You shall not curse the deaf,Of all the instructions in today's reading—on honesty and righteousness—this stands out, I think because it seems to be protective of the defenseless. Why on earth would you curse the deaf, anyway? Seems like a mockery, in addition to the sin that is the actual curse. And putting a stumbling block in front of the blind—that's just cruel. I like this sense of calling out sins against the defenseless, in particular.
or put a stumbling block in front of the blind
But this one resonates for today, as much as I regret that it does:
“You shall not bear hatred for your brother in your heart.There are times when anger is justified. But I've found that allowing my heart to "hate" (or allowing anger to take hold) usually hurts me worse than the person I'm hating on. (Reminds me of one of my favorite aphorisms: Not forgiving is like drinking rat poison and expecting the rat to die.) Today I struggled with frustration with someone, and I thought hard about how to address the problem constructively rather than either just complain behind the person's back or lash out. (I deleted three emails that were angrier than I wanted.) I can't say I was at my best (definitely spent a bit of time venting about it), but I have been reflecting on better ways of handling what did feel like righteous indignation. In general, I need to handle what I can handle and try to leave the rest behind. The "sins" of others shouldn't be my excuse to sin myself.
Though you may have to reprove him,
do not incur sin because of him.
From Matthew:
Whatever you didThat's a good one, too.
for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me.
Megan, your blog is helping me focus on Lent in a way that I haven't in a long time. Thank you so much! This post in particular resonates with me--anger is such a struggle. Very much related to this topic, I have this poem posted on the wall next to my desk--you may like it, too:
ReplyDeleteA Walk to Sope Creek
Sometimes when I've made the mistake of anger, which sometimes
breeds the mistake of cruelty, I walk
down the rocky slope above the ruined mill on Sope Creek
where sweet gum and hickory weave sunlight
into gauzy screens. And sometimes when I've made the mistake
of cruelty, which always breeds grief,
I remember how, years ago, my uncle led me, a boy,
into a thicket of pines and taught me to pray
beside a white stone, the way a man had taught him, a boy,
to pray behind a clapboard church.
Sometimes when I'm as mean as a stone, I weave
between trees above that crumbling mill
and stumble through those threaded screens of light,
the way anger must fall
through many stages of remorse.
Any rock, he allowed, can be an altar.
David Bottoms
The Southern Review
Autumn 2010