Pages of Forgiveness and Reconciliation

I was surprised to see, on Catherine Claire Larson's Facebook wall, that someone had read her book As We Forgive in one day. It took me several weeks. Not because it is cumbersome or boring, but because it is emotionally and spiritually intense. And appropriately so. As We Forgive is the personal stories of Rwandan genocide survivors who found the grace to forgive the perpetrators, inspired by Laura Waters Hinson's amazing film.

Her book appears to be exceeding expectations on Amazon.com, but I do want to point a few reasons why you should read it (but clear your mind and find a place to rest first - you will need processing time).

First, at least from this amateur's perspective, it is very well written. This isn't something you could say about a lot of books you might find in an evangelical book store. Catherine takes the time to paint the picture of each of her subjects, ever sure to include Rwanda's landscape - sights, sounds, smells, touches. It's patient work, but a necessary backdrop to remind us of the humanity and history of victims and perpetrators. It also makes the brutality somehow easier to digest. Tragedy and hope happen between human interactions, ordinary work, school, church and family. It takes a skillful writer, and Catherine meets the challenge with grace.

Second, I like the way it was written. There are seven wrenching but beautiful narratives, but before and after each one are reflections on forgiveness and reconciliation. This helps make it possible to digest each of the stories, but they are also meant to challenge us. Some of our Rwandan brothers and sisters inspire us to forgive one another, but we still need to be shown the way. The reflections begin to achieve this. They are short, but they are still deeper than most self-help book, and there is a good balance of reporting, counseling and scholarship.

Finally, I want to say that though the book is more explicitly Christian than the film, this is a good introduction to Christianity to anyone who may otherwise put off by a Christian publisher. There is nothing in the pages of As We Forgive that could be considered proselytizing, but the stories speak for themselves. The ministry of reconciliation, where we are reconciled in love to God and neighbor, is what makes Christianity so compelling, so powerful to many, and a strong argument for the Gospel. If you have ever wondered why anyone would embrace this religion, read and see.

In short, read As We Forgive, take time to reflect, and ask yourself if you need reconciliation.

Natural, Wrong

A New York Times online headline reads: "Yes, Looks Do Matter: Snap judgments can be wrong, but scientists say they're only natural."

Yes, but we should probably remember that a lot of things that are wrong are also natural.

Two Years and Two Lessons

Two year's ago, I reflected on the Virginia Tech shootings. Blacksburg, Virginia is the town of my birth. When my grandmother was alive, we would escape from her house in nearby Christiansburg and make our annual pilgrimage to the beautiful university, so the idea that someone could run around shooting his peers in that wonderful place nestled in Appalachia disturbed me even more deeply than other newsworthy tragedies.

Lexington, The Economist's column on the U.S., reflected on the Virginia Tech tragedy this week. The columnist was apparently spurred on by Lucinda Roy's memoir: "No Right to Be Silent: The Tragedy at Virginia Tech." Ms. Roy, as head of Virginia Tech's English Department, interacted with the future killer, but, the columnist points out, "her attempts to make sense of his final explosion meets an insuperable obstacle." Lexington, channeling Lucinda Roy (I have not read the memoir myself and was not aware of it until this weeks' Economist came out) rightly criticizes Virginia's too-lax gun laws, reflects on media coverage, campus security mechanisms, and the "faulty conclusion" that we can always identify potential killers before they strike. Lexington concludes, and I can only agree that "there is no reliable way to prepare for the unpredictable." But the columnist continues: "And that, alas, is the only lesson to be drawn from April 16, 2007."

Regarding policy or necessary preparations to protect ourselves, that may be the only lesson to be drawn. But, being Easter, I would like to offer two more from a level The Economist avoids (and often has little regard for): the spiritual.

First, mankind is fallen. Our moral and spiritual selves are flawed beyond true human repair. The Virginia Tech killer was deranged; he was also human. His crime was an especially deadly symptom of the decay and sin fallen humans have. There is something each of us needs to escape from, repent from.

Second, there is hope beyond this wretched condition. While tragedy causes some to doubt or blame God, for others, it is a reminder that this is not all there is. My parents were campus ministers at Virginia Tech when I was born, and we still follow the ministry there. The response of the Christian community - the prayers, the gifts, the support - stem from a hope beyond death. Christ's death on the cross allows us to overcome sin, this fallenness that lies behind every great and small act of evil, and draw near to God, who is the end of our desires and the giver of Life. His resurrection means that we, too, will rise again. This will never make loss any less painful. It ought to pain us, because it was never meant to be so. But it points us to a hope that reminds us, such loss is not forever.

It's an interesting coincidence that this particular Lexington column was published during Holy Week. Whether or not you break bread or drink wine with me this weekend, I hope we will all reflect on the sobering and hopeful lessons of Virginia Tech.

What are Saturdays for?

I expected it, but I was not happy. I went to my PO Box this Saturday, and there it was. A yellow card indicating that something did not fit our tiny little square of property. Normally, this is cause for celebration. I like getting packages as much as the next person, and we have friends and family across two oceans who can send us pure warmth cloaked in brown cardboard.

But it's Saturday. Not just any Saturday, but the most beautiful Saturday since the fall. Not only is it the most beautiful Saturday since the fall, it is the peak of Cherry Blossom season. Now that my wife is working, Saturday is the only day we and many other Washingtonians can empty our PO boxes. Which means, I would spend the next, oh, 20 minutes, cosigned to the bureaucratic purgatory that is a post office line. Would the package be worth it? Unlike every other day of the week, Saturday is my time. Especially beautiful Saturdays during Cherry Blossom week.

As I waited, stack of mail in hand (which included good cheer wishing us a happy anniversary from my family - cheering me up quite a bit), I felt something gentle touch my heel. It was not creepy - it was gentle and, in a pleasant sense, without meaning. The heel toucher was a little girl, no more than three years old, who had decided to lay down on her back in the space directly behind my feet. I smiled at her, and she stared blankly at the ceiling. Evidently, she did not like to wait in line, either.

After the initial "what a cute child" thought passed through my mind, my next thought was, "my mother would never have let me lay on the ground like that." One look at her mother softened my judgmental attitude. She stood their, clearly exhausted, one more little girl (perhaps 5, but I'm a poor judge of ages sometimes) clutching her left hand. "She feels like I feel right now," she said to me. I smiled sympathetically. We do not have children, yet, but everyone I know who does is often tired as well. No question, they are a beautiful gift. Like marriage, they often make us better people, little reminders that life is not all about us anymore. But the things that make us better break through the kingdoms of comfort we build around ourselves. Perhaps this young woman, as she stared passed me, was missing Saturday mornings like the one I just had. The Saturday morning that this inconvenient post-office wait was cutting into. Saturday mornings where there is no job or child to get up for. Saturday mornings where coffee is not my crutch and companion to get me through the next hour, but where coffee is ground fresh and sipped with no haste or hurry. Saturday mornings where my wife makes pancakes with apples and cinnamon. Saturday mornings where I read things: online newspapers, sport pages, blogs, even books. Saturday mornings where I leave the door open, watch all the Capitol Hill people of different sizes and colors walk by, stretching in the spring's virgin sun.

One day, Lord willing, there will be a little version of me running around my house. He will wake me up on Saturday mornings around the unholy hour I need to get up for work. He will need to be fed, exercised, clothed, disciplined, taught and loved. He will come with me to the post-office, sprawl himself on the floor, and I might just be too tired to care about mini-me's social graces. But no question, as he tears down my kingdom of comfort, I will become something better, every Saturday.

An older black woman, short and stout, with large glasses, stood behind the mother in line. "What are you doing on the floor, child?" she called out. She probably was an experienced mother herself. The young mother, a beautiful woman who could have stood in for the Virgin Mary at a Christmas pageant, smiled weakly.