“[A]nd My people who are called by My name will humble themselves and pray and seek My face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, will forgive their sin and will heal their land.” —2 Chronicles 7:14
[D]irt, soot, and grime can build up on both sides of [stained] glass from pollution, smoke, and oxidation. In churches the traditional burning of incense or candles can eventually deposit carbon layers. These deposits can substantially reduce the transmitted light and make an originally bright window muted and lifeless.[i]—Neal A. Vogel
Six months after I became a mother, my own mother
passed away from congestive heart disease. She was only fifty-four, and I was
only nineteen. Her illness took her quickly, and there was no time for the kind
of healing conversations that might have reduced my regret after she was gone.
After she died, Dad decided to sell the house
and move into a small apartment. As we were helping him prepare for his move,
my brother and I were cleaning the attic and musing over some of our finds. I
still have two—a silver sugar bowl and a veneered dresser that sits in my
dining room. But our most fascinating treasure was inside the top drawer of the
otherwise empty dresser—a letter Dad had written to his future mother-in-law, Mother
Miller, as he called her.
He was writing from California where he was
waiting to deploy to the uncertainty of the South Pacific during World War II.
He wrote of his sense of “blank thrill”—a combination of “the feeling of the
unknown and also adventure.” He discussed how much he enjoyed the navy and how
glad he was to be with the men beside him. He expressed his eagerness to return
to those he loved after the war. “Back home, I have a wonderful collection of
friends; good ones. You and your family come first, Nan of this group being
first. She means everything in life for me—and to think about her and the two
of us together after the war makes all this worthwhile.”
Dad wrote of three things that gave him a sense
of security. First was his assurance in the men he was with: “in our commanders
and the reason we are going, also we will be successful in our detail.” The
second was his friends at home and “the strength my love for Nan gives me and
hers for me.” His third source of strength was his “faith and trust in God.”
The first two addressed “my worldly cares, the last, my spiritual … I can
leave tomorrow satisfied completely in everything I live for. Not a question in
my mind of a thing left undone, or a word unkindly said, not righted, not a
care.” The letter was dated August 10, 1942, eight months after the Japanese
attack on Pearl Harbor.
Years later I mentioned the letter to him. “I
was saying goodbye” was his response, “just in case.”
The part of the letter that has always stuck
with me is that he left “no word unkindly said, not righted.” He had done all
he could to make everything right with everyone he was leaving behind. He might
have been able to convince himself that he didn’t have time to fix things with
everyone or that whatever he had done wrong was not a big deal. Instead, “just
in case,” he had made things right.
I spent many years dwelling on the sins of my
husband before I fully acknowledged my own. I told myself that his sins were of
greater magnitude than mine and the cause for justifiable bitterness. My own
sins were tiny, long ago, easily explained away as the result of immaturity
and, therefore, easily forgiven. Year by year conviction peeled back layers of
self-justification and excuses. I marveled that so many years after the poor decisions
I made, the consequences of my sin had such weight.
I can look back now and see that God redeemed and
restored much that my sin could have destroyed forever.
* * * * *
Up close and personal, the other person’s sins
always seem bigger than our own. We don’t see the judgmental beam in our own
eye for the speck in theirs. Inevitably, hindsight comes closer to 20/20. As
the image of the window becomes clearer, so does the reflection of ourselves in
Time gives us the objectivity to see two sides
where before we could only see one. We realize that we too are not without sin.
We have no stones to throw. We can give forgiveness and ask for it too. The
perspective of time gives us the opportunity to repent of sins that might seem
long ago and far away. Only Christ, through our true repentance, can wash them
Repentance is how we start to restore the image
of the Bride, not in a public relations sense, but in a biblical one. And
repentance begins with the faithful.
Why the faithful? Isn’t repentance something
for the unbelieving population to grasp—those we perceive are messing up the
world and dragging our culture into a downward spiral? Yes, it’s something they
need to do to become part of the Bride, part of the picture. But the kind of
repentance that can turn the world around is for us. It’s for his people
already in the church.
I didn’t come to this idea on my own. I’d been
praying for our nation to turn back to God, but in my mind that always involved
something someone else needed to do. I’ll pray. I’ll watch. I’ll work when I
can. I’ll cheer when it happens.
At brunch one day, my longtime friend, Renee,
dropped a brick of truth on my head. “He calls his own people to repentance—my
people … called by my Name.”
That is me.
That is us.
Confession, they say, is good for the soul. When
we let others see who we truly are, they can be transparent with us. We can
become companions who mentor and disciple each other. Mentoring helps us find a
new path in life. Discipling includes bearing one another’s burdens, and
confession is part of that. Discipling helps us navigate our new path in faith
that grows as it goes.
Christ is the Great Forgiver and the Great
Physician who cleans the glass. The repentant church in accord radiates the
image of the window in vivid clarity.
* * * * *
“I wish,” Scrooge muttered, putting his hand
in his pocket, and looking about him, after drying his eyes with his cuff: “but
it’s too late now.”
“What is the matter?”
asked the Spirit.
Scrooge. “Nothing. There was a boy singing a Christmas Carol at my door last
night. I should like to have given him something: that’s all.”[i]
[i] Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol, Stave Two (London:
Chapman and Hall, 1846), Project Gutenberg, released August 11, 2004,
Excerpted from Restoring the Shattered: Illustrating Christ’s Love Through the Church in One Accord–in paperback January 22, 2019.
[i] Neal A. Vogel and Rolf Achilles, “The Preservation and Repair of Historic Stained and Leaded Glass,” National Park Service, Technical Preservation Services, October 2007, https://www.nps.gov/tps/how-to-preserve/briefs/33-stained-leaded-glass.htm.
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