Scripture Reading for Today:

Seventy-Seven

by Amanda Le Blanc

Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?” Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.”

Matthew 18:21-22

There is a big difference between a paper cut and a stab wound. Though some might argue that a papercut hurts much more, it heals quickly, and soon you forget all about it. It was just a little cut and, after all, the paper didn’t mean to hurt you. Stab wounds, on the other hand, are rarely accidental. They can take months to heal, carry a risk of infection, and can leave you with painful, lifelong scar tissue. The added intention makes for deep physical and emotional wounds, some of which never fully heal. Though most of us have (hopefully) never experienced this, many of us can probably think of a time in our lives when this would make a fitting metaphor. I am, unfortunately,  one of those people. Many years ago, I was deeply wounded by people who, at the time, I trusted unquestioningly. These were faithful Christians who I saw as the perfect example of God’s love and truth on earth. I remember being in shock. Why is this happening? How could they do this? Without any satisfactory answers, I was left feeling confused, exposed, and utterly alone. 

During this season, I found myself at Church, where at the time they were talking about forgiveness, of all things. One morning, the pastor was focusing specifically on the discussion between Peter and Jesus in Matthew 18. Peter is asking Jesus how many times he has to forgive someone, specifically relating to repeat offenders, and asks if seven times is enough. Seeing as it’s the number of completion, it’s pretty easy to guess how he got there. Rather than affirming his cleverness, Jesus gives this seemingly arbitrary answer: seventy-seven. And that's just in the NIV. In other translations, like the KJV, he says “seventy times seven”, bringing it to a whopping four hundred and ninety times. Really Jesus? 

The pastor, sharing his thoughts, called it hyperbole, saying that the point Jesus was making was that forgiveness was meant to be a limitless transaction. Forgive, and forgive, and forgive again. I’m sure this would sound heartwarming and even helpful to someone who wasn’t currently bleeding out from a deep wound of betrayal. 

I was ticked. 

It’s not like I hadn’t tried to get over it. I would lay awake at night trying to understand it, trying to let it go, trying not to think about it. Trying, trying, trying. One day I would say it was fine, and the next I would find myself back at square one, somehow angrier than before. When the sermon was finished, I was ready to boil over. I wasn’t about to pour my heart out to some pastor with a pat answer, so I went home and did what I usually do when I have enough pent-up emotions to power a small country: I made some art. 

I didn’t even know what I was going for at the time, I was just angry. Angry at God, angry at the people who hurt me, and angry at the pastor who had dropped that lovely little truth bomb into my unopened hands. What I ended up with was a piece that felt disorganized, chaotic, dark…and honest. I felt better. Not “healed” but “heard”. The God I was angry with had met me in my anger, inviting me to grieve the pain I had experienced, and even grieving with me. The art had helped me see that this was something that I would be processing for a long time. This wasn’t going to go away overnight, and I may need to make seventy-seven more art pieces. 

In preparation for this reflection, I decided to revisit this piece, remaking it to see what wisdom it would offer me. Practically speaking, this was not an easy process. There are layers and layers of rejects underneath the final iteration you see here, a struggle that reminded me a lot of my earlier bouts with forgiveness. Something I noticed in the last layer was how some areas of the piece ended up feeling like bowels, with all their kinks and twists. The little numbers travel along inside this strange organic maze until they are finally released in a mess of emotion.

As I remade this piece, I was reminded once again that I do still feel that pain. It’s not as intense as the initial stab wound, but I am beginning to realize that it may very well stay with me for the rest of my life, much like unbroken scar tissue. While Peter may have been asking about repeat offences, I’m learning that even one hurt can be enough to last a lifetime – and that sometimes forgiveness is a lifelong journey far beyond the seventy-seventh fence post. Though that’s not necessarily an encouraging thought, it has helped me learn to be patient with myself when I feel the wound pang and my emotions flare up. It has also helped me see the value in community. No one can process my pain for me, but I know I cannot work through my grief without help, a tricky thing to ask for when trust has been broken. 

As I write this, I keep coming back to the deep hurt many of us are processing over the recent news of pastoral abuse by church leaders, specifically in Canada, faithful Christians who were meant to be an example of God’s love and truth on earth. For so many of us, these are deep personal wounds, and some of us will carry them for the rest of our lives. Seasons like Advent and Christmas become reminders of the betrayal of those trusted few who used to lead us through these rhythms. We find ourselves asking the same questions over and over again. Why did this happen? How could they do this? Without any satisfactory answers, it is easy to be left feeling confused, exposed, and utterly alone. 

When I find myself feeling those raw emotions again as I reflect on my time at The Meeting House, I am comforted in remembering all of the people who are feeling these things with me. I have found great solace in being part of those communal conversations where my anger and my questions are welcomed and reciprocated. As with my artmaking experience, I leave those times feeling better. Not “healed” but “heard”, as I am enfolded by those who welcome my grief and grieve with me. 

My deep hope for you this Advent season is that you will find those who you can gather with who know your story and will bear those burdens alongside you. As you walk with your community of fellow travellers, I pray that you can find a measure of peace this season as we all continue on this lifelong journey of forgiveness, far beyond the seventy-seventh fence post. 

______

Postscript: While editing this and checking some dates, I realized it's actually been seven years since I made the first piece. God is so weird. 

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