Here's an excerpt from Jose Granados' article from Communio entitled, "Risen Time: Easter as the Source of History":
Forgiveness is an example of this possibility to extend the significance of an event retroactively. Let us note that forgiveness cannot be the mere expunging of the traces of an evil committed. Since a person's past belongs to his identity, sheer forgetfulness would destroy both the evil and the person who committed it. What is required of forgiveness is that it reshape the past, transforming it in goodness and incorporating it into a different narrative of the person's life. To forgive is to untie the bonds of the past and to liberate the person toward a new future. In order for this operation to be possible one must assume the existence of a past that is more original than the past of the evil committed, a source that the evil act was unable to touch and from which regeneration is possible. We are able to forgive a friend because we remember an initial goodness that opened up in our relationship with him, and we judge that this goodness does much deeper than the offense he has committed against us. The difficulty of forgiveness grows with the depth of the offense and it decreases with the solidity of the perception of this original goodness. This goodness, in its turn, is deep enough only because it is tied to the transcendent origin of the other person's foundation in God. Memory, then, is connected to our coming from God, to our being his children. This link of memory with filiation is at the roots of the possibility of our forgiving.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Spirituality of the Seasons IV: Summer
Summer
Summer is the season of deep contentedness and confidence. The greenest season, where grace, not as flashy as spring, is a deep constant. Like trees whose brilliant spring colors have faded, so too does the immediate explosion of new graces seem to fade from our lives. But what replaces the colorful display is something deeper, something rooted, something strong, something healthy.
Unlike the fragile glory of springtime colors, the simple greenness of summer reveals the strength and confidence of a life deeply connected to its source of being. Like a tall tree, draped in a garment of rich green leaves, whose roots are continually and confidently fed by the underground waters, so too do our souls drink confidently from the springs of peace and truth, nourishing us and establishing us in grace.
Summer is a simple season-- the flashes of the sudden glories of spring and fall are not present. But the simplicity of summer is a simplicity of the deepest intimacy. We know and are known. We are fed by truth, comforted by peace, rooted in grace, corrected in love, and loved with strength.
Summer is the season of deep contentedness and confidence. The greenest season, where grace, not as flashy as spring, is a deep constant. Like trees whose brilliant spring colors have faded, so too does the immediate explosion of new graces seem to fade from our lives. But what replaces the colorful display is something deeper, something rooted, something strong, something healthy.
Unlike the fragile glory of springtime colors, the simple greenness of summer reveals the strength and confidence of a life deeply connected to its source of being. Like a tall tree, draped in a garment of rich green leaves, whose roots are continually and confidently fed by the underground waters, so too do our souls drink confidently from the springs of peace and truth, nourishing us and establishing us in grace.
Summer is a simple season-- the flashes of the sudden glories of spring and fall are not present. But the simplicity of summer is a simplicity of the deepest intimacy. We know and are known. We are fed by truth, comforted by peace, rooted in grace, corrected in love, and loved with strength.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Spirituality of the Seasons III: Spring
Spring
Spring is the season of exuberant celebration of new life and new hope. As winter loses its icy grip on the land and on our hearts, our naked selves are robed again in the finest of all vestments, weaved by the pierced hands that know the deepest pain of winter and the highest joy of spring. In spring we, like the land about us, receive a foretaste of Resurrection. Spring is the Eastertide of our souls as we burst forth from the crucifixion and the tomb of winter, stirred by the holy wind from heaven to new life.
In spring, the heavens are marvelously, gloriously, extravagantly open. Fresh rains water our souls, both washing away the barrenness of winter and bringing forward fresh fruit out of the moist soil of ourselves. Golden sunshine follows refreshing rain, warming our hearts with the intimate, tangible presence of the Holy One himself cradling us against his motherly bosom.
Spring is the season of an explosion of fruitfulness, of new life. In spring, our hope for redemption begins, only begins, to be realized in an extravagant way with an explosion of triumphs, of new growths, of new beginnings. Spring is the season given to celebration of the eruption of new joy, new hope and new and fragile glory.
In spring, the heavens are marvelously, gloriously, extravagantly open. Fresh rains water our souls, both washing away the barrenness of winter and bringing forward fresh fruit out of the moist soil of ourselves. Golden sunshine follows refreshing rain, warming our hearts with the intimate, tangible presence of the Holy One himself cradling us against his motherly bosom.
Spring is the season of an explosion of fruitfulness, of new life. In spring, our hope for redemption begins, only begins, to be realized in an extravagant way with an explosion of triumphs, of new growths, of new beginnings. Spring is the season given to celebration of the eruption of new joy, new hope and new and fragile glory.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Spirituality of the Seasons II: Winter
Winter
Winter is the season of barrenness. We stand, like the denuded branches of the trees, stripped of our coverings and exposed to the harsh winds of frigid and aridness northernness. Barren, we become strangers even to ourselves. Our imperfections, now exposed and visible to the world, seem to become the whole of our identity. Lost in a world of monochromatic silence, like the silence of a snowy day abandoned by all of humanity, we perceive that we stand alone in the elements that batter us-- the snow, the ice, the howling wind.
No voice speaks from on-high in winter. The heavens seem shut except for the falling snow and the icy gusts of wind. And so we retreat deep inside ourselves, like the trees whose bruised and battered trunks still harbor green life within them. We retreat into ourselves, retreating in hope and not in despair, retreating in order to fortify ourselves against the elements that lash about us in our lonely, empty solitude. We fortify ourselves to wait. To wait, even in seeming abandonment, to wait in hope for the redemption of our bodies. This is the true grace of winter: like trees long exposed to the harsh winter winds, we become strong and sturdy in the hope of spring.
Winter is the season of barrenness. We stand, like the denuded branches of the trees, stripped of our coverings and exposed to the harsh winds of frigid and aridness northernness. Barren, we become strangers even to ourselves. Our imperfections, now exposed and visible to the world, seem to become the whole of our identity. Lost in a world of monochromatic silence, like the silence of a snowy day abandoned by all of humanity, we perceive that we stand alone in the elements that batter us-- the snow, the ice, the howling wind.
No voice speaks from on-high in winter. The heavens seem shut except for the falling snow and the icy gusts of wind. And so we retreat deep inside ourselves, like the trees whose bruised and battered trunks still harbor green life within them. We retreat into ourselves, retreating in hope and not in despair, retreating in order to fortify ourselves against the elements that lash about us in our lonely, empty solitude. We fortify ourselves to wait. To wait, even in seeming abandonment, to wait in hope for the redemption of our bodies. This is the true grace of winter: like trees long exposed to the harsh winter winds, we become strong and sturdy in the hope of spring.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Spirituality of the Seasons 1: Fall
If there is a geography to redemption (mountains and valleys, rivers and deserts) then certainly there is a spirituality to the seasons of the year. The rhythms of the year: fading, death, new life and thriving life are all rhythms that we experience in our living out of relation with the Father through Jesus Christ in the Spirit. As you read these brief meditations on the seasons, I pray that you identify with one of them and can prayerfully discover the grace of God present with you. May you be filled with hope in the goodness, the grace and the provision of God in every season.
***
Fall
Fall is a season of contrasts: it is a journey from the sudden beauty of the rich tapestry of colors in October to the slow decay of leaves and the melancholy charcoal sky of November:
As trees burst into a symphony of flaming colors, an image of the transcendently divine one present with us in the midst of arboreal beauty, so too do our hearts flame with a seasoned and tempered exaltation, a rally of worship before the slow retreat back into ourselves for winter.
As leaves fall and the sky grows dark with the onset of the chill air, so too do our hearts settle into a quiet melancholy of the disrobing process: as the trees are disrobed of their flaming leaves, so are our hearts, spirits and personalities disrobed of their own coverings. In late fall, we become vulnerable as our coverings, our defenses, and even our glories slowly slide away from us, exposing us to that first icy breath of winter.
In both of these moments, the sudden glory and the slow disrobing, we long for something nameless, something mysterious and transcendent. We long for home-- the fire on the hearth, the aromas of the kitchen, the comfort of warm slippers. We long for the safe and secure coverings of our leaves. Yet we realize that “home” has itself become something transcendent, something put off. And we desire that coming home with a hunger that carries us through the long nights of cold winter.
***
Fall is a season of contrasts: it is a journey from the sudden beauty of the rich tapestry of colors in October to the slow decay of leaves and the melancholy charcoal sky of November:
As trees burst into a symphony of flaming colors, an image of the transcendently divine one present with us in the midst of arboreal beauty, so too do our hearts flame with a seasoned and tempered exaltation, a rally of worship before the slow retreat back into ourselves for winter.
As leaves fall and the sky grows dark with the onset of the chill air, so too do our hearts settle into a quiet melancholy of the disrobing process: as the trees are disrobed of their flaming leaves, so are our hearts, spirits and personalities disrobed of their own coverings. In late fall, we become vulnerable as our coverings, our defenses, and even our glories slowly slide away from us, exposing us to that first icy breath of winter.
In both of these moments, the sudden glory and the slow disrobing, we long for something nameless, something mysterious and transcendent. We long for home-- the fire on the hearth, the aromas of the kitchen, the comfort of warm slippers. We long for the safe and secure coverings of our leaves. Yet we realize that “home” has itself become something transcendent, something put off. And we desire that coming home with a hunger that carries us through the long nights of cold winter.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
I tried to hold you but you'd rather hold your grudge
Some days open on hope; other days open on tragedy and sorrow. I wish this brokenness would go away; that somehow the story of Ezekiel's valley of dry bones would become my story. My world is a lie that's come true. Because of that, hard choices are ever before me: fight or surrender, persevere or release, argue or be silent. There are no easy answers in a world that is a lie.
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