read it. Few follow it; least of all, me.
I know what my problem is. I’m human. I have instincts, impulses, desires and hormones high or low. And when I am asked, even commanded to love and forgive it is the Nineveh-Tarshish problem all over again. When I, a fallen human, am called to be like Him in His infinite holiness, the battle of the flesh and the Spirit gets bloodier. The Spirit prompts me to forgive but the flesh is reluctant, because the flesh sees the abuser, hears the accusations and feels the pain. The Spirit on the other hand however, listens. Forever it listens, listens to the whisper in the breeze. When I am asked to forgive, I am asked to rise above the flesh, to walk the extra mile, to keep knocking, to keep giving, to remain silent, to turn the other cheek, to forego, to die. And when I consider that, I board the ship in the opposite direction.
Can my friend who spilled ketchup on my favourite shirt be forgiven? YES! Of Course! Can my colleague who back stabbed me and took credit for my hard work be forgiven? YES! Can my daughter who keeps getting into unhealthy relationships be forgiven? YES! Can my neighbour who killed my family while I suffered in a 3*4 toilet with seven others for ninety days be forgiven? YES! Can that soldier who blindfolded my sister and shot her in the head at close range because he thought she might be a rebel be forgiven? yes… Can God who allowed my entire wealth and all my children to be gone in a day and my body to erupt with boils all over be forgiven?
My ketchup spilling friend, back-stabbing colleague, careless daughter, cruel neighbour and beastly soldier etc. are all humans and like me hypocrites. They fall just like me. They act just like me but God? Forgiving God? Well that’s going to take the stomach of a rather big fish.
It is hard but I must. It hurts but I must. The most secure and deadly prison is not in the Caribbean or in the Middle-East. It is in my heart. There in each rotting cell are the people who made a difference in my life, the wrong kind. And trust me there’s room for more.
I have so rarely forgiven that I cannot recall the feeling. All I can remember is a sensation of being physically churned inside my abdomen, a false sense of immense energy in the form of anger within me, the confidence and determination to hurt or even kill the other person but soon the crashing realisation that I can’t. Even worse is the feeling that the Person I need to forgive is invisible. I cannot pin Him to the ground and deviate his nasal septum given the form he chose to take on the night of the Last Supper. Only one person succeeded in tackling Him physically but ended up with a limp.
How long before the Mercy and compassion I receive in the Bread of Life is passed on unblemished on to those creatures that I hold captive? How many times will I kneel in the confessional, come out and demand explanations and apologies? How many times will I relive the horror, the fires of hell and the pangs of the pitiful human condition and take a step back from forgiving?
I can ask these questions because I am a hypocrite.
I cannot answer them because I am a hypocrite.
-Sam.
Comments
Post a Comment