We came early to our friend’s funeral. She had been a member of our church for years—before leaving during a church split. The split was now a decade-old memory. We had been able to reconcile with many. Others we saw only at funerals or weddings.
After visiting with the bereaved, we took our seats with our children in the middle of the nearly empty church. Soon, another family entered, the family who had led the charge out our church doors so many years ago. This man had waged a vicious campaign, culminating in our senior pastor’s suicide. He still publicly embarrassed and berated anyone he encountered who attended our church.
The were making a production of publicly shunning us.
Though there were a hundred empty pews on each side of the aisle, his wife and four children, all nearly grown now, headed for the one in front of ours. Our hopes lifted. Perhaps today they would lay their old grudges aside.
They removed their coats and placed their Bibles on the pew, facing us, but looked beyond, as though we were invisible ghosts. Our hopes fell.
After they settled in, my husband, Jay, touched the wife on the shoulder and said something complimentary about her children. She didn’t reply or look at him. She didn’t even flinch. They were making a production of publicly shunning us. Even their children played well-rehearsed parts. They used to play with our children; now they pointedly ignored them.
We tried to concentrate on the reason we had come, but we felt distracted by the odd spectacle before us. Our children looked at their dad with confusion and pity.
Yet we also felt sorry for this family. Ten years is a long time to carry something as heavy as a grudge.
Afterward, Jay expressed concern for them. “I’d like to try again to reconcile,” he told me. “People don’t act like that without reason. Maybe there’s something I could say or do that would help them.”
“Why subject yourself to more cruelty?” I protested. “You can’t reason with an unreasonable man.”
Jay persisted, “No, but I can listen and try to help him break out of that prison of pain and anger he’s built.”
The next week, Jay made a call, and the man agreed to meet for lunch. He started in on Jay with the same attacks he had levied a decade before: “You’ve ruined hundreds of lives. If you had resigned, everything would have been fine. You should write a letter of apology to every person who ever went to your so-called church.” Jay listened and apologized where he could. For three hours Jay affirmed his love for the man and his family.
When they parted, Jay wasn’t sure if the meeting had brought them any closer to understanding and acceptance of one another.
A week later, a long-time member of our church related this story: While sipping coffee at Starbucks, he saw our mutual foe walk in. Expecting an insult, he was surprised when the man walked over and embraced him, asking, “Did you know I had a meeting with Jay last week? It went well.” Then the two talked like old friends, about business and families.
A few chains of unforgiveness had fallen off. Love never fails.
Linda Riley is director of Called Together Ministries in Torrance, California. In this column, she reflects on the variety of people we meet in ministry.
1997 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. For reprint information call 630-260-6200 or contact us
