An open letter: to the person I can't forgive

I’ve never had this problem before. I’m a very forgiving person.

To me, grudges take too much energy to maintain, and they serve no purpose except to make the holder angrier still, bitter and vindictive.

But I have a grudge against you, one that’s been pretty easily buried for the last couple years. I don’t see you every day. I don’t see you ever. I don’t have to think about you.

But when I do… I’m still angry, and I’m struggling to understand why.

I thought I forgave you two years ago. Two years ago, when I was in college and you were my professor, when your words ripped through me like a hundred barbed arrows, unexpected, harsh, and cruel.

When you went after me with accusations and bitter words.

When my friends defended me, and you used their support to label me a troublemaker, a rabble-rouser, an insignificant and inexperienced child who would never succeed in my future if I didn’t learn proper respect. When my only crime was asking questions that made you uncomfortable.

The memories of those weeks, tormented by the thought of being under your thumb, terrified of speaking in class because of your venom, bring tears to my eyes even as I write this.

I’m still angry. And I’m still hurt by what you did.

Those horrible weeks went by, a new semester started, and the conflict between us was supposedly settled. I saw that you were trying to leave it behind, and I struggled to re-enter your classroom with grace. I struggled not to judge you, not to remember every evil word you’d said to me. I struggled to see your humanity, your own pain, your own brokenness that had led you to treat me this way. I struggled to forgive.

And you never apologized.

You never saw me for who I truly was, in those moments when you wielded your power over me.

You never knew the anguish you’d caused, the tears that consumed my nights, the trauma I relived every time I came into your classroom, every time your name was spoken in a conversation.

You never knew the desperation I felt, enough to seek help from another professor, just so that I wouldn’t have to meet with you alone again. You never knew the strength it took for me to meet your eyes and say hello to you in the hallway. You never knew how hard I was trying to let it go.

I don’t think you ever realized how much you hurt me, and I never had the chance to tell you.

I never had the chance to say, “you have hurt me deeply,” and see how you’d respond. I never even had the chance to say that I forgave you, despite the pain you caused me. I never had the chance to get any closure. We never had that chance, and I’m pretty sure we never will.

I want to let it go. I do. And contrary to what you might feel if you ever read this, I don’t hate you. I love you. I want you to know you are valuable, you are not your mistakes, you are loved by your Creator.

I want you to know I see you, and I’m sorry for the hurts you’ve had to carry. I’m sorry for the anger that seeped out along with my honesty, in writing this letter to you. I’m sorry I’ve ever spoken ill of you when I should have spoken with love.

I’m sorry I’ve been so angry with you for so long. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to let it go.

I think maybe the only way for me to start forgiving you is to be honest about how hurt I really am, and have been, for so long.

And I don’t need you to apologize to me, not anymore. I don’t need you to feel like you ruined my life. I just want you to understand and know yourself more deeply. I want you to make peace with yourself and with God, like I rely on His grace to do every day.

I want you to understand me better, and to know I’m trying to love you the way Jesus does, that even though my heart feels hardened against you, I’m asking God to soften it. To help me grow past my own sinful anger and pride.

You’ll probably never read this, and that’s okay. But the words we speak and write matter, so here are my words for you: you are forgiven. Even if it’s a conscious choice I have to make whenever I think of you, I’m choosing to forgive you. I hope you can forgive me.

Samantha

On multitasking

If you’re a weathered Christian, or even a brand-new one, you’ve probably read John 12 or heard the story of Mary anointing Jesus a week before his death. It goes like this: Jesus is visiting Mary’s house; she anoints Him with precious, expensive oil in an act of worship; Judas (a thief and, sadly, a traitor) rebukes her for not selling it and giving the money to the poor; Jesus rebukes Judas for not seeing what a wonderful gift Mary has given Him.

It’s almost comical to think about, because on the surface, Judas’s argument was, perhaps, a fair one. He probably thought Jesus would love it, would take his side and join him in rebuking the wasteful act of a foolish woman. Because that’s what Jesus was all about, right? Helping the poor?

Well, right and wrong.

Jesus’ response to Judas in John 12 is to leave Mary be, because “the poor you will always have with you, but you will not always have me.”

In this one statement, Jesus boldly places one thing above all other concerns: Himself.

Does that make Jesus conceited? Does it mean He didn’t care about the poor or their needs? It almost seems dismissive, when you only look at the first part of the sentence. “The poor you will always have with you…”

But look closer, and you’ll see Jesus is urging his disciples to focus. “But you will not always have me.” Jesus, the loving teacher and guide they depended on, would not always be there with them in the flesh.

Over and over again, the disciples needed reminding of this. The idea of him ever leaving them was unthinkable. Maybe they didn’t want to believe he would do what he said he was going to do, because it meant losing him, in a way.

There’s more than one takeaway from this hefty passage. The first one I’ve always seen has to do with honoring Christ, putting him first. Loving him enough to lay down even your most precious possessions. These are things Christ deserves, simply by virtue of being who He is. His rebuke to Judas was not born out of conceit, but rather, bluntly applied truth.

Jesus did–and does–want Christians to give of their blessings to help others, to demonstrate His compassion and love to the less fortunate. Compassionate giving is a hallmark of Christianity. But we’d be foolish to think that alleviation of material suffering, and “social justice,” is the only thing Christ came to achieve. If anything, helping the poor has always been a means to an end–the end being, of course, that those who have been helped will glorify Christ and come to salvation. True social justice is an equal shot at knowing our Savior’s love–which we have been given, through Christ!

It’s sad to see how Judas, a person who spent every day in the company of the Messiah, could still fail to recognize Jesus’ ultimate purpose in coming here. Our main priority should be Christ’s glory and the establishment of His kingdom. That’s takeaway #1.

On my latest read-through, though, Jesus seemed to be saying something a little different. The words seemed to be asking me a question: “Are you trying to do too much? Are the things you’re worried about making you forget who I am and why I came?”

It was a gentle rebuke, a reminder that it’s not my job to fix everything at once–when I try, I too easily lose sight of the matter at hand. It was like Jesus taking my hand and saying, “one step at a time.” A reminder I’ve needed on countless occasions, and one that I think many of us could use right now.

Chaos is the prince of this world. It’s no wonder we feel such turmoil, when every voice is trying to claim our attention. We Christians feel the weight of the darkness of this moment and believe we must do something–but what? Everyone seems to be arguing. No one seems to be listening.

And I think it’s time we ask the question: are we overextending ourselves? Are we, perhaps, trying to fix all the world’s problems on our own, when the solution is so near to us? So near, yet somehow so invisible.

This rebuke, then–takeaway #2 (or is it #1.5?)–is for you and me: we’re not meant to multitask. Though sometimes we may feel pulled in every direction, our job is not to follow every thread, but to trust Christ’s lead with every step, never losing sight of our real goal, our real treasure: Him. Never wavering from the task at hand–to proclaim boldly, fearlessly, wildly, what we know to be true: that He is the only solution. That we are weak, but He is strong. That we may not know what to do, but that we can trust Him regardless to lead us on the right path.

This is how the world will be saved–when we know, deep in our souls, that Christ’s purpose for us is good, and He is faithful to achieve it. Always. And He will be until the end of the age. Our only job is to follow.

A glimpse of Jesus

Why is this happening?

Not for the first time this weekend, today I woke up to bad news–the same news we’ve all been waking up to, or tossing and turning all night over for the last week. Not for the first time I found myself asking, what is going on?

How quickly things seem to change. How easily pain takes hold, fear and anger spread.

Not for the first time, this morning I found myself searching for Jesus amidst the confusion, like Zacchaeus trying to push through a crowd, finally having to be content with merely glimpsing the Savior from afar, perched high in a sycamore tree. You remember the children’s church song.

Maybe Zacchaeus could barely make out the expression on Jesus’ face as he preached to the crowd. Maybe he didn’t even see Jesus’ face. Maybe he had to strain his eyes just to see the Messiah’s hands moving as he spoke. But even a glimpse from afar was worth the climb, worth the childishness of the stunt, to Zacchaeus.

How miraculous it must have felt, then, when Jesus saw Zacchaeus, when he approached him almost like an old friend, and invited himself into Zacchaeus’ home. I’d be willing to bet Zacchaeus almost fell out of the tree in shock. He was a tax collector. No respectable person wanted to visit his house.

But how could he refuse? This was Jesus. This was the man, tales of whom had traveled across seas and deserts, whose signs and wonders bespoke a kind of hope and reconciliation the world had never seen before. This was Jesus, and Zacchaeus’ hope had been merely to see him.

If he could only see him, that might change everything.

And it did. Because Jesus saw him back.

More accurately, Jesus saw Zacchaeus the whole time. And unbeknownst to Zacchaeus, his simple act of faith that day invited Jesus in.

Right now I feel like Zacchaeus. Unsure, surrounded by obstacles, desperate for some guidance, some hope, some sign from Christ that he really is redeeming everything, when things only seem to be falling apart. Seeking Jesus in this chaos, almost afraid of not finding him–but knowing that even a glimpse of his glory would be enough to change everything.

Dear friends, may the love of Christ reveal a glimpse of itself to you today.

May his people cross rivers, scale mountains, climb trees to seek him. May Jesus meet us there, as though we had planned it together all along, and invite himself in.

And may we accept him when he does.

“I lift my eyes up to the hills; where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, maker of heaven and earth.” -Psalm 121:1