A Muslim’s Pocket Guide to Christianity

From chapter 3 of A Muslim’s Pocket Guide to Christianity, by Malcolm Steer, published by Christian Focus 2005

The Qur’an frequently refers to the Holy books of the Jews and Christians and calls such people the ‘People of the Book’. Muslims view the Qur’an and Islam as a continuation and fulfilment of previous revelations and therefore regard all previous prophets and holy books as proclaiming essentially the same message as the Qur’an. However, differences do exist and many believe that the differences have been caused by changes and corruptions introduced by Christians and Jews into the Bible during the course of history. Is it also asserted on the basis of the Qur’an that the Scriptures previous to the Qur’an have been abrogated by the Qur’an.

However, in actual fact the Qur’an does not teach that the previous Scriptures given to Jews and Christians are textually unreliable or have been abrogated. The Qur’an supports the existence, availability, integrity and universal significance of these Scriptures. It encourages all to believe these Scriptures and even confirms them (Sura 5:43-52, 70-72). In fact, if Muhammad himself is in doubt, the Qur’an tells him to appeal to Jews and Christians and to their Scriptures (Sura 10:95)

A multitude of ancient manuscripts of the Bible in its original languages and in translations abundantly testify to the preservation and integrity of the biblical text. Even if a group of unbelievers had wanted later on to make changes to the Bible, it would have been an impossible task in view of the number of copies of Greek and Hebrew Scriptures available and the way that these had been scattered throughout the world. Total suppression of these Greek and Hebrew Scriptures world have been impossible.

The Truce of God

From chapter 3 of The Truce of God, by Rowan Williams, first published 1983; this edition 2005, and published by Eerdmans.

People go to stay in the guest-houses of monasteries and convents (in surprisingly large numbers) to absorb an atmosphere of ‘peace’: it is a break from conflict and tension, a move into another world from which strain is supposedly absent. The world of the cloister is one in which some new level of awareness has been attained, and its inhabitants breathe a different air. And we, less fortunate (or less committed), are briefly admitted into it, for our nourishment and refreshment.

We all, in fact, badly need images of achieved repose, of a state in which the process of ‘becoming’ is in effect over; and we are increasingly fascinated by the contrast between ‘being’ and ‘doing’, and more and more inclined to think that at a great deal of our civilisation has been badly wrong about the balance between the two, overstressing acting, making, imposing change. It is true, too, that a lot of the central images of Christianity are not reposeful: however much the cross of Jesus is softened and formalised, however much the naked figure is clothed as priest or king, it remains an image that speaks of incompleteness, of a world of unreconciled conflicts, because it is inescapably the image of a man being tortured to death.

We need something for daily consumption that is a bit less ‘unfinished’, and so, understandably, we turn to images of the sacred that are more still, more rounded or more balanced. Certainly the popularity of the image of Mary has something to do with this – the innocence of virginity and the ‘finished achievement’ of motherhood hauntingly combined in a symbol of purity which also manages, uniquely, to be a symbol of nurture and inclusion, not simply of remoteness.

That means that Christians living a monastic life have laid upon them an enormous load of expectation. They are called (not by God but by the Church) to make their lives, individually and communally, images of ‘peace’. And thus people often feel very deeply hurt and betrayed when such images are broken; when someone leaves a community, re-enters ‘our’ world, as if to say that there is no decisive release from struggle, that the wheel can still turn. The world of the cloister is not so ‘finished’ after all, not invulnerable to strain, frustration, unhappiness and the heavy responsibility of choice.

Worship in the Spirit

From chapter 6 of Worship in the Spirit – charismatic worship in the Church of England, by James H S Steven, published by Paternoster Press 2002
[Studies in Evangelical History and Thought series]

The Wimber ideology, reinforced by the "Toronto Blessing’ gave a specifically theological rationale for the public display of ecstatic behaviour; it was the evidence of God’s activity among the assembly. Thus bodies that fell to the ground in the ‘prayer ministry’ were signs of the power of God at work, as we were assured, for example, in the ‘prayer ministry’ at St.D by the priest’s public explanation, and by the action of the sacramental anointing of those who had fallen to the floor. This was also reflected in the way participants named the phenomenon as being ‘slain in the Spirit’ (‘falling under the Power ‘ is another expression used in charismatic literature). As I have discussed, ‘prayer ministers’ were encouraged to pray with their eyes open as they watched for somatic signs of God’s Spirit at work in their respondents. Songs celebrated a visibly active God, such as the petition in the following Vineyard song refrain:

Show Your power, O Lord our God;
Show Your power, O Lord our God,
Our God!

This attention to the visible activity of God was also illustrated in shift of congregational gaze away from leadership at the front of the public ‘prayer ministry’ area which in all cases observed was situated within what could be termed ‘congregational space’ (when ‘prayer ministry’ occurred in front of congregational seating, the areas used were physically and symbolically distinct from the leadership space occupied by music groups and service leaders and by all appearances were an extension of congregational space).

This shift is analogous to the contrast between the social arrangements of the live ‘gig’ and the discotheque. Unlike the stage of a live performance, in a disco it is the dance-floor that becomes the focus for gaze. As Thornton comments, ‘In the absence of visually commanding performers the gaze of the audience has turned back upon itself. Watching and being seen are key pleasures of discotheques.’ Similarly, in contrast to the ‘time of worship’ where congregational gaze focused upon the music groups, in ‘prayer ministry’ the congregational gaze turned in upon itself and focused upon the ‘prayer ministry’ area. Despite the occasional encouragement from leaders not to concentrate on ecstatic phenomena, it was clear that there were a significant number of individuals within the congregation who, like me, were simply watching what was going on.

Through the Wilderness of Alzheimer’s

From chapter 4 of Through the Wilderness of Alzheimer’s –a guide in two voices, by Robert and Anne Simpson, published by Augsburg 1999

[Bob has Alzheimer’s – Anne is his wife and caregiver.]

August 20.

ANNE: Bob and I have always juggled chronos, calendar time, and kairos, meaningful time. He would say that I am overly scheduled. I would say that he is ‘chronologically challenged.’ Bob procrastinates and makes decisions at the last minute, depending on how he feels. I like to have things decided – dates filled in, work assigned – well ahead of time.

Often, when we get together now to talk about our plans, I say too much, give him too many choices, and he balks.

But I don’t want to make plans without Bob’s input. I don’t know how much activity he can tolerate. Can he go out alone? How often and how long?

August is bustling with its annual infusion of tourists, houseguests, and summer activities. We have a lawn to mow and flowers to tend and many other outdoor projects. A long ‘to do’ list for a short summer. There are also invitations to local events and family gatherings across the state.

BOB: I can’t make decisions. I’m a failure. Anybody could do this! Maybe I can’t talk about the calendar any more – it gives me a headache.

But I like having ordered projects to do…so they don’t tumble down on me. It’s hard when I have two things. I get overwhelmed…I used to be able to let things pile up and not get overly anxious. Now I’m like a donkey between two bales of hay. I get confused. My mind goes blank. I stay and starve in the middle.

Praying with Frederic Ozanam

from Meditation 6 of Praying with Frederic Ozanam, by Ronald Ramson, published by St Mary’s Press, 1998 [Companions for the Journey series]

Six years before he himself was wed, Frederic wrote to a dear friend, a confrere in the Society of St Vincent de Paul, about the man’s coming marriage:

‘The great action you are contemplating at present will only to redouble your zeal and your strength. "When two or three are gathered together in my name," says the Saviour, "there am I in the midst of them." It is in that divine name that you will prepare to unite yourself to a wise and pious wife: the promise will be accomplished in you both. In giving your love to someone who will be justifiably dear, you will not withdraw it from the poor and miserable whom you loved first. Love possesses something of the divine nature, which gives itself without diminishing, which shares itself without division, which multiplies itself, which is present in many places at once, and whose intensity is increased in the measure that it gains in extension.

In your wife you will first love God, whose admirable and precious work she is, and then humanity, that race of Adam whose pure and loveable daughter she is. You will draw comfort from her tenderness on bad days, you will find courage in her example in perilous times, you will be her guardian angel, she will be yours. You will then no longer experience the weaknesses, discouragements and terrors which have seized upon you at certain times of your life: for you will no longer be alone. You will never be alone again, your virtue will be shared in legitimate hope, the alliance you are about to contract will be an immortal alliance: what God joins together, what He has insisted no man separate, He will not Himself separate, and in heaven he will invest with the same glory those who here below were companions in the same exile.’

The Mind of the Fathers

From chapter 7 of The Mind of the Fathers, by George S Bebis, published by Holy Cross Orthodox Press, 1994

Saint Photios was a son of a noble Byzantine family of ancient Armenian stock which was related to the Macedonian royal dynasty. Because of his noble status, he had the opportunity to enter into the high ranks of the imperial court and to serve as a top-ranking diplomat and ambassador for Assyria for Emperor Michael III (842-867). Next, he was appointed as the first imperial secretary of the royal court, and thus St Photios soon acquired power and glory in the imperial palace of Constantinople. He also became the prime minister of Emperor Michael III, and at the same time he reorganised and taught at the celebrated University of Constantinople, two tasks which could not have been easy even for a man of the stature of the holy Photios.

Yet he became famous, as well as one of the most imposing and controversial personalities of his times when he was elected and consecrated archbishop and patriarch of Constantinople in 858. This great man, bishop, and theologian of wondrous biblical roots, of exquisite theological acumen, of rare erudition and sincere piety became a controversial figure and faced many adversaries and enemies during his lifetime. Perhaps the most antagonistic issue was whether his election and ordination as patriarch was canonical. Many of his contemporaries wrote against him, such as Niketas of Paphlagonia, the metropolitan of Smyrna; Stylianos of Neocaesarea, Pope Nicholas I and Anastasios the Librarian, just to mention a few. They presented him as an unscrupulous and covetous man, as a person blinded by pride and a lust for power.

Later, a whole stream of historians, especially in the West, depicted him as a man of ambition, pride, bias and theological scholarship. They claimed that his actions led to the rift and the schism between East and West. Baronius, the celebrated Western historian of the seventeenth century, Cardinal Hergerther of the nineteenth century, and the French historian E. Amman painted a malevolent picture of St Photios, ignoring the true dimensions of his character while distorting the historical evidence which was at their disposal. Yet even his most fierce enemies could not dismiss the nobility of his character, his splendid education, and his great contribution to teaching and writing.

Thus, Niketas of Paphlagonia, who was not a friend of his, writes: "Photios was not of low and obscure origins; rather, he was the child of noble and highly renowned parents. In worldly wisdom and reasoning, he was viewed as the most capable person in the Empire. He had studied grammar and poetry, rhetoric and philosophy, the healing arts [apparently medicine], and almost every other worldly science. In all of these, he not only surpassed all others of his time, but even competed with learned men of earlier times. He succeeded in all things, and all things benefited him; his natural capabilities, his diligent learning, and his wealth by which every book was able to find its way to him."

Later serious and unbiased scholars, such as Laport, Grumel, and finally, Dvornik, realised that the history of St Photios needed to be rewritten and that all the anti- Photian documents upon which his condemnation was based demanded thorough inspection and revision. The man who fully reopened Photios’ dossier and re-examined his case was Francis Dvornik in his celebrated book, ‘The Photian Schism, History and Legend.’ He based his work on solid historical evidence and proved that Patriarch Photios has wrongly stood as a sign of contradiction, a symbol of disunion, and the father of the schism between the East and the West. Thus, no serious scholar today challenges St Photios’ moral character and his deep devotion to the Church and her unity.

Pathway to Freedom

From chapter 4 of Pathway to Freedom – how God’s laws guide our lives, by Alistair Begg, published by Moody Press, 2003.

In 1808 Hugh Wylie was removed from membership in his local Presbyterian Church in Western Pennsylvania. His offence? Opening the post office on Sunday and thus violating the fourth commandment. When the postmaster general ordered Wylie to continue distributing the mail whenever it arrived (including on Sunday) and the Presbyterian General Assembly upheld his exclusion, Wylie was forced to choose between his church and his job.

Those of us who find such circumstances hard to imagine will probably be intrigued to learn that it wasn’t until 1949 that the National Football league officially sanctioned Sunday games. Fifty some years ago those who cared about the secularisation of the country could surely not have envisioned Super Bowl Sunday in the American Church. Buildings that are routinely dark on Sunday evenings (the Lord’s Day having been completed by twelve noon) are opened especially for the Super Bowl and are ablaze with the colour dancing on the large screens which bear the images of the gods of contemporary culture.

The fourth commandment more than any other forces us to wrestle with what we really believe about the abiding place of the Law in Christian living. More alarming than the arguments that may ensue is the fact that for the majority it appears the issue is not debated, it is simply ignored. That the fourth commandment should engender strife is news to many who have never given any serious thought to the matter. They lie with the assumption that such matters have to do with ‘then’ and this is ‘now.’ They have never considered the Lord[‘s day as a different day, one that is delightful by design and which helps to shape and frame our lives. That positive perspective has too often been obscured by the joyless mechanical externalism championed by the Pharisees and fashioned into an art form at times in Scotland!

Come Sunday

From chapter 5 of Come Sunday – the liturgy of Zion (a companion to "Songs of Zion’), by William B McClain, published by Abingdon1990

Generally, black preaching is poetic rather than rigorously logical and stymied by rationality. As Hortense Spillers has pointed out in her analysis of the style of the black sermons in reference to Martin Luther King, there is considerable use of metaphors and nominality with a greater number of nouns, adjectives and adjectival clauses rather than verbs and verb forms. These combine to create a picturesqueness and grandness of speech.

The black preacher relies on imagery to carry the subject much like the language of the Bible. This can be illustrated from a sermon preached by Dr J H Jackson in 1962. In this sermon an effort is made to paint a picture on the mind’s canvas. Jackson is addressing himself to facing the future with God:

"But I say to you my friends, fear not your tomorrow, and shirk not from
the task or the lot that is yet to come. The future belongs to God, and the last
chapter in the story of human life will not be written by the blood-stained
hands of godless men but by the God of history himself. The same hand that
raised the curtain of creation and pushed back the floating worlds upon the
broad sea of time and flashed forth the light of life that put an end to ancient
chaos and darkness; the same hand that erected the highways of the skies and
rolled the sun like a golden ball across the pavement of the dawn; the same God
whose hand has guided the destinies of nations, fixed the time and season and
superintended the whole order of time and eternity will at His appointed hour
pull down the curtain of existence, and will Himself write the last paragraph in
the last chapter of the last book of human life and cosmic destiny."

Such poetry, vivid imagery, and word pictures can be heard again and again in black preaching in almost any North American city, town or hamlet.

What Warner Trayman says about black theology can be said about black preaching (and if it is accepted what has been suggested at the start, to some extent, we are talking about the same thing when we speak of black preaching and black theology). The question is not "Is there a God?" (a philosophical and rational question), but is "Who is God? What does God’s existence mean for me? What does the Lord say about my condition? " The black preacher is clear that liberation and salvation are not accomplished by philosophical debate and rational argument. The black preacher makes an effort to communicate with both the mind and the emotions.

The Befuddled Stork

For the next couple of weeks we're presenting extracts from books in our Sale Department.

From chapter 5 of The Befuddled Stork, edited by Sally Geis and Donald Messer, published by Abingdon 2000 - 240 pp - Was $29.95 now $19.95

Such knotty, difficult, heart-wrenching questions are not to be answered lightly. That we find ourselves, decades after Roe v Wade, still experiencing heated arguments and, most terrifying and ungodly of all, violence against persons who reach decisions different from one's own, is but a sign of the impossibility of being very sure we know all there is to know about every situation that has arisen or will arise. It is a sign that we cannot be so audacious as to stand by an agonizing woman, appropriately struggling with prayer and counsel and all the other community wisdom I have suggested earlier, and dare to tell her she is wrong. Who can know that without having walked the journey to the decision with her? How audacious and judgmental and dangerous to our social soul, to say nothing of that soul for which all of us will be accountable to our Maker.

Yes, I believe there are extreme circumstances that may lead a woman and her surrounding community to make the terrible choice for abortion. Therefore I continue to insists that there be such a legal, safe, compassionate possibility for those rare circumstances. That others will abuse that provision is a devastating reality, but not so devastating as the removal of the provision altogether.

Let me share a story of contrasting experiences. One day I heard the report of a young married pregnant woman who had just heard the first fetal heartbeat and was ecstatic, and within hours I was with a weeping victim of a rape who had discovered she was pregnant. What a contrast! What a picture of real life - first beautiful, then tragic. I could not begin to fully comprehend either woman's emotions or potential future. But I could pray with both, and ponder with both, and be part of a surrounding community of discernment for both. For even that mother-to-be who heard that heartbeat had feelings of wonder and awe: Will I be adequate? Can we provide all a child will need? Will we be able to bear the dangers and risks of parenting as well as the joy? And the rape victim wondered, How can I look upon a child created out of fear and threat of life and find anything but a chain binding me to a night of terror and perhaps threatening my ability to ever freely love and generously nurture? How will I bear the time of maturation of this fetus, and what will it be like to know, though placed in a loving place, that this child was conceived in rage and danger?

Ah, the conundrums of human emotion, the extensiveness of human responsibility, the expansiveness of human knowledge, the remaining mysteries of personal knowing that belong to each individual that can never be fully known by another. When the agonizing decision is made for an abortion, after all the surrounding wisdom and guidance and prayer I have suggested, I pray there will be some gracious possibility that the woman will continue to be cared for gently. I pray she is spared the angry and ugly accusations and judgements of those who cannot possibly know her story. The story of one who seeks an abortion without such care and prayer, acting only for her own convenience, is quite different, and falls outside the circle of ethical and moral decision making.

Indeterminate Sentence

from chapter 6 of Indeterminate Sentence, by Allan Handyside, published by Philip Garside Publishing 2005

Des, one of the crimos, had been constantly picked on and provoked. Then he was charged with making an insulting remark when showering, even though it was somebody else who actually made the remark. This fact Des asserted when defending the charge. However, the warder who reported the incident swore that it was Des. The warder’s report was accepted instead of the testimony of other prisoners who spoke in defence of Des, so he had his tobacco ration cancelled for a while. Then another false charge was made against Des and again several witnesses said a mistake had been made. The tobacco ration was cancelled once more and Des was put to work in the gang.

Seven of us then refused to work by way of protest. The Visiting Justice sentenced each of us to three days bread and water, saying he had no other option, then adding that the warders were reasonable men, telling us how long he had known them and why we had to abide by the regulations. After three days of solitary confinement Hugh lodged a complaint to the Visiting Justice about the conditions imposed when under punishment among other things he had requested a particular theological book to read during his punishment and the refusal of this request was used as a test case.

Hugh wrote a description of the interview with the Visiting Justice and sent it to his Hautu friends, reporting, "As soon as I laid my complaint, the Officer-in-Charge took over and told the Visiting Justice what was normally done and why. The Visiting Justice said, ‘I can’t interfere with the arrangements of the prison." I said a prisoner was supposed to have access to a Visiting Justice for protection, but I found it difficult to make the point because of the tirade by the Officer-in-Charge. Finally the Visiting Justice said, ‘I’m sure if you applied to the Officer-in-Charge he would give you what you wanted." The Officer-in-Charge said, ‘No, I want to have this out’ and on he want again. ‘I’ll look into it,’ the Visiting Justice concluded, which was all that was ever heard about the matter."

Hugh’s letter went on to say that the tyranny and absolute power of the local Officer-in-Charge was disgusting and the inevitable corruption appalling, that the arrogance and pride of warders, and the Chief Warder in particular, made you sick, and that treatment of the men as so many dogs was very disturbing. He concluded this letter by saying that when contrasted with the warders and general administration at Mt Eden Prison the difference was surprising, Mt Eden being 100% better.

The Scriptures, the Cross and the Power of God

from chapter 2 of The Scriptures, the Cross and the Power of God, by N T Wright, published by SPCK in 2005

The central theme is the sudden lavish throwing open of the invitation no longer to the great and good but to all and sundry. Everyone found in the streets is to be invited to the banquet. We sigh with relief. Jesus is playing our tune at last. Here is the gospel we know and love, the message of a radical inclusivity in which the doors are thrown open for all to come in. And it’s true, and it’s glorious, and it needs saying again and again.

But the point at which we can tell that we are only hearing bits of the message that we want to hear is the point where the story twists round and we confront a reality so unwelcome, so out of tune with the spirit of our age, that we move quickly to shut Matthew up, like the grown-ups shushing the child at the table who blurts out the truth the nice guests weren’t meant to hear. What about the man without the wedding robe? What about the weeping and gnashing of teeth?

This is where we meet the same point as at the end of John’s story of the woman taken in adultery. How easy it is for us to gloss over the last line. What we want to hear is the word of forgiveness: ‘No more do I condemn you.’ What we would rather not hear is the necessary word that follows: ‘Go, and don’t sin again.’

As in the Sermon on the Mount, the great blessings on all and sundry at the beginning are matched by the stark warnings at the end: some will say, ‘Lord, Lord,’ but Lord will not recognise them. As in the parables in Matthew 13, the ‘good and bad’ are kept together for the moment, but ultimately separated out. Because, of course, without the warnings, grace is subverted into mere tolerance. One of the great moral and spiritual fault lines of our time lies just here. Paul puts his finger on it in Romans 6:1. If God acts in lavish grace to utter sinners, wouldn’t it be best to go on being utter sinners so that we can get more grace? Paul’s answer – Matthew’s answer – Jesus’ answer – is quite simple. Me genoito. Let it be not. Many are called; few are chosen.

Free of Charge Part 2

Today's extract is again from the Interlude: Daniel's Death, in Free of Charge - giving and forgiving in a culture stripped of grace, by Miroslav Volf.

The pain of the terrible loss still lingers on, but bitterness and resentment against those who were responsible are gone. It was healed at the foot of the cross as my mother gazed on the Son who was killed and reflected about the God who forgave. Aunt Milica was forgiven, and there was no more talk of her guilt, not even talk of her having been guilty. As far as I was concerned, she was innocent.

But my parents did speak often of forgiveness in relation to Daniel's death. In fact, the first lesson in forgiveness I remember lay in the story of how they forgave the soldier who was the main culprit. 'The Word of God tells us to forgive as God in Christ has forgiven us,' said my parents, 'and so we decided to forgive.' The soldier felt terrible, so terrible in fact that he had to be admitted to the hospital. My father, with a wound in his heart that would never quite heal, went to visit him, to comfort the one whose carelessness had caused him so much grief, and tell him that my mother and he forgave him.

In the courtroom too, my father insisted that he and my mother, who was too brokenhearted to take part in the hearing, had forgiven. They wouldn't press charges, he said. Why should one more mother be plunged into grief, this time because the life of her son, a good boy but careless in a crucial moment, was ruined by the hands of justice. After the soldier was discharged from the army and went home unpunished, my father visited him even though it took him two days to make the trip. He was concerned for the soldier and wanted to talk to him once more of God's love, which is greater than our accusing hearts, and of my parents' forgiveness.

The reason why my parents forgave was simple. God forgave them, and so they forgave the soldier. But the forgiveness itself was difficult, and for my mother, excruciatingly painful. I will revisit the pain of my mother's forgiveness [later]. My father never talked about how it felt forgiving a person who killed his boy; he never talked much about how anything felt, though he was a deeply sensitive man. But that forgiveness must have cost him a great deal too, possibly no less than it cost my mother.

From the Interlude: Daniel's Death, in Free of Charge - giving and forgiving in a culture stripped of grace, by Miroslav Volf. The book is the Archbishops' Official 2006 Lent Book, and was published by Zondervan in 2005

Forty-seven years after the accident, I was finally piecing together one part of the puzzle I thought I already knew. My most beloved nanny, Aunt Milica as I called her, the angel of my early childhood whom I adored until her death at the age of ninety-one, was in charge of us kids when it happened. I was one then, and my five-year-old brother, Daniel, had slipped through the large gate in the courtyard where we had an apartment. He went to the nearby small military base - just two blocks away - to play with 'his' soldiers. On earlier walks through the neighbourhood, he had found some friends there - soldiers in training, bored and in need of diversion even if it came from an energetic five-year-old.

On that fateful day in 1957, one of them put him on a horse-drawn bread wagon. As they were passing through the gate on a bumpy cobblestone road, Daniel leaned sideways and his head got stuck between the door post and the wagon. The horses kept going. He died on the way to hospital - a son lost to parents who adored him, and an older brother that I would never know.

Aunt Milica should have watched him. But she didn't. She let him slip out, she didn't look for him, and he was killed. But my parents never told me that she was partly responsible.

'Should I have told you?' my mother [asked].

'Most people would,' I thought. When terrible things happen, people find someone to blame even when there's no one to blame. Somebody must be at fault, they think, and they go on to make the first plausible candidate into a culprit. Aunt Milica was to be blamed. Yet neither of my parents blamed her in front of their own children. Aunt Milica, the guilty one, remained my untainted angel. This mother of mine...is a saint. [She] had buried four of her six children - three died in her own womb, and the fourth was killed because those in charge were irresponsible and stupidly careless. My mother's pain was immeasurable, and it did not go away even half a century later. She would talk of Daniel's death on occasions, always mentioning with deep sadness that the night before he was killed, Daniel had asked to sleep in her bed. He slept restlessly, and she slept lightly, even when she was exhausted by factory work, so she denied him what was to be his last wish.

The pain of the terrible loss still lingers on, but bitterness and resentment against those who were responsible are gone. It was healed at the foot of the cross as my mother gazed on the Son who was killed and reflected about the God who forgave. Aunt Milica was forgiven, and there was no more talk of her guilt, not even talk of her having been guilty. As far as I was concerned, she was innocent.

But my parents did speak often of forgiveness in relation to Daniel’s death. In fact, the first lesson in forgiveness I remember lay in the story of how they forgave the soldier who was the main culprit. ‘The Word of God tells us to forgive as God in Christ has forgiven us,’ said my parents, ‘and so we decided to forgive.’ The soldier felt terrible, so terrible in fact that he had to be admitted to the hospital. My father, with a wound in his heart that would never quite heal, went to visit him, to comfort the one whose carelessness had caused him so much grief, and tell him that my mother and he forgave him.

In the courtroom too, my father insisted that he and my mother, who was too brokenhearted to take part in the hearing, had forgiven. They wouldn’t press charges, he said. Why should one more mother be plunged into grief, this time because the life of her son, a good boy but careless in a crucial moment, was ruined by the hands of justice. After the soldier was discharged from the army and went home unpunished, my father visited him even though it took him two days to make the trip. He was concerned for the soldier and wanted to talk to him once more of God’s love, which is greater than our accusing hearts, and of my parents’ forgiveness.
The reason why my parents forgave was simple. God forgave them, and so they forgave the soldier. But the forgiveness itself was difficult, and for my mother, excruciatingly painful. I will revisit the pain of my mother’s forgiveness [later]. My father never talked about how it felt forgiving a person who killed his boy; he never talked much about how anything felt, though he was a deeply sensitive man. But that forgiveness must have cost him a great deal too, possibly no less than it cost my mother.