Author and Inspired Writer

There is in me a tendency towards leniency when reviewing an author’s first book, even more so if it’s a memoir. The author takes her first tentative steps into the murky waters of public exposure hoping for warm approval, and I am loathe to dump an ice bucket over her head.

However, all that goes out the window when the author identifies herself as a prophet. Leniency is not called for under those circumstances, but rather a vigorous and critical review of her work, and possibly a recommendation the author seek some intense therapy.

The subtitle of Connie Tuttle’s book, A Gracious Heresy reads “The Queer Calling of an Unlikely Prophet,” and I’ll admit I was wary. But I determined to consider the book, first for its literary merits, and then for its message, and see where that left me.

As to the first point, there is no doubt the woman can write. Her prose is fresh, compelling and always engaging. She moves from narrative to dialogue smoothly, never concentrating so much on one or the other that the reader gets bored. For a memoir, it moves at the brisk pace and covers a great deal of ground in a few pages. She generally handles moments of pathos and outrage with restraint, and more than once I found myself laughing out loud at the author’s wry sense of humour. The story of Tuttle’s life is an adventure story, and I confess I was irritated when I had to put the book down and return to the demands of everyday life. In short, Tuttle’s book is a great read.

But what about the message, yes? Even good writers can be completely deluded. Is Connie Tuttle a prophet like she says she is?

I don’t think I’ve ever met a real prophet, so I don’t have that experience to draw from. But if I ever do, would she be any more persuasive than Reverend Tuttle? Would she show the same humility and uncertainty over her own inadequacies as she doggedly perseveres in responding to the insistent call of the Divine? Would she persist in the face of the most hateful opposition from those who call themselves Christian and counter with steadfast gentleness knowing hate comes from fear? Would she work tirelessly for justice for one of the most persecuted sectors of society today, the LGBTQ community, particularly as it pertains to full inclusion in Christian ministry, even if it meant she would be the solitary standard bearer at the beginning? I’m no expert in this area, but I have a strong suspicion Reverend Tuttle is, in fact, what she says she is.

Jesus said, “By their fruits ye shall know them,” and I cannot deny Reverend Tuttle’s message is bearing fruit in my own life. The Presbyterian Church in Canada has referred the question of the ordination of openly gay candidates to committee, and it’s likely it will be five years or more before a decision is reached. How blithely I received this news and how comfortably I’ve abided this injustice. A Gracious Heresy has reawakened in me an activist’s anger and put an end to my self-satisfied neutrality. I’m casting in my lot with Reverend Tuttle and all who, like her, recognise the Divine is doing “a new thing” in our time.

“Now it springs forth. Do you not perceive it?” (Isaiah 43:19)

Back in my Catholic days, when I was growing up, I developed a fascination with an enigmatic line from Scripture about something Jesus called “the unforgiveable sin” – a sin so bad it could never be forgiven by God. It meant a greased slide straight into Hell, no reprieve, no discussion, eternal torment. “Whatever could it be?” I asked myself, because I was thinking I’d really like to try to avoid that sin if I could. But Jesus is rather vague about it, and that’s surprising because you’d think he’d be quite specific about a sin that could keep his disciples out of heaven. He says that the unforgiveable sin is blaspheming the Holy Spirit, and that it will not be forgiven in this world or the next. That’s pretty serious. But what is it exactly? How do I blaspheme against the Holy Spirit, and why would I want to? It seems to me that sin should offer some sort of payoff, at least in the short term, to make it tempting. But blaspheming the Holy Spirit? There’s no percentage in that. It does me no good in the short term and a whole lot of bad in the long term.

The Roman Catholic Church has a list of what it considers unforgiveable or eternal sins, and one of them is despair, thinking our sin is too great for God to forgive. Thinking a sin is too great for God to forgive is unforgiveable? I mean no disrespect here, but I’m finding that kind of reasoning a bit circular. So, does that mean that if I say, “God, I don’t think even You can forgive what I’ve done,” God would say, “Well, I was going to forgive that sin, but since you don’t think I can, I’m not going to. Ever. Take that!” That doesn’t sound like God to me, the All Merciful God. That doesn’t even sound like sin to me, but rather confusion or scrupulosity, needing some teaching or some guidance, not eternal condemnation.

Another on the list of unforgiveable sins is envying the goodness of others. Oh my Lord! I do that all the time! And that’s serious enough to keep me out of heaven?

With all due respect, I don’t think despair or envy would condemn us forever. I think every sin is repentable, except for one, and surprisingly that sin’s not on the list. I think there is a sin we can carry from this world into the next, a sin that can’t be forgiven because we will not repent of it, and we won’t repent of it because we don’t want to repent of it. I believe the unforgiveable sin is unforgiveness. And that’s how we blaspheme the Holy Spirit.

This sin is eternal. Jesus said whatever we bind on earth is bound in Heaven and whatever we loose on earth is loosed in Heaven. It’s interesting Jesus says that, and then goes right into his teaching on forgiveness, the seventy times seven, and the unmerciful servant, which makes me think when he’s talking about binding and loosing, he’s talking about forgiveness and urging us to forgive others now, while we have the chance, because not to do so will have eternal consequences…for us.

The parable we heard this morning about the unmerciful servant is, in my opinion, the scariest parable in all the gospels. “Should you not have had mercy on your fellow slave, as I had mercy on you?” And in anger his lord handed him over to be tortured until he would pay his entire debt. So my heavenly Father will also do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother or sister from your heart.” Holy moley! If we do not forgive others, God won’t forgive us? And just how did we get into this little predicament in the first place?

Well, it appears we made a contract with God about forgiveness, and we renew that contract every Sunday, every time we pray The Lord’s Prayer and we sing, “Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.” And although it’s not in the original, at St. Andrew’s in the Burg we sing that last part again just for emphasis – “as we forgive our debtors.” We bind ourselves to this contract on earth, and guess what? It’s binding in heaven. Someone said that during the Communion Service, we should catch our breath when we hear the words, “This is My Body. This is My Blood.” Yes, I believe we should, but maybe we should also take a deep breath and think long and hard before taking those fearsome words on our lips – forgive me ONLY in as far as I forgive those who hurt me. And if I don’t forgive them, don’t forgive me. I’ll take the consequences.” Sometimes I think we should just hum through those lines in The Lord’s Prayer if we aren’t serious about them, if we don’t really mean what we’re saying, because God is listening and God is serious about them.

What does this kind of forgiveness look like, and why is it so important to Jesus, and so important to our eternal destiny? Rev. Robert Thompson says this in his book, A Voluptuous God. “People often speak about heaven as the place where they will be reunited with deceased loved ones. Believers in heaven assume that when they arrive there, they will see the people they have known and loved on earth. But the heaven to which Jesus points is a place where we are reunited with strangers and betrayers as well as with loved ones.”

Reunited with our betrayers? That’s Heaven? Apparently so. And if we’re not ready to share our heaven with our betrayers, if we come to Heaven with our hearts still full of resentment and rage, how can we expect to be welcomed by the One who died begging forgiveness for those who were torturing him to death? There’s no room for unforgiveness in heaven. We’ve got to get rid of it here.

But why do we have to be the ones to do the heavy lifting? We were sinned against! We’re the wounded party! I heard someone say that no one is ever 100% innocent in any altercation, but that’s just wrong. There are times when we did nothing to deserve the pain that was inflicted on us. So why do we have to forgive? Why does Jesus want to add to the pain and suffering we’ve already gone through by commanding us to forgive our betrayers?

In fact, it’s just the opposite.

Forgiving is the only way Jesus offers us to heal from what was done to us, to free ourselves from the pain and the burden of our past so we can reach out for new life, even that “life in abundance” that Christ promises us.

A couple of years ago, three young women were liberated from a house in Cleveland where they had been held captive for ten years and subjected to the most horrific abuse. At a workshop where Carolyn Myss, a well-known spiritual director was speaking on the necessity of forgiveness, one of the attendees asked her, “Would you tell those three women that they had to forgive their abuser, after everything he did to them for over a decade?” And Carolyn answered, “No. I would never tell them they had to forgive him. But I would ask them this – what’s the alternative?” Continue the hate, the rage, the resentment, the bitterness? This man had already taken ten years of their lives! They deserve to live the rest of their lives in healing and freedom and peace. And that can only be done through forgiveness.

So how? How do we forgive?

First, let’s admit that forgiving is one of the hardest things we will ever have to do in this life, and the deeper the hurt, the harder and the longer it will take to forgive. We need God’s grace to get there. And let’s also remember that a prayer for grace is a prayer answered.
Next, understand that forgiveness is not condoning what was done to us. When we come to forgive, we must first acknowledge that we were hurt and that we’re angry. We must be honest about how we feel. Not to be so is simply denial. So we don’t condone and we don’t deny what was done to us. We acknowledge our hurt and our anger, but then we choose not to seek revenge by our actions. However, we must also refuse to take mental revenge on our betrayers, and that’s much harder to do because it feels so good to wish them some evil, to hope that they will fall from grace, preferably publically, or get into some sort of trouble, and oh! the fantasies that we can generate in our minds of how these people who have sinned against us will finally get what they deserve and know what it feels like to be hurt the way they hurt us. Yes, that does feel good. But we’ve got to let it go, because directing that kind of ill will towards our betrayers draws so much energy away from the rest of our lives where we need it for our health, our peace of mind, our happiness and our ability to accomplish our purpose in life. Whatever our purpose in life is, it’s not to drag around all the hurt and pain from every day of our existence and then still not make it to heaven because we will not forgive. Doesn’t that sound like Hell to you? Doesn’t that sound like eternal torment? This may be heresy, but I don’t think God sends anybody to Hell. I think we choose it ourselves. I think we knowingly and willingly give up heaven by refusing to forgive those who have hurt us and refusing to share eternity with them. And that’s our right, free will and all that. God will respect it.

But here’s the kicker. Just because we don’t forgive someone, doesn’t mean that God won’t. If, when our betrayer comes before God, they have forgiven all those who hurt them in their lives, and have repented their sin, they could walk right past us into heaven, and we’d be stuck outside. See, the contract isn’t forgive them as we forgive them, but forgive us as we forgive them.

I’m no theologian, so I do know all there is to know about Hell, but I can’t imagine it as a place of fire and pitchforks. Rather, I see it as a cold, dark place, where we are left alone with all our painful memories that we carried all through our lives. We still have our hatred of our betrayers, and maybe there’s some comfort in that, but that is all we’ll ever have forever. To be broken with no chance to heal. That, to me, is Hell.

You know what would be helpful is if there was an account in Scripture where Jesus forgave Judas, his betrayer. Because if Jesus didn’t forgive Judas, we don’t have to do any of this stuff. If Jesus didn’t forgive Judas, all that talk about forgive seventy times seven, and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors, that’s just a lot of hot air. And Christianity is a farce.
Jesus forgave Peter – the threefold affirmation of love by a charcoal fire to cancel out the threefold denial also by a charcoal fire in John’s gospel. And while Jesus doesn’t verbally forgive the other apostles for their abandonment of him in his hour of need, at least he doesn’t bring it up when they’re together again after the resurrection.

But of Judas not a forgiving word is said, and that’s interesting because Judas is the only apostle who repented his betrayal. That’s the word Scripture uses in the King James Version – repented. And he says to the chief priests, “I have betrayed innocent blood.” He confessed his sin. None of the other apostles confessed. And he tried to give back the money, tried to stop the events he had put into motion. But it was too late. He died later that night, and he died unforgiven by Christ.

Well, that would be a lot to forgive. But I think Jesus loved Judas as much as he loved any of the apostles and maybe more, and that’s why the betrayal hurt so much. We need a scene where Jesus forgives Judas, but it’s not in the Bible.

However, there is this strange line in the Apostle’s Creed. I know Pastor Tim spoke to you not long ago about the significance of the line “Jesus descended to the dead,” but in the original version the line reads, “[Jesus] was crucified, dead and buried. He descended into Hell.” I’ve always been fascinated by the implications of that line. What the heck was Jesus doing in Hell, and for three days? There’s been a lot of theology written about this, lots of scholars with lots of opinions, but of course no one knows for sure. However, I have a theory – what if Jesus descended into Hell to find Judas? I think Judas chose Hell, not because he wouldn’t forgive, but because he could not bear Heaven, could not face God after what he had done to God’s Son. And maybe it took Jesus three days to forgive Judas for the way he betrayed his trust and broke his heart, but when Jesus was finally ready, he went looking for his friend and found him in the coldest, darkest corner of Hell, alone with his shame and remorse, and he said, “Brother, you don’t belong here. I’m ready now to share my Heaven with you. Give me your hand. It’s time to go home.”

No, Scripture doesn’t give us that scene, but poetry does, and I’m going to close with this, a few verses from the poem “The Ballad of Judas Iscariot,” by Robert Buchanan, a 19th century poet. The poem is quoted in the book I mentioned earlier, A Voluptuous God by Robert Thompson and he sets up the poem like this: “At last, in a nameless region of darkness, ice and snow, the soul of Judas sees a lighted hall and the shadows of people moving within. He…runs back and forth outside the windows. Judas does not know it, but inside Jesus is sitting at his table with guests. Buchanan’s poem continues:

“Oh, who is that,” the Bridegroom said,
“Whose weary feet I hear?”
[Then] one look’d from the lighted hall,
And answered soft and low,
“It is a wolf runs up and down
With a black track in the snow.”

The Bridegroom in his robe of white
Sat at the table-head –
“Oh, who is that who moans without?”
The blessed Bridegroom said.

[Then] one looked from the lighted hall,
And answered fierce and low,
“Tis the soul of Judas Iscariot
Gliding to and fro.”

[Then] the soul of Judas Iscariot
Did hush itself and stand,
And saw the Bridegroom at the door
With a light in his hand.

The Bridegroom stood in the open door,
And he was clad in white,
And far within the Lord’s Supper
Was spread so broad and bright.

The Bridegroom shaded his eyes and look’d,
And his face was bright to see –
“What doest thou here at the Lord’s Supper
With thy body’s sins?” said he.

[Then] the soul of Judas Iscariot
Stood black, and sad, and bare –
“I have wandered many nights and days;
There is no light elsewhere.”

[Then] the wedding guests cried out within
And their eyes were fierce and bright –
“Scourge the soul of Judas Iscariot
Away into the night!”

[But] the Bridegroom stood at the open door,
And beckon’d, smiling sweet;
[Then] the soul of Judas Iscariot
Stole in, and fell at his feet.

“The Holy Supper is spread within,
And the many candles shine,
And I have waited long for thee
Before I poured the wine!”

Let’s bow in prayer…

[PS – Certain words in the poem were changed from the original for the sake of clarity.]

It doesn’t last.

That giddy joy I experienced my first day in the garden? It was gone the next day. In its place was a contented serenity and an eagerness to get back to my simple work of washing tiles, drying tiles, and packing tiles. In two books I was reading at the time and am still reading, the authors warned not to try to prolong a spiritual consolation or bring it back when it’s gone, as this would turn the gift into something artificial and can even be the beginning of an addiction to spiritual highs. It reminded me of the story in Exodus when the Israelites were saved from starvation by the appearance of manna, the miraculous bread of heaven. The people were directed to harvest it every day and not to horde for the next, but some did and it turned wormy and inedible. That’s not how this deal works, apparently. And I find that difficult as I seek security in “putting things by.” But recently, a still small voice in my heart keeps saying, “Keep your hands open – no grasping, no clinging.” Just an openness, as Tosha Silver says, to let whatever wants to go, go, and whatever wants to come, come.

The Mister looked thoughtful the next morning when I told him all this.

“Are you still going to need to hug me at various times during the day?” he asked.

“Oh, you betcha!” I replied.

“Good!” he said standing, straightening his clothes and holding out his arms. “Proceed!”

One of the books is by Joyce Rupp, called Walk in a Relaxed Manner: Life Lessons from the Camino. It’s about her pilgrimage along the El Camino in Spain, a 37 day, nearly 500 mile excursion. I didn’t think I’d enjoy the book at first, but it became a kind of conduit of uncannily timed answers, advice and encouragement for my own pilgrimage in the garden. For instance, when I decided to take on this project of dismantling the grotto, I wondered when I’d find time to write. That afternoon, as I started into her book, I read that she resigned herself to the unavoidable truth that sometimes in life we must sacrifice one good for another, and in this instance her sacrifice was, you guessed it, writing. It was such a great relief to say, “For the next ten days, I’m putting writing aside to work in the garden.” There was no guilt about setting my mind and heart on a work that was not writing-related. To my bemusement on day six, I think it was, I woke up with a short piece of fiction almost completely written in my head, and actually found time that day (though I wasn’t looking for it) to write it down! And this burst of creativity is continuing – so yay!

Each succeeding day, Joyce had something to say about what I had experienced that morning. When I came in on the second day, footsore and weary, I read her comments on how unfriendly we are towards our bodies, especially our feet, how we demand so much but give so little. Thereafter, I toasted my tootsies in an Epsom salt bath whenever I could followed by a loving massage with Burts Bees Coconut foot lotion. Ah! the luxury!

I found that whenever The Mister called me in for lunch, I was most reluctant to go. “I just have a few more tiles!” I’d plead like a little kid begging for five more minutes before bedtime. He’d say nothing but narrow his eyes and purse his lips. “Ooops! I know what that look means,” I’d mumble to myself and come in immediately. And Joyce constantly struggled with her competitive spirit to walk beyond the limit she and her companion had set for themselves or try to pass other pilgrims. She realized that for the sake of efficiency she could well miss the spiritual lessons that were waiting to reveal themselves to her along the road. Like her, I found it a great temptation to speed up and get more done, but with time and practise I was able to catch myself more often and remind myself of the real reason I was doing this work.

My labours in the garden and the insights of Joyce’s book came together in a rare, wonderful, unexpected melding of the physical and the spiritual that made every day of my short pilgrimage a lesson and an adventure. I am grateful beyond words for the whole exercise. Every lesson made me more willing to be taught, and every synchronicity prompted me to be ever more alert to the signs and little messages left along the way.