Kent Nerburn - Calm Surrender: Walking the Path of Forgiveness

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Then Peter came up and said to Jesus, Lord, how often shall my brother sin against me and I forgive him? As many as seven times? Jesus said to him, I do not say to you seven times, but seventy times seven.

The Passover of the Jews was at hand, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem. In the temple he found those who were selling oxen and sheep and pigeons, and the money-changers at their business. And making a whip out of cords, he drove them all, with their sheep and oxen, out of the temple; and he poured out the coins of the money-changers and overturned their tables.

N ot long ago, I received a letter from my old friend John, with whom I had not corresponded in some time. He is several years younger than I, and perhaps for that reason has always looked to me for advice when his life has taken a confusing turn. On this occasion, he had decided to write me because of a disquieting event that had occurred several days before.

He, like me, is a father. And he, like me, struggles to raise his children to serve the common good, rather than simply promote their own self interests and personal accomplishments. It is a difficult challenge, but one in which we both believe.

The event that had prompted him to write was not one of great significance in the world, but it had touched him deeply. He and his young daughter had been walking down an alley near their home on the way to the store, when they had come upon a little spotted dog, badly undernourished, chained to a fence on a leash no more than two feet long. The dirt under the dogs feet was worn into a bowl; the dog itself was wide-eyed, frantic, and hysterical. Nearby, a water and food dish were tipped over. They were covered with dust, and obviously had not been filled for several days.

John looked up at the house. It was ill-kept, with a broken screen door. Music was blaring from inside, and there were motorcycles parked among piles of beer cans and trash on the expanse of dirt and weeds that had once been a lawn.

Cautiously, he and his daughter approached the dog. It was still friendly, even desperately so. They looked in the dogs eyes; the dog looked back at them with terror and yearning. They petted the dog and hugged it. The dog pulled at its leash and wagged its tail frantically.

Suddenly, we both began crying, he wrote. That little dog was pushing against us like we were his only hope in the world. We just sat there hugging it and crying while the little dog shivered in our arms.

John thought of approaching the house and confronting the owners, but he was afraid. He thought of stealing the dog, but was concerned that if he got caught the dogs owners might harm him or his child. Besides, he thought, even if he were successful, these people would just get another dog and abuse it the same way.

His daughter looked at him, wide-eyed and hopeful. What should we do, Dad? she asked him.

I dont know, he mumbled. Ill think of something.

But he couldnt. Unable to come up with any reasonable response, he turned away and continued walking down the alley. Behind them, the little spotted dog barked and yipped and pulled at its chain, as if begging them to come back and save it.

My cheeks burned with shame, he wrote. I tried to hide my tears from my girl, but it was like some floodgate had been opened. It wasnt just the dog. I could call the animal control people, and theyd probably take care of it. But what about all the other little dogs? What about all the old people trapped in their houses like dogs chained to fences because theyre afraid to go out on the street? What about all the misery and cruelty we see in the world around us every day? That little pup broke my heart, but it was just the last straw, a pitiful symbol of everything heartless and cruel in this world.

I understood too well what he was talking about. The harshness and cruelty of the world weigh on my heart, too. The mother swatting at her wide-eyed and hopeful child as he makes an innocent request in the supermarket, the incomprehensible murders and brutalities that scream at us from the headlines every day, even the simple incivilities we bear in our daily dealings with others often leave me trapped somewhere between frustration and rage.

But my friend wasnt done. His next few lines brought me up short. I get sick of all the weak-kneed sermonizing I hear about forgiveness, he wrote. All this talk about turning the other cheek and how we need to ignore the negative and try to find the positive in everything, about how the world is perfect in its abundance if we only know how to look at things. Just once Id like one of those perfect world people to walk down that alley with me and look into that little dogs terrified eyes. Id like them to tell me about the positive in that situation. Id like them to show me what good I do by turning the other cheek on that little spotted dog.

The letter went on to more trivial issues, but I wasnt really paying attention. My friend had struck a nerve, and his questions haunted me.

How do we deal with cruelty and evil in this world when we are taught to turn the other cheek and to forgive not seven times, but seventy times seven? How do we acknowledge the darkness of life without becoming ensnared in it? What is the true shape of honorable forgiveness?