The Preacher's Gift
Short story published in Ancient Paths, a literary magazine, issue 14 2007
The congregation in the great church was well dressed and prosperous looking that Sunday morning. Light streaming in through the high stained glass windows reflected off the highly polished wood of the pews, gave the sanctuary an air of solid religious respectability.
The visiting preacher, on the other hand, did not look impressive. Thin, slightly stooped, with sparse, wispy hair and a large nose on which rode a pair of thick glasses, he looked old and tired as he climbed into the pulpit. His vestments hung loosely on his spare frame, which made him look like an ecclesiastical scarecrow. The coughing, shuffling and reading of bulletin notices that commenced in the pews indicated the low expectations of the crowd.
In a flat, colorless voice, he read from a written page, quoting several verses of scripture about forgiveness. He spoke about the meaning of words in the original Greek text. He described the father in the story of the prodigal son as an example of forgiveness.
Many adults began carefully examining the high vaulted ceiling and the stained glass windows while children rolled their eyes at frowning parents, and teenagers feigned sleep.
Then the preacher stopped, looked up from his written notes and took off his glasses. His gaze traveled over the people as if sizing them up. The timbre of his voice changed as he said simply, "I want to tell you a true story about another father."
Faces turned toward him and the congregation grew still.
"Fifteen years ago, this father lived in a mid-western town with his wife, a sixteen year old son, and a ten year old daughter. She was the child all parents want, and lucky ones thank God for. Bright, happy, and loving she was, but that did not protect her. On a warm summer evening as she rode her bicycle home, a drunk driver struck and killed her."
Children stopped making faces at their parents, teenagers sat up, and all eyes were now fixed on the preacher.
"The father, his wife and son were devastated. In terrible grief they buried their precious little girl. The drunk driver, when sober, apologized, but then said he didn't really think it was his fault because she had swerved into his car's path. I cannot say what the mother and brother felt, but the father did not forgive the driver." The preacher paused. The church was so still one could have heard a butterfly land on a pillow.
"The driver was found guilty of driving while drunk, fined five hundred dollars and sentenced to six months in jail, jail time suspended if he was not arrested for anything for a year. The girl's family was devastated at so a light sentence.
"The girl's father was especially angry. As he went about his profession in that town, the father frequently saw the man who had killed his daughter. He saw the guilty man returning to his normal way of life. The grotesque unfairness rankled the father. He knew his life and his family would never be the same because of that drunken driver."
"His anger grew into hatred for the driver. He wished the driver dead. His bitterness began to affect his relationship with his wife, and his son, and his friends. It affected his work. It was eating him up inside."
The light filtering through the stained-glass windows fell on a congregation so caught by the preacher's story that they dared not move even an eyebrow.
"For three years, this father let his hate and anger fester and grow. It was so unjust that his daughter was dead while he must endure seeing man who killed her alive and happy. He said he would be damned if he ever forgave that man. In his anger he began to drink too much, and he turned his anger on his wife and son."
"His son avoided him and left home to join the army as soon as he could. His wife was ready to pack up and leave, when she said something that finally brought the father to his senses. 'You are letting the man who killed our daughter destroy our family and your life. If you don't find a way to forgive him, your anger and hate will kill you.'"
The preacher stopped and looked around at an absolutely still congregation. Everyone knew what he was about to say, yet that knowledge filled them with dread. Hardly a breath was taken.
"Yes. I was that father." A shudder passed over the assembly. "And I was a priest. I knelt with my people every Sunday and asked God's forgiveness and then every Sunday, stood and told them their sins were forgiven. But I did not believe it because I would not forgive. I said the Lord's Prayer every day. 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,' but I did not forgive."
"The day my wife told me the truth was a bitter day. I realized I was a living lie. I knew that I must forgive that man, or quit the ministry. I had to face myself and God, and admit that I must give up my hate and anger, or give up the work I love, the work to which I believe God called me."
"I went to the church and knelt in the back pew. I tried to pray for forgiveness for my anger and hate. I asked God to take them away. If he didn't I would have to leave the ministry -- and there would be no point in living. Fear overwhelmed me. I could lose everything that mattered."
"Then slowly I realized that I had taken my love for Joanne, my daughter, and twisted it into anger and hate at the man who killed her. I saw her lovely face looking at me and heard her sweet voice, 'Daddy, don't you love me anymore?' I felt so small, so ashamed." The preacher paused struggling with his emotions. In the stillness of the moment, someone could be heard softly crying.
"I cannot tell you how it happened, but three hours later I went home and I asked my wife to forgive all the hurt I had done to her. The moment I started to tell her, she put her arms around me and I knew I was forgiven. That gave me the courage I needed"
"The next day I went to that man's office. I stood in front of his desk and told him I forgave him for killing my daughter. He seemed nervous and started to protest that he didn't think it had been really his fault. I fought down my anger and interrupted him to say that if there was ever any way I could help him, I was willing to do so. He was still nervously spluttering when I said, 'God bless you' and left. I went home and collapsed with relief."
"For the first time since Joanne was killed, I began to feel that one day I might be whole one day. There is only one thing to add. About a year later, the man came to me. He was drinking again, very heavily. His wife had left him, his business was in serious trouble and he wanted help. I took him to Alcoholics Anonymous. He told me that he came to me because he really believed that I had forgiven him and did not harbor any ill will."
"My friends, forgiveness is possible because love is powerful. We don't have to carry around old hate and anger. If we do, it only means that the object of our hate or anger still controls us. I know. I also know that with God's grace, you do not have to let that happen. Forgiveness makes the difference."
He looked away from the congregation for the first time since he began his story and put his glasses on. "Let us pray." He paused while they knelt, and then he prayed a simple prayer that they might be given such power of love that they could forgive those who hurt them even as they themselves had been forgiven.
Here and there in that congregation people sat in stunned silence or wept quietly. Many eyes followed the preacher as he came down from the pulpit, many hearts ached to talk with him. No one noticed his hair, his nose or his glasses. Now they saw a man who had been broken and then healed; a man whose words had made them look deep into themselves and become truly human for those few minutes. They wanted his life to touch them again. They did not want to lose the gift he had given.