Wretch

I am not a proud man…mostly because I have done little to be proud of.  In fact, the antithesis would prove true…I have done many things that many…as well as myself, would consider to be shameful.  I am guilty of chopping into my grandfather’s sugar maple with a hatchet to obtain a sweet morsel of maple sap, only to blame it on my innocent cousin when I was confronted.  I crushed my little brother on the head with the jawbone of a cat, simply because I hated that little nose of his that my mother so adored.  As a teenager, I secretly ate all of the Christmas cookies from the freezer and abandoned my father to receive the full wrath of my mother. In fact, as he was reprimanded in front of me…I remained silent, watching him unsuccessfully defend himself beneath the scrutinizing questions of a scorned baker.  I cut down all of my father’s onion plants simply because I believed that onions were of the devil…or because I hated onions…or perhaps both.  Ironically, I have grown to deeply appreciate onions…only to still believe that they are of the devil…mostly due to the counter productivity of my digestive track. 

I have done worse.  I have allowed my anger to hurt the hearts of people that I truly care about.  I have allowed my own selfishness to take precedent over another’s wants, needs or desires. I have used carelessly placed words, which have both intentionally and unintentionally damaged the hearts of others. If my shame could be expressed on an artist’s canvas, it would be the equivalent of the Mona Lisa being covered in excrement.  I am a masterpiece covered in rubbish.

In the same way that the Mona Lisa could never clean herself up, I cannot deal with my rubbish. 

When my oldest daughter was young, she developed a pattern of car sickness.  I cannot count the number of occurrences, when our oldest child shared a little something extra with the others in the vehicle.  On one such occasion, our little 11 month old daughter allowed her mother and I to also enjoy her recently consumed supper.  The aroma of regurgitated sweet potatoes and pureed chicken quickly wafted through our 1991 Chevy Lumina.  Our daughter was filthy and stinky and crying. I humbly admit that I do not have a high gag tolerance.  In fact, I have been known to be a sympathetic vomiter…if you vomit…I may vomit right along with you.

There is zero part of me that wanted to deal with the mess that had just been created in the backseat.  It was disgusting, gross and vile.  At the very same time, there was zero part of me that wanted my daughter to stay and sit in her own filth.  I hated the vomit and I loved the girl.  Therefore, since my love for the girl was so strong, I did what she could not do…I did that which I needed to do…I cleaned her up.  I cleaned up the car and I cleaned up her car seat.  I dealt with every bit of slime and every last projectile chunk. I did it…not because I loved vomit…but because I love her. 

I see the ways of Jesus in this picture.  I am covered in shame that I cannot shed on my own.  Shame covers me in the same way that my daughter was covered in her own retch.  I am just as helpless as she was.  Likewise, in the same way that I was compelled by love to deal with her yuck, Jesus is compelled by love to deal with my yuck.  In Matthew 18:21-35, Jesus shares a parable on forgiveness. This parable reveals how one man who is covered in his own yuck (debt), is unwilling to forgive the yuck (debt), of another. 

May we come to see how deeply we have been loved and forgiven, that we too can learn to love and forgive as Jesus did.