About Redemption

There are eight definitions for the word redemption in the dictionary. Four out of the eight involve some sort of monetary definition and the others, the ones that this story are about, are as follows:

1. an act of redeeming or the state of being redeemed
2. deliverance; rescue
3. Theology. Deliverance from sin; salvation
4. atonement for guilt


In theology, soteriology is the study of salvation. And of all of the aspects of theological and religious studies, this is one of the things I am most interested in. In Christianity, Judaism and Islam, the three major monotheistic religions of the world, in very general terms, salvation refers to being saved from sin and eternal damnation by accepting one's relationship with God. I am not a member of any of these three monotheistic religions and in fact consider myself a panentheist... but that is really beside the point. The point here is that if someone were to ask me if I was saved, I would reply without blinking, that yes, I most certainly am. That in fact, in my life, I find myself saved over and over again. Some of my brothers and sisters from other faiths may take offense at this; that I claim to be saved and relate none of this to a relationship with Jesus Christ. But I am not concerned with that. It is a difference of religious perspectives while to me, the Gods and spirits and divine ones of all the world's religions have validity and meaning and truth in them. I have my own feelings about who and what and where God is, but I don't claim that my opinion or viewpoint is any more valid or important than my next door neighbor or my evangelical relatives or anyone else I may come into contact with. To me, if I had to define God in one word or phrase, it would be love; redemptive, salvific love.

Growing up there was a family on the next street over who went to First Church as well. They had a son the same age as me and we went to school together for many years. I played soccer from elementary school with his high school sweetheart and although we didn't ever hang out, we were always friendly with each other at school. Our senior year he got tangled up in some criminal trouble with a few friends and in the end, they all ended up going to prison. Some for a few months and some for several years, this classmate being one of the latter. The crimes they committed and the reasons why are really irrelevant at this point other to stay that although nobody was ever hurt, weapons were involved and victims of these crimes feared for their lives. This classmate of mine was the only one of the group who committed these crimes who did not come from a wealthy family, the only one who was not white, the only one who was not in honors classes at school; the only one who suffered from terrible dyslexia. He didn't get to graduate high school and I remember seeing his mom at the neighborhood grocery store after he was sent to prison looking tired and sad and vacant in the eyes. And so the years went by and I moved away to college and I had a partner and I found passions and hobbies and made new friends. I grew and changed and graduated and bought a home and got a dog and my life went on and all the while... this classmate sat in a cell somewhere far away from his family and friends and freedom; and I wondered about him. Although we were never close, for some reason I though about him a lot. So much so that out of curiosity of what a prison is actually like, I visited the Coffee Creek Correctional center, Oregon's state women's prison, in college and have since studied our country's penal system quite a bit. My conclusions have led me to so many frustrations with the way we treat criminals and prisoners in this country that I'm sure I could write an entire book about my findings and feelings on the subject.

In any event, a few months ago I was making drinks at work and I looked up and who should be before me but the classmate whom I spoke about above. The one who I had spent the past decade thinking and wondering about; worrying if he finished school, if he was functioning in society in a happy and healthy way; how his family was. I spoke to him immediately and although he was shy at first and I think not sure about what I wanted out of him, he opened up quickly and we had an amazing conversation. We talked about our lives and what we are up to these days and for some reason I shared with him a dream of mine that few people know about. When he left I went in the back room at work and I just cried and cried. I tried to explain to my coworkers why I was crying but they didn't really understand and I'm not so sure I did either. In our conversation this classmate told me that he now works with troubled teenage boys who are on the verge of engaging in criminal activity. In his work with these kids I'm sure he helps inspire hope inside of them, helps them find some sort of salvation from their lives. And I suppose in this way, he is redeeming himself from his own past wrongs and I'm sure in many other ways he has and will continue to atone for the crimes he committed. But he is still a person of inherent worth and dignity despite his poor choices and stupid actions in the past. A person worthy of love and respect and most of all, compassion.

This exchange moved me so much that I still can't really find words to explain my feelings about seeing this old friendly aquaintence. I think this is because it wasn't really about the words we said at all. It was about something non-verbal, non-physical... something indescribable that happened between us that day. An energy, a force, a grace and a gratitude. A love. And I think when we have these moments in our lives where we are moved to tears, where we can't describe in mortal words the feelings of our heart, this is God, this is love.

For me, I found peace knowing that my classmate was, despite his wrongdoings, despite years of hardship that surely followed his conviction over a decade ago, living a life where he has found meaning and truth and worth and joy and love. A life where his salvific actions are redemptive for others. What a blessing this is for him and for those whom he mentors and for me to know this of him after years and years of wondering. I think about this exchange between he and I and about the unspoken, indescribable grace that I felt hanging in the air between us that day often and for me, to know that he is okay, was enough. My soul and wondering were put at ease; I now knew that despite the events of his life over the past decade, despite what the world may think or have previously thought of him or he of himself; despite whether he had or has a relationship with a personal God or not, his is a story of redemption... as is so many of ours.  Imagine then my surprise today when I walked into church and there this classmate was; over twenty years since he and I had been at First Church together! He gave me a hug, twice, and few words were exchanged between us except for when he left, he said how good it was to see me and I told him I hoped to see him again soon. And I do. And I know for some reason that I will see him again; hopefully I will see him many agains. Hopefully the circular paths of our lives will continue to intersect and I am excited for these overlaps; excited for the deep, thoughtful and grace filled exchanges that I know he and I may someday have for it is here, in the indescribable space between ourselves and others, in the communion of our souls, where the wide-eyed and joyful redemption of our lives can be found.

I think above all else, my classmate's story gives witness to the fact that redemption is possible for all of us each and every day whether we have accepted a personal God into our lives or not. Salvation is not only about sin, about the recognition and atonement of our wrongdoings, it is about becoming who we were put on this planet to be in spite of whatever may be against us in this life. It is sometimes about taking small baby steps towards wholeness rather than giant, one-time superficial leaps. It is about overcoming obstacles and odds and about getting back up again when we trip in life. It is about chosing to take the extended hand of another when we need some help along the way. It is about doing all of these things in spite of our own self doubts and worries; in spite of the labels the world may have posted upon us. Salvation and redemption are waiting for us everyday with the rising of the sun. It is never, ever too late.

To paraphrase many a glorious benediction, may you go through your week in peace and chose to spread love.

Namaste.

Easter Blessing

Yesterday, as you know, was Easter. While some hunted for eggs and ate waffles, I spent the better part of the morning at church and the afternoon in mostly quiet solitude. The later part of the day was spent doing laundry, watching one of my favorite 80s movies, Romancing the Stone with Ro, and picking up the house a bit.

While getting ready to leave the house early yesterday morning, and even Saturday night for that matter, I had been listening to some Bach and Beethoven, my favorites and my fingers were left itching to play Moonlight Sonata, Pachelbel's Canon in D; but my piano has been in storage for several years and on very random occasions, such as this past weekend, I miss it tremendously. I have a keyboard, but mostly it just collects dust under my bed because playing it seems to just leave me disappointed that it doesn't sound like my grand piano.  In any event, I got a wild hair up my rear this weekend that I absolutely needed to play the dang thing. And when I went to pull it out from under my bed it rolled over a little silver speck of something on the carpet. After completely yanking the keyboard out I reached my hand under the bed groping and pulled out a small chunk of metal; my mom's one and only ring I thought I had lost several months ago!  I've been trying not to think about losing the ring because it is probably one, of if not my most important possession and having not had it on my finger these past few months has made not only my finger feel bare, but my soul just a wee bit emptier too. In consolation I told myself repeatadly that the ring was just a material item; that the real joy and connection is in the memories. But I wear it on most days and especially at times when I would like my mom to be with me; when something big or glorious or difficult is happening in my life, I like to be able to look down and see that blue stone shining back at me.

My mom never wore any jewelry, except for this little ring on the middle finger of her left hand, and it's been through a lot. Several years ago I wrote a poem about it, the first thing I ever wrote about her or her death as a matter of fact. So you could say I suppose, it was this little ring on my finger that started the healing process, which continues to this day. In any event, my finger is smiling to have it's companion back and my soul was filled up just a little bit more yesterday too; what an amazing Easter gift. Sadly, I never did get around to playing the stupid keyboard. It seems instead that finding the ring filled up whatever empty spot my heart was trying to fill with music, with a mother's long-lost love.

I have attached the original poem below and am hopeful this week brings you many blessings of your own...

Namaste.




Bound
You were never one to wear jewelry
only in the last few years did you begin sporting a silver ring
three small bands connected at the seam by a little turquoise gem
delicate and pretty on your middle finger it sat.
After your soul left its mortal body
floating peacefully away towards your next life
the ring was found and saved by the medical examiner.

Later at the funeral home
I was told the contents of your backpack had to be discarded
and all the salvageable items from your car
stored in and pulled one by one from a wrinkled brown paper bag.
Passed across the table in shame and sorrow
were torn road maps, shredded credit cards, warped keys
and in a zip lock bag with your name scrawled on it
lay a small chunk of metal
the silver ring your wore, inside.
How inconsiderate i thought
discovering bits of your flesh and blood dried between the bands
smashed together, stoneless and bent in funny directions.

It will never fit a finger again i was sure
but in desperation i took it to a jeweler
begged them to fix it
and picked out a new stone.
A sapphire as blue as your eyes
mined by the bare hands of an Montanan woman in her fifties
a creative and independent art teacher like you.
And so i knew then it was fate
that stone in this ring
passed from one daring woman to another.


 I didn't take it off for a few years
and today it only fits my left ring finger
claimed now by another band
but even without it pressing cold against my skin
i feel our souls intertwined.
Mother and daughter we are
bound by blood, heart
and the small silver token of love you left me.