Forgive

I watched The Passion of the Christ over Easter weekend. Yep, the old, gory, Mel Gibson flick. It wasn’t my first time; I saw it in the theater when it initially came out and was, of course, quite moved. A friend told me then that she sat through the movie in tears, saying to herself the whole time, He did this for ME. Voluntarily. Of his own free will. He endured this for me.

The story had a different effect on me nineteen years later. The first time, I was moved by Christ’s suffering. This time, I was horrified by his tormentors. HORRIFIED.

The savagery. The laughter –  the heartless, bloodthirsty laughter. The abject cruelty. I could hardly bear it. Even if someone tried to argue that Gibson was maximizing it all for effect, history makes it quite clear that the Romans scourged and crucified many people, and that it was sadistic and torturous.

Stories of southern lynchings in the 1960s affect me similarly. I’m also reading Leon Uris’ Exodus right now and finding myself a bit overwhelmed by the stories of what the Jews experienced in the concentration camps. Again, it’s staggering – how humans can not only watch but cause such inconceivable suffering in another human being. And get pleasure from the experience.

There are no words.

But Jesus had words: Father, forgive them.

People, we speak much too casually about the Lord’s forgiveness. The depth of the love that can forgive what was depicted in that movie . . . it’s hardly comprehensible. On my first viewing, I was moved by the thought, He did this for me. On this viewing, I was moved by the thought, He did this for them, too.

Moved . . . and convicted. Friends, I haven’t even scratched the surface of learning how to forgive.

He endured false accusations that led to merciless brutality – and me? I get all upset about false accusations which merely put my reputation in question with a handful of folks out there.

He experienced betrayal that cost him his life – and I’m angry about betrayals that merely altered my circumstances, which nevertheless remain quite comfortable.

He was whipped with a Roman scourge enhanced with small pieces of metal that decimated his skin, skin that was about to bear the weight of a wooden cross – and me? People, I still catch myself ruminating angrily and uselessly over someone who just refused to speak to me several times for no good reason.

History is replete with stories of people tortured in every way by their enemies. I don’t even have real enemies. Right now, the worst I have is thoughtless acquaintances who aren’t even aware of how much their words and behavior harm me.

And I still find it hard to forgive sometimes. How pathetic am I.

Some of you out there may suffer with me from what I have dubbed Good Girl Syndrome. I’m a good girl. I go to church. I know my Bible. I give to the needy. I don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t cheat, don’t sleep around . . . I was raised well and generally do the right things. I feel pretty good about myself. I’m not perfect, but I'm good.

Then I come face to face with true GOODNESS.

And there are no words.

Except the only words he really wants to hear from me: 

I love you . . . 

thank you . . . 

help me . . . 

I’m yours.