Forgiveness

Forgiveness is a journey I must take
Alone into my childish fears, and there
Confront my fathers for my children’s sake.

I must go back before I cease to care,
And the world darkens and I cannot move.
Forgiveness is a journey from despair

Along a path my ancestors approve.
I must go back and with them make my peace:
Forgiveness is a journey into love.

-- Alistair Te Ariki Campbell

The Powwow at the End of the World

I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall
after an Indian woman puts her shoulder to the Grand Coulee Dam
and topples it. I am told by many of you that I must forgive
and so I shall after the floodwaters burst each successive dam
downriver from the Grand Coulee. I am told by many of you
that I must forgive and so I shall after the floodwaters find
their way to the mouth of the Columbia River as it enters the Pacific
and causes all of it to rise. I am told by many of you that I must forgive
and so I shall after the first drop of floodwater is swallowed by that salmon
waiting in the Pacific. I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall
after that salmon swims upstream, through the mouth of the Columbia
and then past the flooded cities, broken dams and abandoned reactors
of Hanford. I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall
after that salmon swims through the mouth of the Spokane River
as it meets the Columbia, then upstream, until it arrives
in the shallows of a secret bay on the reservation where I wait alone.
I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall after
that salmon leaps into the night air above the water, throws
a lightning bolt at the brush near my feet, and starts the fire
which will lead all of the lost Indians home. I am told
by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall
after we Indians have gathered around the fire with that salmon
who has three stories it must tell before sunrise: one story will teach us
how to pray; another story will make us laugh for hours;
the third story will give us reason to dance. I am told by many
of you that I must forgive and so I shall when I am dancing
with my tribe during the powwow at the end of the world.


-- Sherman Alexie (1966- ), Spokane/Coeur d/Alene poet, novelist, playwright, and filmmaker.

This is Why People Burning Down Fast Food Joints and Whatnot

Q. How do others sin against you?

A. By cursing me—telling lies about me—or striking me.
Q. What must you do to those who thus sin against you?
A. I must forgive them. *

See, I learned my catechism well.
Learned to offer my cloak and coat, my cheek
again and again as the skin was splayed
from my body. I can quote
Martin Luther King Jr. with ease,
praise the Americana of his martyrdom,
the sweet, unselfish beauty of that bullet’s velocity.
Shall I sing “We Shall Overcome” while
I swing? I have wanted so long
to believe in justice, to think of each blow
as recompense for my wickedness.
How can I continue?
How can I continue?
How can I continue
to take and eat this image
of myself, choke on the eloquence
of my dissent, speak love fluently
to someone with his knee
on my neck, his bullet in my child?


*A Catechism, to Be Taught Orally to Those Who Cannot Read; Designed Especially for the Instruction of the Slaves in the Protestant Episcopal Church in the Confederate States.↩︎


--Jacqueline Allen Trimble, Alabaman African American poet, scholar, professor of English and chair of the Department of Languages at Alabama State University, from Poetry magazine, July/August 2021.

Judas, Peter

because we are all
betrayers, taking
silver and eating
body and blood and asking
(guilty) is it I and hearing
him say yes
it would be simple for us all
to rush out
and hang ourselves

but if we find grace
to cry and wait
after the voice of morning
has crowed in our ears
clearly enough
to break out hearts
he will be there
to ask us each again
do you love me?


--Luci Shaw (1928- ), British born American poet, retreat leader, teacher, and Episcopalian

Reconciliation

Some may have blamed you that you took away
The verses that could move them on the day
When, the ears being deafened, the sight of the eyes blind
With lightning, you went from me, and I could find
Nothing to make a song about but kings,
Helmets, and swords, and half-forgotten things
That were like memories of you—but now
We'll out, for the world lives as long ago;
And while we're in our laughing, weeping fit,
Hurl helmets, crowns, and swords into the pit.
But, dear, cling close to me; since you were gone,
My barren thoughts have chilled me to the bone.

-- William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Anglo-Irish poet, playwright, and mystic, widely considered one of the greatest poets of the 20th century.

Scripture reference: Matthew 5:21-37, 6th Sunday after Epiphany A

No Hard Feelings

When my body won't hold me anymore
And it finally lets me free
Will I be ready?
When my feet won't walk another mile
And my lips give their last kiss goodbye
Will my hands be steady when I lay down my fears, my hopes, and my doubts?
The rings on my fingers, and the keys to my house
With no hard feelings

When the sun hangs low in the west
And the light in my chest won't be kept held at bay any longer
When the jealousy fades away
And it's ash and dust for cash and lust
And it's just hallelujah
And love in thought, love in the words
Love in the songs they sing in the church
And no hard feelings

Lord knows, they haven't done much good for anyone
Kept me afraid and cold
With so much to have and hold
Mmm, hmm

When my body won't hold me anymore
And it finally lets me free
Where will I go?
Will the trade winds take me south through Georgia grain?
Or tropical rain?
Or snow from the heavens?
Will I join with the ocean blue?
Or run into a savior true?
And shake hands laughing
And walk through the night, straight to the light
Holding the love I've known in my life
And no hard feelings

Lord knows, they haven't done much good for anyone
Kept me afraid and cold
With so much to have and hold
Under the curving sky
I'm finally learning why
It matters for me and you
To say it and mean it too
For life and its loveliness
And all of its ugliness
Good as it's been to me
I have no enemies

I have no enemies
I have no enemies
I have no enemies

--Robert William Crawford (1971- ), Scott Yancey Avett (1976- ), Timothy Seth Avett (1980- ), of the Avett Brothers, from the album True Sadness, 2016.

My Own Heart

My own heart let me have more pity on; let
Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,
Charitable; not live this tormented mind
With this tormented mind tormenting yet.
I cast for comfort I can no more get
By groping round my comfortless, than blind
Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find
Thirst ’s all-in-all in all a world of wet.

Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise
You, jaded, let be; call off thoughts awhile
Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size
At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile
’s not wrung, see you; unforeseen times rather — as skies
Betweenpie mountains — lights a lovely mile.



--Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889), English poet, mystic and Catholic priest, located at Hopkins Poetry. This is one of his "dark sonnets" written in 1885.

Study Guide for this poem found here.

Scripture reference and lectionary link: Easter 3C, John 21:1-19

Image: "Christ's Charge to Peter," Raphael, 1515

Phase One

For leaving the fridge open
last night, I forgive you.
For conjuring white curtains
instead of living your life.

For the seedlings that wilt, now,
in tiny pots, I forgive you.
For saying no first
but yes as an afterthought.

I forgive you for hideous visions
after childbirth, brought on by loss
of sleep. And when the baby woke
repeatedly, for your silent rebuke

in the dark, “What’s your beef?”
I forgive your letting vines
overtake the garden. For fearing
your own propensity to love.

For losing, again, your bag
en route from San Francisco;
for the equally heedless drive back
on the caffeine-fueled return.

I forgive you for leaving
windows open in rain
and soaking library books
again. For putting forth

only revisions of yourself,
with punctuation worked over,
instead of the disordered truth,
I forgive you. For singing mostly

when the shower drowns
your voice. For so admiring
the drummer you failed to hear
the drum. In forgotten tin cans,

may forgiveness gather. Pooling
in gutters. Gushing from pipes.
A great steady rain of olives
from branches, relieved

of cruelty and petty meanness.
With it, a flurry of wings, thirteen
gray pigeons. Ointment reserved
for healers and prophets. I forgive you.

I forgive you. For feeling awkward
and nervous without reason.
For bearing Keats’s empty vessel
with such calm you worried

you had, perhaps, no moral
center at all. For treating your mother
with contempt when she deserved
compassion. I forgive you. I forgive

you. I forgive you. For growing
a capacity for love that is great
but matched only, perhaps,
by your loneliness. For being unable

to forgive yourself first so you
could then forgive others and
at last find a way to become
the love that you want in this world.

--Dilruba Ahmed, Muslim Bangladeshi-American poet and teacher

Six Days of Work Are Spent

Six days of work are spent
To make a Sunday quiet
That Sabbath may return.
It comes in unconcern;
We cannot earn or buy it.
Suppose rest is not sent
Or comes and goes unknown,
The light, unseen, unshown.
Suppose the day begins
In wrath at circumstance,
Or anger at one's friends
In vain self-innocence
False to the very light,
Breaking the sun in half,
Or anger at oneself
Whose controverting will
Would have the sun stand still.
The world is lost in loss
Of patience; the old curse
Returns, and is made worse
As newly justified.
In hopeless fret and fuss.
In rage at worldly plight
Creation is defied,
All order is unproved,
All light and singing stopped.


--Wendell Berry (1935- ), American poet, essayist, farmer, philosopher, novelist, and agrarian

Bad Theology: A Quiz

"And lo, the Angel of the Lord came upon them,
and the glory of the Lord shone round about them:
and they were sore afraid."

Whenever we aver “the God is nigh,”
do we imply that He is ever otherwise? 

When, in scripture, God's anger is said
to be aroused, just how do you take that? 

If --whether now or in the fullness --we
stipulate that God is all in all, just where

or how could you position Hell ? Which
is better -- to break the law and soothe 

the wounded neighbor, or to keep the law
and cause the neighbor pain? Do you mean it? 

If another sins, what is that to you?
When the sinful suffer publicly, do you 

find secret comfort in their grief, or will
you also weep? They are surely grieving; 

are you weeping now? Assuming sin is sin
whose do you condemn? Who is judge? Who 

will feed the lambs? The sheep? Who, the goats?
Who will sell and give? Who will be denied? 

Whose image haunts the mirror? And why
are you still here? What exactly do you hope 

to become? When will you begin?



--Scott Cairns (1954- ), American poet, Orthodox Christian, and former professor at the University of Missouri, from Slow Pilgrim: the Collected Poems

SHRIVEN

Childhood Saturday nights found us
in the cloistered dark of the old church
dim lit to save on bills, but menacing still,
with gothic shadows in every corner
fit for scenes from horror on a screen.

We'd line up by fluted columns
that reached to a shadowed ceiling
free of saints, and waited to open up
the spirits vein and bleed out all
our sad litanies of petty crime.

The old priest, half deaf, drew crowds,
making us whole again for the cost
of three mumbled Hail Marys
as we knelt in the dark pews
and scanned the hidden corners for a sign.

Beneath the pews, along the floor,
ran pipes for a heating system old as sin,
and on cold nights they'd hiss and moan,
then commenced the clanging like lost souls
till the whole church trembled with the noise.

In this fit setting, at eight I shuddered,
at thirteen grumbled, and at sixteen
merely mourned the sad irony
beneath the frozen agonies of
a rough cut, varnished Christ.

Years later, that old apartment with
two narrow rooms, high ceilinged,
had ancient radiators with chipped paint
flecks of rust, and constant minor leaks –
late on cold nights, they sang,

saying their raucous organ song, rumbling,
banging, raising all of hell or at least
the demons hidden in their dark,
meandering pipes -- the super would come,
but only after endless calls.

Old and half-deaf, he’d wrench the joints,
And sound his rasping, high pitched laugh
that turned to coughing soon enough –
“had to bleed the bastards-- water leaks
out and air gets in -- got to bleed it out.”

So we went, many nights, till I moved on,
no longer assailed by the angry pipes, but
reassured by the subtle flow of forced air
who soft breath brings near silence –
but in silence, then, what echoes can remain?

Lying awake in the too quiet dark,
regretting the loss song of ancient pipes,
I wonder if this be peace or merely absence.
Where is the loud spirit that once trembled nights,
and who now can bleed away what's trapped within?

--Vincent Casaregola, from Dappled Things, Sts. Peter and Paul 2020- Volume 15, Issue 3

Enemies

If you are not to become a monster,
you must care what they think.
If you care what they think,

how will you not hate them,
and so become a monster
of the opposite kind? From where then

is love to come—love for your enemy
that is the way of liberty?
From forgiveness. Forgiven, they go

free of you, and you of them;
they are to you as sunlight
on a green branch. You must not

think of them again, except
as monsters like yourself,
pitiable because unforgiving.


--Wendell Berry (1934- ), American poet, writer, agrarian, from Entries: Poems, 1994.

Scripture reference: Matthew 5:44, All Saints' Day, Year A

Forgiveness

My heart was heavy, for its trust had been

Abused, its kindness answered with foul wrong;
So, turning gloomily from my fellow-men,
One summer Sabbath day I strolled among
The green mounds of the village burial-place;
Where, pondering how all human love and hate
Find one sad level; and how, soon or late,
Wronged and wrongdoer, each with meekened face,
And cold hands folded over a still heart,
Pass the green threshold of our common grave,
Whither all footsteps tend, whence none depart,
Awed for myself, and pitying my race,
Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave,
Swept all my pride away, and trembling I forgave!


-John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892), American Quaker poet

This is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold


-- William Carlos Williams, (1883-1963), Puerto Rican-American poet, author, and physician

Forgive Me

Angels are wonderful but they are so, well, aloof.

It’s what I sense in the mud and the roots of the
trees, or the well, or the barn, or the rock with
its citron map of lichen that halts my feet and
makes my eyes flare, feeling the presence of some
spirit, some small god, who abides there.

If I were a perfect person, I would be bowing
continuously.
I’m not, though I pause wherever I feel this
holiness, which is why I’m so often late coming
back from wherever I went.

Forgive me.


--Mary Oliver, from Blue Horses, 2014

Insomnia I

Some nights it's bound to be your best way out,

When nightmare is the short end of the stick,
When sleep is a part of town where it's not safe
To walk at night, when waking is the only way
You have of distancing your wretched dead,
A growing crowd, and escaping out of their
Time into yours for another little while;

Then pass ghostly, a planet in the house
Never observed, among the sleeping rooms
Where children dream themselves, and thence go down
Into the empty domain where daylight reigned;
Reward yourself with drink and a book to read,
A mystery, for its elusive gift
Of reassurance against the hour of death.
Order your heart about: Stop doing that!
And get the world to be secular again.

Then, when you know who done it, turn out the light,
And quietly in darkness, in moonlight, or snowlight
Reflective, listen to the whistling earth
In its backspin trajectory around the sun
That makes the planets sometimes retrograde
And brings the cold forgiveness of the dawn
Whose light extinguishes all stars but one.


-- Howard Nemerov (1920-1991), US poet laureate 1963-1964 and 1988-1990. American poet and teacher

Meditation on "Give us this day our daily bread:

Praying for our daily bread is asking to be reacquainted with our vulnerability, to learn how to approach not only God but each other, with our hands open. So to pray this prayer with integrity, we need to be thinking about the various ways in which we defend ourselves against the need to open our hands. We cannot fully and freely pray for our daily bread when we are wedded inseparably to our own rightness or righteousness, any more than we can when we are wedded to our own security or prosperity. And perhaps this explains why the Lord’s Prayer at once goes on to pray for forgiveness – or rather for the gift of being forgiven as we have learned to forgive. 

The person who asks forgiveness has renounced the privilege of being right or safe; she has acknowledged that she is hungry for healing, for the bread of acceptance and restoration to relationship. But equally the person who forgives has renounced the safety of being locked into the position of the offended victim; she has decided to take the risk of creating afresh a relationship known to be capable of involving hurt. Both the giver and the receiver of forgiveness have moved out of the safety zone; they have begun to ask how to receive their humanity as a gift.

Forgiveness is one of the most radical ways in which we are able to nourish one another’s humanity. When offence is given and hurt is done, the customary human response is withdrawal, the reinforcing of the walls of the private self, with all that this implies about asserting one’s own humanity as a possession rather than receiving it as gift. The unforgiven and the unforgiving cannot see the other as people who are part of God’s work of bestowing humanity on them. To forgive and to be forgiven is to allow yourself to be humanized by those whom you may least want to receive as signs of God’s gift; and this process is deeply connected with the prayer for daily bread. 

-- Rowan Williams (1950- ). Being Disciples: Essentials of the Christian Life, chapter 3.

Lord's Prayer Cycle Prayer 4: Forgive Us Our Sins

Our Father in heaven,
loving Parent and Creator,
tender Mother, 
we thank You for your forgiveness 
of our manifold sins. 

Again and again You call to us 
when we have wandered from your ways, 
and stubbornly separate ourselves from your Love. 
We repent of the evil we have done, 
the evil that is done on our behalf, 
and the very real hurt we have caused.

Forgive us when we place our selves 
as an idol in the sanctuary of our hearts, 
which should be dedicated to worship of You alone, 
O Redeemer.

Help us to acknowledge the sins done 
because we do not try to prevent them, 
and arouse in us the will to take action.

Teach us that the root of righteousness and salvation 
is found in fully opening our hearts 
to each other and to You.

Help us clothe ourselves 
and our motives 
in charity and obedience, O Christ. 
Help us direct our wills 
to the establishment of justice and peace.

Come into our hearts, O Spirit, 
and guide us in matters great and small, 
for your Love heals all our woundedness.

O Loving One, hear our prayers 
and grant your benediction and grace 
to those whose needs we now raise before You.

Amen.

Lord's Prayer Cycle Prayer 5: As We Forgive Those Who Have Sinned Against Us

Our Father in heaven, 
loving Parent and Creator, 
tender Mother, 
strengthen us and soften our hearts,
for You call us to forgive others as much as You forgive us. 

Help us let go of anger and resentment 
when we have been wronged, 
and nurture understanding 
in place of feeding the weeds of rage. 
Help us to understand 
that all are wounded and in need of healing, 
including ourselves. 
Help us to lower our defenses 
and not impugn the motives of those we love, 
and remember they love us. 
Help us to judge only as harshly 
as we ourselves wish to be judged, 
and no more. 

For You are our loving God, 
and You forgive us repeatedly when we fail You. 
Teach us that in bearing grudges 
we grip a weight that will sink us, 
and when harboring anger 
we risk loss in a sea of recrimination. 

Let us embrace those who seek our pardon, 
and repair mutual injury 
with the balm of Love that never fails. 
O Loving One, hear our prayers 
and grant your benediction and grace 
to those whose needs we now raise before You.

Amen.



Image from Medium.com

Thee, God, I Come From

Thee, God, I come from, to thee go,
All day long I like fountain flow
From thy hand out, swayed about
Mote-like in thy mighty glow.

What I know of thee I bless,
As acknowledging thy stress
On my being and as seeing
Something of thy holiness.

Once I turned from thee and hid,
Bound on what thou hadst forbid;
Sow the wind I would; I sinned:
I repent of what I did.

Bad I am, but yet thy child.
Father, be thou reconciled.
Spare thou me, since I see
With thy might that thou art mild.

I have life before me still
And thy purpose to fulfil;
Yea a debt to pay thee yet:
Help me, sir, and so I will.

But thou bidst, and just thou art,
Me shew mercy from my heart
Towards my brother, every other
Man my mate and counterpart.

--Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889), English poet and Jesuit priest