Many Convincing Proofs

The good doctor Luke, personal friend of the Apostle Paul, wrote a couple of books to his friend Theophilus. In those accounts, Luke’s aim was to present many convincing proofs that Jesus had risen from the dead. And, though the canon of Scripture is closed, during Sunday morning’s session of The Jubilee Conference, speaker Bob Goff encouraged participants to continue to look for convincing proofs that Jesus is alive.

Goff’s work is one of those convincing proofs.

Throughout the course of the conference, speakers explored the themes of creation, the fall, redemption, and restoration. Goff, an attorney, is President and founder of Restore International, an organization committed to rescuing and rehabilitating victims of forced prostitution and slave labor, and of bringing the perpetrators of those crimes to justice.

Taking the stage while carrying a bunch of balloons, Goff told the crowd he had no idea how helium kept the balloons in the air. Likewise, he said, he had no idea how forgiveness worked. But, he said, forgiveness is real and it’s powerful.

Because of Christ, said Goff, we get to introduce people to forgiveness.

Restore International pursues justice for the needy in some of the poorest countries of the world. Goff worked with the judiciary in Uganda to resolve a backlog of court cases which had kept nearly a hundred young men imprisoned. At the end of one day, almost all were restored to their families.

Because of the nature of the crimes of which they had been accused, they faced the likelihood that they would be rejected by their families upon their release. Restore worked with the families, emphasizing their need to forgive their children and welcome them home. And, the young men were encouraged to forgive their captors.

During the course of his work in Uganda, Goff learned of an eight-year old boy who was mutilated and left to die, having had his genitalia cut off by a local witch doctor that trafficked in body parts. Restore International was able to prosecute the case against the perpetrator, a man who will spend the rest of his life in an overcrowded, windowless prison.

Goff, convinced that Christ’s message of forgiveness extends to all, visited the witch doctor in prison, shared the gospel, and prayed with him.

The young boy accompanied Goff to the United States where he was invited to visit theWhite House. And, through a generous donation and the skill of a surgeon at Cedars Sinai Hospital, this young boy has now undergone restorative surgery.

Throughout the course of the conference, I heard many stories, like this one, which bear witness to the reality of forgiveness and restoration through the living Christ. Have you seen them, the many convincing proofs that Jesus is alive? Where?

Linking with Laura @ The Wellspring, with whom I got to play during Jubilee:

And with Michelle @ Graceful:


And Jen and the sisterhood @ Finding Heaven:

How Art Hurts. And Heals.

Down the hill from the lodge at the retreat center sat an art studio, staffed for the weekend by the artist-in-residence. We were invited, during free time, to come and play in the studio, to learn techniques and dabble with papers and brushes and paint. The artist talked of creating a project for others who had been on retreat; businessmen for whom the world of art supplies and creation was a foreign land. She had invited them, as those who hadn’t seen themselves as artists, to venture into the world of creativity. She called us to come and play as they had.

“I’m a Type-A person,” I told the artist. “I like lists, and schedules, and structure.” I told her of trying to do art with my friend Ethel, she who created beauty with child-like abandon and joy while I carefully counted sequins and beads and double-checked instructions. The artist dared me to be brave, to come down to the studio and play.

I wandered down the hill, found a place at the table, and sat myself on a tall stool. The artist demonstrated dry brush, wet-on-wet, and crayon resist painting. She suggested that we, as writers, add words to our work, inviting us to write using our non-dominant hands. On the wall were posted samples to inspire creativity and the words, “Give yourself permission to play.” Surrounded by every kind of art supply I could imagine, I was free to play and explore, to wander way outside the boundaries of my comfort zone and create.

And I felt like I was in prison.

I watched as others circulated through the room, considering and collecting scraps of paper and supplies, arranging and re-arranging their designs. They tried things, saw possibility, made changes; adapted. Soft music played as laughter filled the studio. I looked at the others and then looked at the paints and papers before me. I tried something. I tried something else. I couldn’t make sense of what was in front of me. I l watched the others at play and tried to imitate. Nothing looked right. I saw no beauty. I had no way to judge my efforts, to tell if anything I was doing was any good.

My heart began pounding; my breathing shallowed. Feeling hot and dizzy and trapped, I began to imagine myself toppling over from my tall stool and doing a face-plant in a puddle of Gesso.  I walked away from the studio leaving my art project behind.

I walked away from this foreign land, this place where I couldn’t make sense of the language and the rhythms and the customs. In that studio, I tasted the life of an artist, a musician, a dreamer; one who had grown up trying to make sense of a world governed by lists, and schedules, and structures.

And it made me want to say, “I’m so sorry.”

Joining Laura @ The Wellspring:

And L.L. Barkat @ Seedlings in Stone:

 

Seven Simple Words

“I’m so sorry. Will you forgive me?”

I had been disappointed and hurt. I felt as though another had chosen sides in a disagreement without considering my point of view. In my opinion, she hadn’t acted in a biblical manner.

For months, we didn’t speak. If we met in public, we smiled politely but avoided both eye contact and one another. I resented those who continued spending time with her, those who seemed oblivious or insensitive to the pain I felt she had caused me.

Many times I prayed, asking for the ability to forgive. Every time I thought I had, the anger came creeping back. I nursed it and allowed it to fester. In the middle of many sleepless nights I rehearsed my arguments and laid out my case, constructing a solid theological defense as to why I was right and she was wrong. My argument was airtight. Given the opportunity, I figured, I would nail her to the wall until she conceded she had done me wrong.

And then the day arrived.  I found myself alone with her in an empty church classroom. We exchanged small talk, pregnant with chilly silences.

“I feel like we have some unfinished business,” she said.

She had given me my opening. I began laying out my side of the story, wanting her to acknowledge the pain she had caused me.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Will you forgive me?”

I stopped, stunned. Then I began again, “I’m sorry, too. But you see . . .”

“I’m so sorry,” she repeated. “Will you forgive me?”

She didn’t give me a chance to finish my argument, to rehash all the details of who had said what to whom and in what tone of voice. She simply asked me to forgive her.

She didn’t offer her words lightly, or in a way that made me feel as though she was dismissing me or wanting to sweep everything under the proverbial rug. She also didn’t say, “I’m sorry if I offended you,” or “I’m sorry if there was a misunderstanding,” or “I’m sorry, but here’s my side.”  She spoke the words simply and honestly, from the heart, as though grieved by the distance which divided us for so long and longing for it to be bridged.

She was offering to own her part of our problem and asking for healing and reconciliation. My friend sat before me extending the opportunity to practice the life-giving grace of the gospel, the unconditional forgiveness of sin. And I was undone.

As she reached her hand and her heart across the divide, my arguments became pointless and irrelevant. I saw them revealed as the flimsy tools of the enemy they were, designed to keep us apart and discredit the gospel.  My carefully constructed arguments fell away from my heart as I offered the same seven, simple, life-giving words back to my friend.

Forgiveness is an easy concept to understand, an impossible one to put into practice apart from the grace of God. By using seven simple words my friend, my sister in Christ, humbly demonstrated how to begin the transaction. The practice of forgiveness requires both a giving and a taking, and each of these is a gift to the other.

My friend showed me the beauty of offering these seven simple words, the practice of both extending and receiving forgiveness. I try, as a follower of Jesus, not to say and do things which are hurtful to others. But I fail miserably and often. When I am honest with myself, I know I have ample opportunity to practice saying these words. I’m learning to say them to my children, hoping they will learn sooner than I did the beauty of resting in forgiveness both offered and received.

Linking with Ann, considering the spiritual practice of forgiveness:

And with emily at imperfect prose: (Please stop by her place, joining her in prayer and giving today)