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Paul gave the unruly church in Corinth the lofty title "ambassadors of reconciliation," and then added this remarkable phrase: "as though God were making his appeal through us" (2 Cor. 5:20). I shake my head at the sheer audacity of God entrusting such a task to a species known for making divisions between rich and poor, dark-colored and light, beautiful and ugly, male and female, strong and weak. To this species, the message of reconciliation proclaims that none of those divisions matter. What matters is that God has reconciled the world to himself.

Taking God's assignment seriously means that I look at the world upside down, as God does. Instead of seeking out people who stroke my ego, I find those whose egos need stroking; instead of important people with resources who can do me favors, I find people with few resources; instead of the strong, I look for the weak; instead of the healthy, the sick. Is not this how God reconciles the world to himself? Jesus came for the sinners and not the righteous, for the sick and not the healthy.

I cannot help noticing the tenderness with which Jesus treated people with wounds caused by moral failure. A Samaritan woman with five failed marriages, a dishonest tax collector, an adulteress, a prostitute, a disciple who denied him—all these received from Jesus forgiveness and reinstatement, not the judgment they deserved. Jesus saw in people not what they had been but what they could be, not their past but their future.

We followers of Jesus sometimes do the opposite. A film made in 2002, The Magdalene Sisters, told the sad story of the "maggies" of Ireland. They got that nickname from Mary Magdalene, a revealing story in itself. The gospels mention only one fact of Mary Magdalene's past, that Jesus had driven seven demons from her. Nevertheless, a tradition grew that Mary Magdalene must have been the same woman as the prostitute who washed Jesus' feet with her hair. Hence when a strict order of nuns agreed to take in young women who had become pregnant out of wedlock, they labeled the fallen girls "maggies."

The maggies came to public attention in the 1990s when the order sold its convent, bringing to light the existence of the graves of 133 maggies who had spent their lives working as virtual slaves in the convent laundry. The media soon scouted out a dozen such "Magdalen laundries" across Ireland—the last one closed in 1996—and soon relatives and survivors were spilling accounts of the slave-labor conditions inside. Thousands of young women spent time in the laundries, some put away just for being "temptresses," forced to work unpaid and in silence as a form of atonement for their sins. The nuns took away illegitimate children born to these women to be raised in other religious institutions.

A public outcry erupted, and eventually campaigners raised money for a memorial, a bench in St. Stephen's Green, a park in downtown Dublin. I determined to visit the memorial on a trip to Ireland. It was a typical gray day in Dublin, with a sharp September wind and the threat of rain in the air. I asked a policeman and a park guide about the memorial to the maggies, and they both looked at me quizzically. "Dunno that one. Sorry."

One by one, my wife and I examined the bronze statues and impressive fountains, mostly honoring fighters for Irish independence. Only by accident did we stumble across a modest bench beside a magnolia tree. A gay couple was sitting on it, but behind their backs we could see brass-colored lettering. We asked if they would mind moving aside for a moment so we could read the inscription. The plaque reads, "To the women who worked in the Magdalen laundry institutions and to the children born to some members of those communities—reflect here upon their lives."

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May 2003, Vol. 47, No. 5