Queen Bee Goes Home Again (30 page)

So I sat back and listened, my inner voices silenced at last.

The choir director led us in “Amazing Grace” (my favorite), then we sat back down and Connor finally gripped the pulpit to speak. “Please open your Bibles to the sixth chapter of the Gospel of Matthew, beginning with verse five. These teachings are part of Jesus' famous Sermon on the Mount. In verses five through fifteen, Jesus teaches us how to pray and reveals an amazing source of power and unity for all of us who live in him. First, he cautions us not to repeat ritualized prayers in public, because they're just empty words.”

He spoke simply, like a best friend over coffee, but with the confirmation of scripture.

“The clear message here,” he went on with gentle authority, “is that prayer should be a private, intimate thing between a person and Jehovah God, not an empty recital before others. Even so, Jesus then gives us a model prayer, which we call the Lord's Prayer.”

He paused, smiling softly but with sorrow in his eyes. “The sad thing is, we've probably said it so often that it, too, has become a vain repetition. Tonight, I'd like to challenge each of you, as we welcome the beginning of a new year of grace, to repeat the Lord's Prayer with me, this time thinking about the meaning of each passage and how it applies specifically to each of us, individually, and our relationship with God and the other members of this church.”

He stepped from behind the pulpit and moved to the front of the platform. “What standards does it set for us? What comes first? Does one part matter more than the others?” He paused. “Are there any conditions that apply to us as Christians?” He returned to the large open Bible on the pulpit. “Think about those questions as we bow our heads and say together, ‘Our Father who art in heaven—'” The congregation joined in with a low swell of voices as we recited the prayer together, but when he got to the part about forgiveness, Connor's voice rose with emphasis. “‘And forgive us our sins'”—he slowed, pronouncing each word deliberately—“‘as we forgive those who sin against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For Yours is the kingdom and the power and the glory, forever. Amen.'

“Please be seated. Thank you,” Connor said as we all settled back into the padded pews. “But we shouldn't quit there, because after Jesus finishes showing us how to pray, He goes on to say, ‘For if you forgive those who sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you don't forgive those people their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins.'”

Connor's brows lifted in awe. “Wow. Does that mean we're not saved?”

I could feel the question hovering among us.

“No. For we believe that we are sealed by the Holy Spirit till the final day of redemption. But if I'm washed clean tonight, does that mean I won't get dirty the next day?” He smiled and shook his head. “Of course I'll get dirty, because I'm not perfect. I'm human, just like all of us here. That was the whole point of the Sermon on the Mount, to show Israel, and us, that we
cannot
keep the law of God. Jesus was showing why He came, and why He willingly gave His life for us, so we can be forgiven.”

Connor closed the Bible and came to the edge of the platform to face us directly. “We're still human. We make mistakes, willingly and without even knowing.”

He lifted his eyes toward heaven. “Forgiveness. That is our gift from God in Christ. But once we become His people, we are called to forgive those who hurt us. Not with resentment, but with
agapeo,
the unqualified love God showed us in the person of Jesus. And if we don't?”

He scanned the faces of his people with sympathy. “In the sixth chapter of his letter to the Ephesians, Saint Paul doesn't mince words. ‘Do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God who seals you for the day of redemption. Get rid of all bitterness, rage, and anger.'”

Connor sucked in a breath, then let out a soft, low whistle. “
Some
of the bitterness and anger?” He shook his head in denial, then resumed quoting from memory. “‘
All
bitterness, rage, and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice. Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other just as Christ forgave you.'”

He tucked his chin. “Wow. First, Jesus tells us that as long as we are here on earth,
we
set the standard of our own forgiveness by forgiving others. If we don't, it puts a barrier between us and the power of the Holy Spirit to heal and forgive. God doesn't put the barrier there. We do.”

The congregation was absolutely silent. Not so much as a wiggle or a cry from a fretting child.

“I don't know why it took me so long to understand the full importance of this concept,” Connor admitted, “but I had to share it with all of you. Like so many of God's instructions, it goes against everything the world teaches us, but it works. It goes against our feelings. Our pride. Our excuses. But it works.”

Connor spoke with authority. “I'd like to ask you all to put this key concept of our faith to work now by doing a very important exercise with me. First, please close your eyes.”

I did, but could have bet that a lot of those behind me wouldn't, especially Mary Lou Perkins.

“Now,” Connor intoned, “I'd like you to think of someone you resent—with or without reason.”

Mary Lou Perkins came to mind. I'd forgiven Grant and Phil years ago, even though the feelings weren't there yet.

He paused again. “Now, I want you to mentally tell that person off.”

Another pause, in which I envisioned Mary Lou Perkins scolding me before the whole congregation, to which I counterattacked, exposing her two-faced, destructive gossip and the trail of victims she'd left behind.

“Whose voice do you hear in your own condemnation of another?” he asked with compassion. “The father who told you you'd never amount to anything? The husband or wife who constantly criticizes? The mother who tried to scare you away from sin with dire predictions and put-downs?”

My voices were many. Miss Mamie, verbally brawling with Daddy; all my so-called friends in Buckhead who'd disappeared along with my ex. My son, who didn't want to talk to me.

Connor asked, “Now I want you to forgive the one who put that pain or criticism into your heart. You may not feel it at first, but feelings aren't facts. Make your forgiveness an act of sacrifice in obedience to God, and keep on forgiving. One day, you'll have the feelings to go with it.”

He leaned back, eyes sparkling, with that irresistible grin. “My challenge to you for the new year is to practice forgiving those who have hurt you or your family. I dare you.”

Then the warmth returned to his voice. “Will it be easy? Not if you've hidden resentments in your heart for a long time. Will it feel good? It may not feel anything but awkward and insincere at first. But every time you will it and speak it and pray it into being, your soul will grow stronger. And one day when you speak or pray your specific forgiveness, your heart and emotions will finally get on board.

“We have been forgiven, but as we live this life, we can put barriers between us and God, slowing the flow of His healing forgiveness.” He paused for effect. “God doesn't put the barriers there, we do. Look at verse twelve. If we fail to forgive, our resentment becomes a barrier to God's ongoing forgiveness.”

Connor paced briefly behind the pulpit, wringing his hands, then returned like a man facing sentence in a courtroom. “It took me a long time to forgive my wife for leaving me, but when God finally opened my eyes to how my own shortcomings had helped destroy my marriage, I started speaking forgiveness for her every time she came to mind. For a long time, my emotions didn't go along. But then, one day, I finally felt that forgiveness in my heart.”

Light and joy suffused him. “And guess what happened? I finally began to be free from that awful experience. I still struggle to forgive myself for how I took her for granted, but that's a part of the process, too. I failed. I made destructive decisions, using God's kingdom as an excuse. So, since my divorce, I have begun and ended every day praying for my ex-wife's happiness and forgiving her, along with everyone in my life who causes me pain, because that is the model of grace that Christ teaches.”

Dead silence.

I'd done that with Phil and Grant, but still the feelings hadn't come.

As if he'd read my mind, Connor said, “I'm not asking you to forgive and forget. That's not in the Bible. We can't erase the things and people who have hurt us. But we can make a deliberate sacrifice of forgiveness for each and every one of the people who despitefully use us. Love our enemies, Jesus tells us. The ones who don't deserve our pity. The ones who scarred our souls and hearts, who trampled on our dreams. And when we do that, what happens?”

He scanned the waiting faces, earnest, then stepped back, erect, arms spread. “We are set free.
We
are set free. The power of the Holy Spirit flows strong again in our lives. Forgiveness doesn't erase the past; it releases us from hurt and anger, the enemies of peace.”

I could sense the congregation's swell of approval.

“But there's more good news for us as a body of believers!” Connor declared. “If we practice forgiveness, first in our families, then with our congregation, then with the world, our lives become witnesses of grace for all to see.”

He exhaled slowly, then resumed. “The Bible tells us that we, the church, the bride of Christ, will be known by the love—the unconditional love that we see in Christ for each of us—we show to one another.”

True, but I'd seen precious little of that in Mimosa Branch in the past ten years. Of course, I hadn't been focusing on the good people at church, only the ones who judged me. What's wrong with this picture?

Connor shifted the subject. “So then, I ask you, what happens when someone in our church fails, commits a sin, then repents. Are we supposed to judge them?”

Bingo.

Oh, Lord, please don't let him use me as an example. I'd croak of mortification.

“The scriptures tell us that there's a process for dealing with someone who continues to sin, even in the face of counseling from his or her brothers and sisters in faith. But that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about a fellow believer who messes up, sometimes royally, but sees the error of his or her ways and repents, turning back to God. How are we to respond?” He cupped his ear and leaned toward the congregation. “Anyone?”

I sat mum, waiting to see what happened.

“Forgive them,” Ed Lumpkin's familiar voice grudgingly admitted.

Connor feigned confusion. “Did he say talk about them behind their back?”

An uneasy chuckle spattered the congregation.

Connor leaned in, ear cupped again. “Did he say, judge and criticize them?”

An unwed teen mother stood defiantly to her feet, baby in arms, and called out, “No. The Bible says the church should forgive them, then rejoice and welcome them back into the fellowship.”

Connor brightened, pointing to her. “That's what I'm talking about. Thank you, good lady.”

Her back still stiff, the girl subsided to the pew.

Connor addressed the congregation again. “So forgiveness and love without condition is our gift from God, and we are called as believers to extend that same love and forgiveness to each other. First in our families. Next, in our church. And then, to the world around us.”

The truth hung like a golden haze in the air around Connor. This was no run-of-the-mill minister; he truly was a holy man.

Awed and repelled in equal measure, I finally admitted to myself that I deeply, truly wasn't cut out to be the wife of a holy man. I'd be a constant disappointment to everyone around him.

Connor's tone shifted to one of wonder when he said, “What do you think would happen if we obeyed this teaching?” He smiled.

The question was rhetorical, because he picked up immediately with, “For one thing, we'd be free of that anger and resentment. Free of judging others. Free to live in joy, in spite of the circumstances.”

He waited, then proposed, “Will you join me in making forgiveness our word for this coming year?”

Connor motioned to the carpeted steps leading up to the platform where most preachers called people forth to kneel in penitence. “I'm not asking you to do this publicly, but intimately, between you and God. In your heart. In your bed before you go to sleep, and before you rise. As you go about your way. God will help you.”

I could sense a fresh commitment welling up from Connor's people.

“But there's another side of this,” Connor said. “The Bible tells us that when we go to make a sacrifice, and
anyone
has
anything
against us, we are to go make peace with them. It doesn't say when we are guilty. It says to make peace, no matter what. So we are called to apologize for our own part in ill will. That doesn't mean we trot out our excuses and rationalizations. It means we say we're sorry and ask for forgiveness.”

Me, apologize to
Mary Lou Perkins
and ask for peace between us?

Connor paced the dais, scanning the faces of his congregation. “Is there anyone here you'd like to ask for forgiveness?”

I turned and looked to Mary Lou, whose face was in her hands, and I realized that I'd been every bit as judgmental of her as she had been of me.

I bowed my head.
Please, Lord, erase the bad feelings and my own judgmentalness. Help me to see what you see in every single person I meet.

Then my prayer was interrupted by a soft touch on my shoulder. I looked up to see Mary Lou standing beside me, tears covering her cheeks. “When I thought of you and my fears for Connor,” she said as she sat beside me. “I heard my mother's voice, scolding, telling me I had to be perfect, and punishing me when I wasn't.”