“But one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind and reaching forward to those things which are ahead, I press toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 3:13)
“Hello, Mary. Do you remember me?” She stares at me with blue eyes through granny glasses, her smile as pleasant as I recall from happier times. She still has the soft smooth skin found among those who eschew suntan, her radiant features reminding me of her charm and intelligence when she was well. She wants to pretend she knows who I am, but honesty precludes that happening; however, I sense somehow my baritone is a vague recollection. I thought to intone something familiar to her from our worship, but that would be inappropriate. “Do you remember Tony, your husband, who sang in the church choir?” No, not at the moment. The name doesn’t compute. Yet she is enjoying my presence. They were churchy people, the type, thank heavens, we still have, whose lives revolve around the parish. “Remember, you were the pocket lady?” At our festivals she had worn a voluminous dress with many small pockets, each with some prize to surprise the little children.
If she were a mechanism, I’d call for a technician to flip whatever switch was thwarting her memory. But her time frame was a constant “now,” and my feeble attempts to return her to her past were all to no avail. That will be offered to her as a gift once she leaves the world we live in. That enigmatic illness is so much more difficult to accept from the immediate family members—a spouse and children who are no longer even vague memories.
From there I met in my church office somebody who had come to unburden herself of serious problems that have changed the course of her life. She had done wrong. She admitted that—more, she was unable to put her deeds behind her and go through the process of remorse, repentance and forgiveness to start over again. She was enslaved to the past as though there were no exit. And so I listened, although from letters I had known most of the morbid tale. St. Augustine wrote: “A good conscience is the palace of Christ; the temple of the Holy Spirit; the paradise of delight.” A bad conscience is the playground of Satan, who enjoys the humiliation it inflicts on the victim and delights in the mortification it brings to one who is made in God’s image.
I tried explaining that the punishment must fit the crime, or in this case more a peccadillo; but she had become her own warden and penitentiary from which there seemed to be no date of release. Her punishment went on and on in her mind with no letup. She was unable—to use common jargon—to put it behind her and get on with her life. Despite her misdeed, she was still a child of God, an adopted sibling of Jesus Christ, and a bearer of the Holy Spirit with which she was anointed at baptism. Did she understand? Her head bobbed affirmatively, but her heart remained shut to my words.
Before proceeding to the place of confessions, I explained that even the Lord is helpless to forgive a person who refuses to accept forgiveness. Is that clear? My humble prayer of absolution is worthless if she could not receive forgiveness wholeheartedly. So we went through the ritual prayers, the outline of what we had been discussing for several hours already, and the formula prayer with absolution.
“O Lord, how wonderful are Your works, in wisdom have You made them all!” as we chant each vespers in our praise to the Almighty. Yet that wisdom remains a mystery for the most part to those of us who struggle to fathom the depths of His ways.