Forgiveness has been making a lot of headlines lately, at least it seems to me.
Pope Francis asked for forgiveness for the evil committed by priests who molested children (for more insight, see George Conger's post Wednesday). A Louisiana congressman who campaigned on a Christian family values platform requested forgiveness for an extramarital affair.
In Texas, a Fort Worth Star-Telegram columnist found "one of the most moving accounts of forgiveness" ever involving a severely wounded victim of the 2009 Fort Hood shooting rampage. In California, the Contra Costa Times reported on the "power of forgiveness" by a burned Oakland teen's mother.
But I wanted to call special attention to two recent stories on forgiveness.
The first appeared in The Tennessean newspaper and reported on a "lesson in forgiveness" taught by former hostage Terry Waite:
Chained to a basement wall for five years, his only measure of time a mosque's blaring calls to prayer, Terry Waite didn't feel particularly close to God.
He'd been kidnapped in 1987, an Anglican envoy and hostage negotiator now himself in need of aid after associates of the Islamic militant group Hezbollah snatched him. His disappearance made daily international news for weeks, then occasionally for years, the irresistible story of a father, peacemaker and man of God whose life was shattered trying to save others.
Every day, as Waite's muscles deteriorated and his skin grew whiter, he took a piece of bread he'd saved from scant meals, dipped it water and experienced a true communion, mentally traveling to his home country of England, or to Africa, uniting with the worldwide fellowship he'd known. And he said a prayer from his youth that had exceptional meaning now: "Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord …"
He's not a "happy-clappy" Christian, he told a crowd of local pastors and students at a Lipscomb University question-and-answer session this month. And being starved and beaten in that basement, he felt isolated and alone. But faith isn't dependent on how one is feeling, and Waite never lost it.
Perhaps he's not happy-clappy, but Waite's story of forgiveness and his dry wit — he chuckles recounting how he once mistook a Ugandan carjacker for a parking attendant — is resonating with a generation of students who'd never heard of him before.
Read on, and there's this compelling anecdote:
That Waite could forgive his captors and return to Beirut is incredible, said Kevin Sanders, a Lipscomb student and soldier who fought in the Middle East. Sanders stood up during that Q-and-A with Waite, his voice shaking ever so slightly. "The people in the Middle East — to go back and look them in the eye and forgive them for what they did to you, I wanted to let you know that inspires me," he told Waite.
In my view, The Tennessean story — at roughly 800 words — was much too short. I found myself at the end much sooner than I would have liked. Still, the piece presented a poignant portrait of Waite and the concept of forgiveness.
On the other hand, the second story I'd like to highlight did not suffer from a space limitation, running close to 2,000 words. In fact, the in-depth report by the CNN Belief Blog is truly exceptional. Given the byline — Tim Townsend, the former St. Louis Post-Dispatch Godbeat pro — that's probably no surprise.
"Forgiving the unforgivable in Rwanda" is the title of Townsend's piece.
Forgive me for feeling compelled to copy and paste such a big chunk of the opening:
(CNN) – When the killing began in earnest, Steven Gahigi fled his home in the Bugesera district of Rwanda to neighboring Burundi.
By the time he returned the next year, 52 members of his family were dead. Most of them, including his sister, were slaughtered in the first week of the 20th century’s final genocide.
This week, Rwanda began commemorating the 20 years that have passed since the mass murder of Tutsis and moderate Hutus, which continued for 100 days and left at least 800,000 dead.
Gathering in a packed soccer stadium in Kigali, Rwandans re-enacted the horrific events of 1994. President Paul Kagame said his country had “a reason to celebrate the normal moments of life, that are easy for others to take for granted."
When Gahigi returned to Rwanda after the genocide, he had nothing: no family, no home. Eventually, he moved past his anger and entered a Christian seminary.
In 1999, he began visiting Rilima Prison in Bugesera, the new home to thousands of the génocidaires, the men who wielded the machetes. In Rilima he met the band of 15 who killed his sister.
At first, the prisoners thought he had been sent by the government – a spy in a clerical collar – to investigate their crimes. Even when they were satisfied that Gahigi wasn’t a spy, they were skeptical of his motives. Why would this man come to their prison to preach when he knew what they had done?
But one of Gahigi’s messages resonated: It was possible for perpetrators to be forgiven. More génocidaires began attending his teachings, including the band of 15. He became their pastor.
In this piece, Townsend captures the full extent of the human drama while providing deep religious insight. It's one of those stories that's much easier to recommend than adequately describe.
By all means, go ahead and read the rest of it.