All
six of my grandchildren are doing well.
They are all healthy, clean cut, intelligent, fun-loving kids, and
talented to boot. My son and my daughter
have done a marvelous job of parenting, setting boundaries but not so
stringently that self-discovery is hampered.
(I find myself sometimes wondering what I ever did to deserve
them.) The oldest is 15, the youngest
8. My prayers for and concerning them
are of course ones of thanksgiving, but those prayers are also mindful of
whatever future crises they will face. Right
now they are all thriving and blossoming.
But I know that pain will eventually enter those lives in some form, and
I also know a truth that at this moment they do not have the maturity to grasp
– that that pain will be essential to their learning.
The
pain of which I speak hopefully will not be that of an unseasonable or
premature malady of body. I rather have
in mind the pain that others will inflict, the pain that cuts to the heart. My prayer is that they will be as ready for
it as anyone can be, though this kind of wounding is not always one that you
have the chance to prepare for. It can
be unforeseen. In response to my review
of “The Imitation Game,” someone made this observation: “The movie does such a
good job of reminding us that we are all wounded, even a genius like Alan
Turning. We need only scratch the surface of almost anyone to find life scars
just beneath the surface.” Someday my
beloved grandchildren will wear scars, either visible or invisible, after being
the recipient of cruelty or betrayal or dishonesty or just blatant unkindness,
delivered by person or persons at this point unknown. I trust that they will be armed for the
encounter, but even the most armored soldier in battle is subject to the
likelihood of wounding, and wounds stick around. They may scab over, but they stick
around! As one of the long time walking
wounded I know this all too well.
All
this I have said is by way of introduction to the forever crucial subject of
forgiveness.
A
lady who is a member of my church once suffered the loss of a teen child, not
by disease or accident, but by the hand of a murderer. A daughter she loved dearly was killed,
wantonly and treacherously, by someone before whom the daughter was vulnerable,
defenseless. It happened about forty
years ago, and more than once over those many years she has shared her
continuing grief and depicted in words the continuing struggle she has had with
forgiving the assailant. Her faith
demands forgiveness of her; she knows all too well how personally
self-destructive it is to harbor hate and to nurse the compulsion to strike
back, for vindication and retribution.
So every morning upon awaking she bows in prayer and meditation seeking
another day’s grace and help in forgiving the killer she hardly knew. She takes some satisfaction from knowing that
the guy was caught, convicted and imprisoned for life. But how do you live with a pain like that,
knowing that it will always be inside of you?
What does forgiveness even mean in a situation like that?
One
does not once and for all forgive a person or persons. This grieving mother knows that it has to be
forever renewed, if not publicly then inside the mind and heart. On October 2, 2006, a local milk delivery man
in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania walked into the West Nickel Mines Amish
School, a one room schoolhouse, chased out all the adults and all the boys in
the room, tied up the ten girls who remained and shot every one of them before
taking his own life. Five of the girls
died, the others survived after extensive hospital care. Within a matter of hours the incident was
known across the country and the world, and a most remarkable thing
happened: the entire Amish community
went on record as jointly forgiving the killer and coming to the aid and
comfort of the milkman’s family. All
non-Amish peoples were astounded at this group decision and outpouring of
humble forbearance. (A one-character
play pertaining to this tragic event entitled “The Amish Project” is now making
the rounds, recently staged here in Columbia.)
But
despite this public ritual chorus of compassion and dispensation, we can only
begin to imagine what the private struggle must have been,
especially for the parents and family members of the slain girls and the girls
who somehow survived, now nine years older, who lost their innocence much too
early. Each individual in that
community had to confront the happening on her/his own. Inner feelings accruing from the traumatic
event must continue to demand considerable soul searching and much daily
renewal of the forgiving spirit, not unlike what the woman in our church says
she must put herself through each morning in prayer. Yes, there was a group consent publicly
announced, but the inner turmoil cannot be estimated by anyone outside that
Amish village settlement.
The
forgiveness we must practice can be likened to medicine taken to stave off the
ravages of old wounds. The scar cannot
be erased, only controlled, regulated.
That medicine, if its prescription is suitable to the symptoms, has to
be taken for the rest of one’s life. I
am sure we have all heard of foolish people who when they have not for some
time suffered from the aches and pains assume that the medication has done its
job, no longer needed on a continuing basis, and stop taking it, or start
fooling around with the dosage, only to find out in short order that they were
exceedingly mistaken, when a new onset of the symptoms occurs. They forget that the prolonged absence of
symptoms was due to the medication.
Can
we actually compare forgiveness to a pain medication? If the wound is deep enough, most certainly
yes!
Leaving
the subject of personal injury and healing for a moment, I would like to say a
few words about the forgiveness of people we have never personally
confronted. How does a member of one
race or the citizens of one country or the devotees of one religion forgive the
atrocities committed against it by another race or country or cult of piety?
One
great testament to the power of intercultural and interfaith and interracial
healing that grew out of the events of 9/11 is a confederation of women who
call themselves the Daughters of Abraham.
It began in Boston that same tragic year of 2001, when a group of them
met for worship and the cultivation of understanding between Judaic, Muslim and
Christian beliefs and traditions. The
movement caught on and has spread until at present a total of about 25
Daughters of Abraham groups are active throughout the U.S. and Canada. It actually got underway as a book club
bringing the participants together to share and compare writings by authors
from each of these traditions, one from each of the three on a monthly
basis. There are national guidelines for
the conducting of these studies. A
Christian woman friend of mine who belongs to one of the cells reports that she
has found a caring heart and mind inside all three of these faiths, expressed
in a shared concern and love for the poor and the marginalized everywhere. It is my hope and that of others I know that
this dialogue will catch on at every level of our pluralistic society and that men
of each tradition as well will eventually embrace the notion and practice. We cannot have too much of this kind of thing
in a world where people are murdered for their beliefs and practices, where
barriers are erected that are lethal and dehumanizing.
All
the way through World War II, during which I
progressed from the age of 8 to the age of 12, I was drenched in propaganda
about the enemy. Caricatures of “the
Japs” and the Germans were displayed everywhere – in movies, on posters and on
radio (no TV in those days). I was
brainwashed into the corporate hate, even though I never suffered any personal
loss or trauma at the hands of those nations.
In England of course it was a different story. Unlike the inhabitants of the British Isles,
I never had bombs dropped on my city or countryside. No member of my family was ever killed in combat
or interred, tortured or executed. And
yet I felt injured, in soul and spirit, as I learned of so many who had and saw
newsreels about the devastation overseas.
It took me some years to come around to seeing the Japanese people as
human beings, as vulnerable to sorrow and loss as myself. I learned to distinguish the rank and file of
Japanese citizens from the politico-military regime under which they had been
subjugated and by which they were brainwashed.
Perhaps
my grandchildren’s scars will come chiefly from that kind of internalizing of
an international crisis, if not from personal injuries. The world they will have to enter, the one we
will be leaving them, I fear will test their metal and their character unlike
anything those of my generation have known.
To be sure they will have more than a passing chance to learn what
forgiveness is and how it must be trusted to heal.
To
read other entries in my blog, please consult its website: enspiritus.blogspot.com. To learn about me consult on the website the
blog entry for August 9, 2013.
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