Giving Grace
Our lives are like lawns full of dandelions. I know it’s a clichéd metaphor, but it’s a pretty good visual image and besides it fits the picture. Wouldn’t it be lovely if our lives were as flawless as this lawn? But they’re not, and I was reminded of that the other night after church.
Here’s the scene: People are milling around in the narthex after a church service when a former student from long ago, someone who looks nearly as old as I do, sidles up and after a bit of small talk says, “I just gotta tell you this—I plagiarized in your class. You handed back a paper and said to me, ‘Did you write this? It doesn’t sound like you?’ I said, ‘Yes, I wrote it,’ so you smiled, handed back the paper and walked on.”
How should one respond to such a confession—forty years after the deed? I’ve had this experience three or four times, and this last time I said something like, “Oh, well, I suspect most of us have done something like that at one time or another. I remember when I handed in something I hadn’t written.”
But he said, “No, I have to confess. It really, really bothers me.”
“Well, then,” I said, “I forgive you, and I’m sure God does also.” It’s an uncomfortable business, this giving of priestly absolution. I’m not used to it. Even being apologized to makes me uncomfortable—most of us feel that way, I think. We don’t want to sound pompous or appear to have been waiting for penitence, but we don’t want to seem indifferent either. After all few things are harder to do then confess or apologize.
Confession is good for the soul according to the old saw. I suppose that’s true, but I wonder if feeling guilt for something forty years after the fact, something that one could confess to God and be done with, indicates a hyper-sensitivity to guilt and an inadequate appreciation of grace or a sturdy conscience that refuses to gloss over sin. As I reflect on these confessions I have been privileged to hear, I wonder if in my classroom, I dealt out more guilt than I did grace, and I begin to wish that I had exercised less judgment and more forgiveness.
It seems to me that in the Christian school culture I grew up in and taught in, most teachers, I among them, were much more ready to punish than forgive—especially if forgiveness was not merited. It was just common sense: “A kid does something wrong, she’s got to be punished. How else is she going to learn to behave?” I can think of numerous times that I or one of my colleagues caught someone doing something wrong and punished them, but I remember fewer instances of intentionally choosing to show grace—of saying, “I’m just going to forget this ever happened.” (Well, this is apart from accepting late papers, something which I did with more and more readiness, the longer I taught.) I wish now that I had looked for opportunities to give grace—not randomly, but when circumstances indicated that the experience of grace from my hand might be an effective tool for training in righteousness.
As I grow older, I find I am moved to tears much more easily than I used to be, and few things move me more powerfully in a novel or movie or TV show than the depiction of someone dealing out grace—undeserved favor. I think good writers recognize the power of grace in a story because it can be spotted rather frequently—even in the generally depressing world of television drama.
Some time back my wife and I received a gift of the boxed set of the first season of West Wing, and recently we watched an episode in which the following transpires: Someone from the Whitehouse staff has leaked evidence from Chief of Staff Leo Mc Garrity’s personal file that Leo had been to a treatment center for alcohol and drug addiction. Leo knows the leak is going to cause huge problems and might even result in his having to resign. Eventually, the culprit is discovered and Leo orders one of his subordinates to fire the young woman. But before the guilty young woman leaves he asks that she be sent to his office. When she shows up with her little box of personal effects, terrified, Leo asks her why she did it and she tells him that her dad was an alcoholic, she knew how they behaved, and she just felt that it was her patriotic duty to leak the information. Leo talks to her for a bit about addiction, then says to her, “I believe you thought you were doing the right thing. Go back to you office and unpack your belongings. You can keep your job.” She returns to her office, stunned by grace. And we in the audience are stunned by the generosity of this crusty little man.
What better thing does Christ do than give us grace? And what better thing can we do as Christians—little Christs—then to show grace to the lovely children, the little Christs, that enter our lives? The Old Testament “eye for an eye” justice code simply does not fit the grace-code implemented by the Father through Jesus Christ? At least that’s the way it seems to me now. I wish I heard and saw grace given out by the people of my community. Perhaps it’s happening and I don’t see it. Whatever the case, when I spot it in a work of fiction and am always moved by it. What might it be like to see it in real life?
Here’s the scene: People are milling around in the narthex after a church service when a former student from long ago, someone who looks nearly as old as I do, sidles up and after a bit of small talk says, “I just gotta tell you this—I plagiarized in your class. You handed back a paper and said to me, ‘Did you write this? It doesn’t sound like you?’ I said, ‘Yes, I wrote it,’ so you smiled, handed back the paper and walked on.”
How should one respond to such a confession—forty years after the deed? I’ve had this experience three or four times, and this last time I said something like, “Oh, well, I suspect most of us have done something like that at one time or another. I remember when I handed in something I hadn’t written.”
But he said, “No, I have to confess. It really, really bothers me.”
“Well, then,” I said, “I forgive you, and I’m sure God does also.” It’s an uncomfortable business, this giving of priestly absolution. I’m not used to it. Even being apologized to makes me uncomfortable—most of us feel that way, I think. We don’t want to sound pompous or appear to have been waiting for penitence, but we don’t want to seem indifferent either. After all few things are harder to do then confess or apologize.
Confession is good for the soul according to the old saw. I suppose that’s true, but I wonder if feeling guilt for something forty years after the fact, something that one could confess to God and be done with, indicates a hyper-sensitivity to guilt and an inadequate appreciation of grace or a sturdy conscience that refuses to gloss over sin. As I reflect on these confessions I have been privileged to hear, I wonder if in my classroom, I dealt out more guilt than I did grace, and I begin to wish that I had exercised less judgment and more forgiveness.
It seems to me that in the Christian school culture I grew up in and taught in, most teachers, I among them, were much more ready to punish than forgive—especially if forgiveness was not merited. It was just common sense: “A kid does something wrong, she’s got to be punished. How else is she going to learn to behave?” I can think of numerous times that I or one of my colleagues caught someone doing something wrong and punished them, but I remember fewer instances of intentionally choosing to show grace—of saying, “I’m just going to forget this ever happened.” (Well, this is apart from accepting late papers, something which I did with more and more readiness, the longer I taught.) I wish now that I had looked for opportunities to give grace—not randomly, but when circumstances indicated that the experience of grace from my hand might be an effective tool for training in righteousness.
As I grow older, I find I am moved to tears much more easily than I used to be, and few things move me more powerfully in a novel or movie or TV show than the depiction of someone dealing out grace—undeserved favor. I think good writers recognize the power of grace in a story because it can be spotted rather frequently—even in the generally depressing world of television drama.
Some time back my wife and I received a gift of the boxed set of the first season of West Wing, and recently we watched an episode in which the following transpires: Someone from the Whitehouse staff has leaked evidence from Chief of Staff Leo Mc Garrity’s personal file that Leo had been to a treatment center for alcohol and drug addiction. Leo knows the leak is going to cause huge problems and might even result in his having to resign. Eventually, the culprit is discovered and Leo orders one of his subordinates to fire the young woman. But before the guilty young woman leaves he asks that she be sent to his office. When she shows up with her little box of personal effects, terrified, Leo asks her why she did it and she tells him that her dad was an alcoholic, she knew how they behaved, and she just felt that it was her patriotic duty to leak the information. Leo talks to her for a bit about addiction, then says to her, “I believe you thought you were doing the right thing. Go back to you office and unpack your belongings. You can keep your job.” She returns to her office, stunned by grace. And we in the audience are stunned by the generosity of this crusty little man.
What better thing does Christ do than give us grace? And what better thing can we do as Christians—little Christs—then to show grace to the lovely children, the little Christs, that enter our lives? The Old Testament “eye for an eye” justice code simply does not fit the grace-code implemented by the Father through Jesus Christ? At least that’s the way it seems to me now. I wish I heard and saw grace given out by the people of my community. Perhaps it’s happening and I don’t see it. Whatever the case, when I spot it in a work of fiction and am always moved by it. What might it be like to see it in real life?
And I think you should turn this into a "This I Believe" essay. It would fit the format quite easily. Doed that still air?
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