I was going one way… and then one day
I went another—it feels like the start to so many good stories. The villain
turned hero—the nobody made extraordinary—it’s all so familiar, but would we
accept it if it were part of our story? Would we accept Saul as Paul?
Saul was breathing death against the
early followers of Jesus. There’s this great choral piece by Z. Randall Stroope
called The Conversion of Saul that
begins with a minute-and-a-half of Latin cursing: Caedite, Vexate, Ligate
Vinculis—Kill, Molest, Bind With Chains. When we talk about the story of Paul
we have to begin with the story of Saul, and this story is a tougher one than
we often give it credit, because would you accept Saul as Paul if he killed
your son or daughter—if he was the one responsible for the death of somebody
you love?
This is one side of the “Scandal of
the Particular” (a phrase of Walter Breuggemann). Most of us love the
Saul-turned-Paul story in principle—in theory—but put yourself in the
particular shoes and if it’s your loved one who met their demise at the hands
of this man you might feel differently. Then, apply this to everything that
happens in this life: If somebody you love is murdered it doesn’t matter that
most people aren’t murdered; if somebody you love dies in war it doesn’t matter
that most people don’t die in wars; or in a traffic accident; or in a natural
disaster; or because of disease; or if you are born with a disability; or any
of the multitude things that most people do not face.
Statistics are not a comfort when
bad things happen and neither are they an assurance that we are safe, and yet,
on the other hand, the scandal of the particular is that we are met precisely
in the midst of those moments where despair creeps in by a God who promises to
be in the midst of suffering and death and loss and pain and grief because he
went there first. The scandal of the particular elevates Saul to Paul in spite
of our views of what is just, because the justice of God has a longer view of
the universe than our own.
Still, we are particular people
living particular lives, which means that we both have the capacity to hate
evil specifically and love what is good specifically. We have a hard time with
the Sauls of the world finding any kind of redemption when they hurt us so
deeply, and yet because of the specific pain we bear we know Jesus on a deeper
level. We are both more unwilling to forgive because we know the costs and more
understanding of redemption because we know we need it.
I can imagine Ananias, receiving the
orders to go to Saul and return his sight. It’s not as simple as going. I can
imagine what he had to wrestle with—not only the fear for his own life, which
would have been real. There is no guarantee here that Saul is not going to turn
around and react in anger to this whole episode; if that’s the case then
Ananias is going to his death here. But even more than that, I imagine the
internal struggle in Ananias—I imagine what it would be like for myself—because
who am I to go and heal this terrible man? Who am I to decide that he is worthy
of turning around and getting a second chance? Shouldn’t his victims decide?
Isn’t that justice? And then there is the scandal of the particular that those
folks who have lost someone that cannot be replaced—how can they ever be
redeemed by such a man as Saul—no matter the good he does thereafter?
These are difficult questions,
because our sense of justice is deeply personal and particular and also limited.
The only true justice is a complete reset, which just isn’t possible. I could
imagine that there were those even after Saul’s conversion who felt betrayed
that Ananias participated. We don’t hear their story, and the crazy thing is:
they aren’t wrong. Saul is not justified simply because he becomes Paul. He is
not saved by this conversion. If he were then the book of Romans would sound very different. No, Paul of all people
comes to understand the necessity of grace because of the scandal of the
particular, which means that he cannot of own effort ever makeup for killing a
single person, let alone many. There is no redemption apart from grace, because
there is no going back. The reason we need Paul is because we need to know that
grace is more powerful than our inability to forgive, and that it is more
powerful than our emotions or our sense of justice, and that it is more
powerful even than the hurts we carry with us because of the particular losses
we face.
In one of his essays, Wendell Berry
says, “To the claim that a certain drug or procedure would save 99 percent of
all cancer patients or that a certain pollutant would be safe for 99 percent of
a population, love, unembarrassed, would respond, ‘What about the one
percent?’”[1] This is the parable of the
lost sheep—it is the scandal of the particular. Berry goes on to share the
story of Carol, whose husband, John, was in intensive care after surgery.
“Wanting to reassure her, the nurse said, ‘Nothing is happening to him that doesn’t
happen to everybody.’ And Carol replied, ‘I’m not everybody’s wife.’”
Love often looks like this. It is a
scandal; it is a lack of objectivity; it is not thinking reasonably. It is also
all we have and the place where God meets us. So, weirdly, I am saying that
Saul is not worthy of forgiveness; Paul doesn’t justify himself by becoming a
new man. None of us do. The things we have done cannot be undone; it’s just as
we fear, as we know deep down in our hearts, and yet, this is where the power
of grief comes into play—it is the evidence of a world where love is still more
powerful than death. Grief is the proof that love is still working, even when death
states its claim that it is all there is.
So, Ananias may be shunned, Saul may
be condemned, and all of us can look at our past and understand how we cannot
go back and make things right. And yet—AND YET—the scandal of the particular is
defined by a cross where God says, “I have been there—I have faced the monster
of death—I have suffered—and I have gone straight to hell—and I know that is
not the end.” So, yes, you cannot change the past. Yes, you are a dirty sinner,
not as different from Saul as you might want to believe, and yes, others are
incapable of forgiving, let alone forgetting—but what of it? Because grace is
true and grief is proof that love wins.
Ananias. Saul. Paul. They are
particular people. And so are you. And so are those you love. That’s why it
hurts—and that’s also why it’s worth it—because in the end there is grace that
opens up salvation’s doors to us, and we are made right in spite of the
particulars of our sin, because of the particulars of God’s love for us.
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