excusing.
Nor is forgiveness pretending. David didnât gloss over or sidestep Saulâs sin. He addressed it directly. He didnât avoid the issue, but he 49 did avoid Saul. âSaul returned home, but David and his men went up to the strongholdâ (1 Sam. 24:22 NIV).
Do the same. Give grace, but, if need be, keep your distance. You can forgive the abusive husband without living with him. Be quick to give mercy to the immoral pastor, but be slow to give him a pulpit.
----
Forgiveness is choosing to see
your offender with different eyes.
----
Society can dispense grace and prison terms at the same time. Offer the child molester a second chance, but keep him off the playgrounds.
Forgiveness is not foolishness.
Forgiveness is, at its core, choosing to see your offender with different eyes. When some Moravian missionaries took the message of God to the Eskimos, the missionaries struggled to find a word in the native language for forgiveness. They finally landed on this cumber-some twenty-four-letter choice: issumagijoujungnainermik. This formidable assembly of letters is literally translated ânot being able to think about it anymore.â 2
To forgive is to move on, not to think about the offense anymore. You donât excuse him, endorse her, or embrace them. You just route thoughts about them through heaven. You see your enemy as Godâs child and revenge as Godâs job.
By the way, how can we grace-recipients do anything less? Dare we ask God for grace when we refuse to give it? This is a huge issue in Scripture. Jesus was tough on sinners who refused to forgive other sinners. Remember his story about the servant freshly forgiven a debt of millions who refused to forgive a debt equal to a few dollars? He stirred the wrath of God: âYou evil servant! I forgave you that tremendous debt. . . . Shouldnât you have mercy . . . just as I had mercy on you?â (Matt. 18:32â33 NLT).
In the final sum, we give grace because weâve been given grace. We survive because we imitate the Survivor Tree. We reach our roots beyond the bomb zone. We tap into moisture beyond the explosion. We dig deeper and deeper until we draw moisture from the mercy of God.
We, like Saul, have been given grace.
We, like David, can freely give it.
7
BARBARIC BEHAVIOR
E RNEST GORDON groans in the Death House of Chungkai, Burma. He listens to the moans of the dying and smells the E stench of the dead. Pitiless jungle heat bakes his skin and parches his throat. Had he the strength, he could wrap one hand around his bony thigh. But he has neither the energy nor the interest. Diphtheria has drained both; he canât walk; he canât even feel his body. He shares a cot with flies and bedbugs and awaits a lonely death in a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp.
How harsh the war has been on him. He entered World War II in his early twenties, a robust Highlander in Scotlandâs Argyle and Sutherland Brigade. But then came the capture by the Japanese, months of backbreaking labor in the jungle, daily beatings, and slow starvation. Scotland seems forever away. Civility, even farther.
The Allied soldiers behave like barbarians, stealing from each other, robbing dying colleagues, fighting for food scraps. Servers shortchange rations so they can have extra for themselves. The law of the jungle has become the law of the camp.
Gordon is happy to bid it adieu. Death by disease trumps life in Chungkai. But then something wonderful happens. Two new pris-oners, in whom hope still stirs, are transferred to the camp. Though also sick and frail, they heed a higher code. They share their meager meals and volunteer for extra work. They cleanse Gordonâs ulcerated sores and massage his atrophied legs. They give him his first bath in six weeks. His strength slowly returns and, with it, his dignity.
Their goodness proves contagious, and Gordon contracts a case. He begins to treat the sick and share his rations. He even
Nor is forgiveness pretending. David didnât gloss over or sidestep Saulâs sin. He addressed it directly. He didnât avoid the issue, but he 49 did avoid Saul. âSaul returned home, but David and his men went up to the strongholdâ (1 Sam. 24:22 NIV).
Do the same. Give grace, but, if need be, keep your distance. You can forgive the abusive husband without living with him. Be quick to give mercy to the immoral pastor, but be slow to give him a pulpit.
----
Forgiveness is choosing to see
your offender with different eyes.
----
Society can dispense grace and prison terms at the same time. Offer the child molester a second chance, but keep him off the playgrounds.
Forgiveness is not foolishness.
Forgiveness is, at its core, choosing to see your offender with different eyes. When some Moravian missionaries took the message of God to the Eskimos, the missionaries struggled to find a word in the native language for forgiveness. They finally landed on this cumber-some twenty-four-letter choice: issumagijoujungnainermik. This formidable assembly of letters is literally translated ânot being able to think about it anymore.â 2
To forgive is to move on, not to think about the offense anymore. You donât excuse him, endorse her, or embrace them. You just route thoughts about them through heaven. You see your enemy as Godâs child and revenge as Godâs job.
By the way, how can we grace-recipients do anything less? Dare we ask God for grace when we refuse to give it? This is a huge issue in Scripture. Jesus was tough on sinners who refused to forgive other sinners. Remember his story about the servant freshly forgiven a debt of millions who refused to forgive a debt equal to a few dollars? He stirred the wrath of God: âYou evil servant! I forgave you that tremendous debt. . . . Shouldnât you have mercy . . . just as I had mercy on you?â (Matt. 18:32â33 NLT).
In the final sum, we give grace because weâve been given grace. We survive because we imitate the Survivor Tree. We reach our roots beyond the bomb zone. We tap into moisture beyond the explosion. We dig deeper and deeper until we draw moisture from the mercy of God.
We, like Saul, have been given grace.
We, like David, can freely give it.
7
BARBARIC BEHAVIOR
E RNEST GORDON groans in the Death House of Chungkai, Burma. He listens to the moans of the dying and smells the E stench of the dead. Pitiless jungle heat bakes his skin and parches his throat. Had he the strength, he could wrap one hand around his bony thigh. But he has neither the energy nor the interest. Diphtheria has drained both; he canât walk; he canât even feel his body. He shares a cot with flies and bedbugs and awaits a lonely death in a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp.
How harsh the war has been on him. He entered World War II in his early twenties, a robust Highlander in Scotlandâs Argyle and Sutherland Brigade. But then came the capture by the Japanese, months of backbreaking labor in the jungle, daily beatings, and slow starvation. Scotland seems forever away. Civility, even farther.
The Allied soldiers behave like barbarians, stealing from each other, robbing dying colleagues, fighting for food scraps. Servers shortchange rations so they can have extra for themselves. The law of the jungle has become the law of the camp.
Gordon is happy to bid it adieu. Death by disease trumps life in Chungkai. But then something wonderful happens. Two new pris-oners, in whom hope still stirs, are transferred to the camp. Though also sick and frail, they heed a higher code. They share their meager meals and volunteer for extra work. They cleanse Gordonâs ulcerated sores and massage his atrophied legs. They give him his first bath in six weeks. His strength slowly returns and, with it, his dignity.
Their goodness proves contagious, and Gordon contracts a case. He begins to treat the sick and share his rations. He even
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