Tag Archives: reconciliation

The Formula

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I should let you in on a little secret. It’s one that I shared with the adult Bible study group here at Our Savior last week. Essentially, it’s a formula of sorts that plays itself out in congregations fairly regularly. Here’s how it usually goes.

A troubling situation arises, and the pastor must address it—usually by speaking directly with the person at the center of the issue. He approaches the conversation with a spirit of reconciliation, aiming to restore peace. But no matter how gentle the pastor’s approach, the individual takes offense, receiving the pastor as a cruel accuser. Days pass (typically about a week, because anything sooner would be suspicious), and the pastor gets a message. This time, the grievance is reversed: the person has discovered an unrelated reason to be angry at the pastor for something he said or did. The pastor must shift his posture, now seeking to reconcile a situation in which he has somehow become the offender. But this is merely a bait and switch. The new complaint isn’t the real issue; it’s a convenient excuse. In truth, the individual needs a reason to avoid the original circumstance and leave the fellowship. What better than that the pastor did something terrible to offend him? Certainly, he can no longer stay.

That’s really all there is to the formula. It does sometimes have slight variations. But in the end, it’s typically cut and dry. The pastor confronts. The person gets mad. The person conjures a reason to be offended by the pastor, thereby having a justifiable reason to leave. Nothing more, nothing less.

Again, I shared the formula with the Bible study attendees. I don’t remember what prompted it. Whatever it was, it stirred the urge to instill awareness. Awareness is a crucial step toward navigating trouble. In this context, J.R.R. Tolkien once said, “No one likes to be told they are wrong, especially when they are.” The hidden calculus that’s often at work after the “telling” is good to know. It certainly explains some genuinely baffling behaviors.

I also shared with the group that when the formula is being employed, the pastor usually knows it. He may not let on that he does, but trust me, he does. Any pastor worth his weight has experience with projectionism. In other words, he knows when someone is attempting to transfer guilt. It’s an old trick, really—one that began all the way back at the beginning. The first examples that come to mind are Adam and Eve. Rather than confessing honestly, Adam blamed Eve. In fact, he actually blamed God. “The woman YOU put here…” (Genesis 3:12). I wonder if Eve saw the look on God’s divine face after Adam spoke, and chose instead to blame only the serpent. Either way, neither wanted to stand in the spotlight of what they’d done. Now look where we are.

Another example might be King Saul and his relationship with David. After David defeated Goliath and started growing in popularity, Saul got pretty jealous. David hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact, he did almost everything right. He was loyal, obedient, and respectful. Still, Saul grew increasingly hostile, attempting to kill David several times. But why the attitude? It was due to Saul’s own guilt stemming from his disobedience to God (1 Samuel 15). It began to fester. But instead of repenting—instead of facing his own failings—Saul found reasons to be mad at David. He projected. David became the threat, the enemy, the one worthy of his anger.

It’s the same today. When someone has caused offense, and then the one called in the stead and by the command of Christ to sort it out steps in to restore peace, an all-too-common reflex is to find a way to displace the guilt rather than be absolved of it. The formula is designed to affix the guilt to the one who had the audacity to bring the sin to light in the first place. In the Church, that’s usually the pastor.

But in reality, the goal of the confrontation wasn’t cruelty or punishment. It was reconciliation. It was peace. That gets lost when the simpler equation changes from honest reflection that knows God’s mercy to a protectionist formula that cannot fathom oneself as a genuine offender. Still, that’s often what happens. The pastor’s effort to steer the offender toward something better becomes a weapon to justify division. In truth, it really just becomes a way to simmer in unreconciled sin, eventually seeing its effects spread. In other words, it becomes a seemingly valid reason to church-shop, and while doing so, to spread the venom to anyone back home asking where you’ve been. It’s also a reason to inform each of the new church’s pastors (likely asking where you’re from and why you’re visiting) just how uncaring the pastor is at your former church.

Just be careful with this. Or perhaps better, keep the following four things in mind.

First, experienced pastors know there are two sides to every story. Second, experienced pastors likely know the formula because they’ve been in your former pastor’s shoes more times than they can count. Third, an experienced pastor will hear you bemoan your former pastor’s faults and know well enough to watch his back around you. Fourth, back home, the truth remains. And no matter where the disgruntled church member goes, the behavior and wounds remain. The former congregation may not know why the person left. They may only hear that the pastor hurt someone’s feelings or said something offensive. But the pastor knows. He remembers the original offense, the confrontation, the moment the formula began to unfold. And while he may never speak of it publicly, it becomes another scar on his heart—one more story in the quiet suffering of a shepherd who tried to do what was right.

As my incredibly wise wife, Jennifer, so famously said, having suffered helplessly through these situations on more than one occasion just because she’s married to me, “Friends are friends until they aren’t.” It’s a simple truth that carries incredible weight. It knows of friendships so easily thrown away for ridiculously trivial reasons. It knows the tragedy of those who tried to help and yet were left behind.

I realize this is some heavy stuff. Still, it’s essential to know. And besides, no one ever accused me of avoiding the harder things. I do what I can to express what some won’t. That said, there’s more to know beyond the dreadful formula’s variables. And so, allow me to blast you with a super-dose of hopefulness lifted from God’s Word.

What I’ve described happens beyond the Church’s immediate walls. It’s likely something familiar to you. I’m definitely seeing it happen more and more among families. With that, remember even in this—especially in this—the Lord does not abandon His faithful people (Deuteronomy 31:6; Hebrews 13:5). He knows their hearts (1 Samuel 16:7; Jeremiah 17:10). He sees what is hidden (Hebrews 4:13; Psalm 139:1-4). He attends to their wounds with gentleness, binding them with His own mercy (Psalm 147:3; Isaiah 42:3; Lamentations 3:22-23). He reminds the weary Christian that faithfulness is never fruitless, even when it feels unseen or dismissed (1 Corinthians 15:58; Galatians 6:9; Matthew 6:4). He brings peace in turbulence (John 14:27; Isaiah 26:3), clarity during confusion (1 Corinthians 14:33; James 1:5), and strength when the burden presses hardest (Isaiah 40:29–31; 2 Corinthians 12:9–10).

Most importantly, for pastors and parishioners alike, God reminds us that the Church is not ours to orchestrate (Matthew 16:18; Acts 20:28). It belongs to Him, and not even the most cunning formulas can undo the work He is doing through those He has called (Romans 8:28–30; Philippians 1:6; Matthew 16:18). “My grace is sufficient for you,” He says, “for My power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9). And so, the faithful press on—scarred, yes, but never without hope (Romans 5:3–5; Lamentations 3:21–24), never without the peace which surpasses all understanding (Philippians 4:7).

The Eve of Thanksgiving

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I’m guessing you know what I mean when I say the Thanksgiving holiday has a unique sense about it. Regardless of autumn’s shrouded frigidity, Thanksgiving remains bright and warm, as if the sun leaned closer to the earth for just this one day.

I say this knowing full well that family gatherings at Thanksgiving can be a mishmash of dynamics. I also know from casual reading that division in families from this or that issue is at an all-time high. For some, family get-togethers are more taxing than enjoyable. Still, I meant what I said. Thanksgiving has a unique sense about it. And it’s good.

It’s good, not because the Thanksgiving feast is the meal all other meals only wish they could be. For the pessimists among us, it’s not good because it only happens once a year. Thanksgiving is as it is because of its point: no matter where we’ve come from, where we’re going, where we are right now, what we’re experiencing, or who we’re with, we can be thankful. Thanksgiving’s point is gratitude.

Relative to families, someone once said genuine gratitude is only possible when the memories stored in the heart conquer those in the mind. I don’t know who said it. And yes, I suppose the saying is somewhat Hallmark card-like. Still, I’m fond of the thought, even if only for how I prefer to interpret it, which, as you might expect, is through the Christian lens.

Admittedly, the human heart and mind are both sin-stained in every way. And yet, Christians know something beyond this fact, especially when it comes to the Holy Spirit’s work in us through the Gospel for faith. We understand what Ezekiel meant when he spoke for God, saying, “I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you” (Ezekiel 36:26). We know what Jeremiah meant when he shared the similar promise, “I will give them a heart to know Me, for I am the Lord; and they will be My people, and I will be their God, for they will return to Me with their whole heart” (Jeremiah 24:7). We know what Saint Paul meant when he insisted, “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creature; the old things passed away; behold, new things have come” (2 Corinthians 5:17). Paul’s words in Romans 5:5 are not lost on us, either. We know what he meant when he wrote, “And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.”

Filtering the adage through these biblical truths, I suppose I like it because it implies that genuine gratitude is out of reach to mental calculation. In other words, as humans, we remember things. Those things shape and reshape us. Remembering how people have treated us—what they’ve done to help or hurt us, whether they’ve behaved as friends or foes—these become the variables we ponder in the calculations of relationship mathematics. And like any equation, sometimes the resulting product is positive. Sometimes, it’s in the negative.

Through the lens created by the Bible texts I shared, the phrase “memories stored in the heart” seems to hint at a different sort of math, an involuntary, grace-filled action uninhibited by human sensibility. It sees things through the Gospel. It understands annoying family members more so as family than annoying, and it’s thankful for them. It knows the time required to prepare a massive meal is exhausting, and yet it’s grateful for the opportunity to serve the ones it loves who’ll be gathering at the table to eat it. Some of those people haven’t been all that nice in the past. Still, it knows that kindness will always be sweeter than malice. It stands on its tiptoes, ready to reconcile. It’s hopeful for it to happen and gives thanks when it discovers itself stumbling into uncomfortable moments that are all but begging for it to be enacted.

In short, the memories of a Christian heart are the memories of Christ. The Holy Spirit puts them there. They are the remembrances that Christ, even when we were utterly unlovable, loved us to the end (John 13:1). They remember that even while we were still sinners, He gave Himself over entirely into Death’s perpetual night (Romans 5:8). They retain the incredibly crucial sense that we are just as needful of Christ’s merciful love as the screwed-up people sitting beside us at the Thanksgiving Day table, and with that, we belong together.

These Christian heart memories stir genuine gratitude, even when gratitude seems nonsensical and maybe even a bit foolish.

My prayer for you this Thanksgiving is two-fold. First, I hope you’ll begin your Thanksgiving Day by going to worship. There’s no better way to be equipped with Godly gratitude than by receiving Christ’s gift of forgiveness through the administration of His Word, both in its verbal and visible forms. Here at Our Savior, the service begins at 10:00 a.m. I hope to see you.

Second, I hope the memories stored in your Christian heart will conquer those in your mortal mind, and as a result, your Thanksgiving Day celebration with family will indeed be brighter and warmer, as if the sun leaned closer to wherever you are standing even if only for this one day.

Betrayal

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I probably don’t need to point this out, but betrayal is the worst. To trust someone, only to feel the security of that trust torn away, is a sensation unlike any other. One could say it goes almost beyond physical pain. It may even be a pain equivalent to demon possession. I once heard demon possession described as a ferociously rabid animal trapped inside a person and trying to claw its way out. It tears and gnashes from the inside. The pain of betrayal—the sting born from a trusted friend’s infidelity—starts in one’s middle. It claws through the immaterial sphere of emotion into the material world. A pierced heart eventually feeds its suffering to the body’s extremities.

One starts to think that even Death would be better. At least Death’s enmity is reliable. There’s no bait and switch. It meets and gives to every living thing precisely as it promises. Betrayal, on the other hand, presents itself kindly while holding a knife behind its back. And when the time is right, it massacres trust with selfish concern.

It certainly isn’t easy to repair a betrayed relationship. That’s because, like any structure, genuine friendships have foundational components like honesty, history, loyalty, and honor. Take away any of those underpinnings, and the structure topples. The French poet, Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux, wrote that a person’s honor “is like a rugged island without a shore; once you have left it, you cannot return.” Betrayal is the boat into which honor willfully climbs and starts rowing away. Relative to friendship’s construction, betrayal explodes each of its crucial supports. In the end, the relationship has two choices when it collapses: scrap it or start rebuilding.

It seems we live in a world more inclined toward scrapping relationships. Set aside deliberate betrayal for a moment. For some in today’s world, a trivial misunderstanding is all it takes to flush a lifelong friendship down the proverbial toilet. Unfortunately, I know this. I know it not only because I’ve experienced it but because I’ve done it. Looking back at both, I wish I hadn’t. When someone scrapped me, I should have pursued the person. When I scrapped someone else, I should have tried to rebuild. But I didn’t. I walked away. I’m incredibly sorry I did. I’ve repented of this foolishness, and I fight the flesh in similar situations by God’s gracious strength. As a Christian, I’m gratefully nagged by an understanding of forgiveness’s power—giving and receiving it. Of sinners, I am the foremost (1 Timothy 1:15). And yet, even as the foremost of sinful betrayers, Christ died for me (Romans 5:8). His death won my eternity, and by the power of the Holy Spirit for faith, He’s made me His friend. He pursued me. He forgave me. His forgiveness repairs. His forgiveness rebuilds. His forgiveness instills the readiness to rebuild with others.

Admittedly, a readiness to rebuild doesn’t assure restoration’s success in a thoroughly sinful world. If you actually succeed at reconciliation, there’s no guarantee the relationship will be as it was before. It simply means you know real hope. You’ve met hope in the person and work of Christ, and now you prefer it to despair. Christian hope can navigate a world of throw-away relationships undermined by the simplest mistakes or the worst betrayals. It is willing to invest in a relationship’s repair because it knows the value of friendship. A car driven into a tree and then repaired will never be the same as it was. It’ll have parts that rattle. It’ll need extra attention. But it can still drive its occupants to the same locations. It can still carry its passengers to the same goals.

I’ll just come right out and say that I experienced significant betrayal this past week. It was the kind that really hurts. Still, I intend to pursue the relationship’s healing, not because I know I can fix it, but because I know Christ can. Looking to Him, the perfect Son of God who forgave me—the One who was not only betrayed into Death by those closest to Him but was victimized on a cosmic scale by the world He created and loved—I can certainly invite a former friend to join me in the rubble as I examine the damage and attempt to rebuild. If you’ve ever experienced the same, then I’m assuming you can, too.