Making Room for Repentance

Someone asked me recently why it is so much easier to be vulnerable and honest at their Alcoholics Anonymous meeting than at church. It was a very good question to which I did not have a very good answer.

I suppose that we are reminded at church that God wants us to be better people, so we pretend that we are. God isn’t fooled, but we get so accustomed to the pretending that we manage to convince ourselves that we are better, stronger, and healthier than we really are.

Then Ash Wednesday and Lent come along. On Ash Wednesday, we are called to deep honesty. We are invited to accept ash crosses on our foreheads, deliberately smudging the faces that we show to the world. The ashes are meant to be a mark that we have faced our mortality and sinfulness and are willing to acknowledge both those realities to the world. It is an ancient and powerful symbol that we are answering the call of the Prophet Joel to rend our hearts and return to God. It is the mark of a “U-turn” in our lives.

Unfortunately, the trouble with putting the ashes on our foreheads is that, while they are a sign apparent to everyone else, we never see our own faces.

Have you ever gone to the grocery store or out to eat on Ash Wednesday and wondered why people are staring at you? We acknowledge our mortality, but then promptly forget that we have the mark of sin. We are honest for a moment, then quickly go back to our superficial pretending.

Our capacity to change directions, to grow, and to mature—our capacity to become something more than we are—is the good news of repentance that Jesus came preaching.

In Ann Lamott’s intriguing novel Crooked Little Heart, 13-year-old Rosie has been cheating on close line calls in order to win tennis matches. Rosie’s shame grows, but still she is unable to stop herself. She even hurts herself in a physical attempt to get her mother’s attention, but she is trapped by her compulsion to win.

In the story, there is an ominous man, an outcast named Luther, who comes to every tournament, watching her, but she knows he will not tell. Luther finally invites Rosie to move beyond her self-absorbed guilt with his own confession:

“I did what you did.”
“What do you mean?”
“I cheated.”

As her secret becomes visible to both of them, Rosie calls herself a cheater. “No,” Luther says, “you cheated.” Then he tells her that other people cheat, too. By doing that, he invites her into the company of flawed humans. He also gives her a way to claim her identity as one who can make different choices, who can tell the truth. He makes room for the good news of repentance.

Rosie begins to change, to be honest about her past. Ultimately, she is reprimanded by the sportsmanship committee, but they allow her to continue playing. In the final game, she overcompensates, not calling points out because she wants to avoid the appearance of cheating. Then she finds the courage to call a long shot correctly and honestly. At that moment Luther stands up to leave. “Aren’t you going to stay and watch Rosie win?” her mother asks. “I already have,” he says.

by Michael Piazza
Center for Progressive Renewal