Taking Offense

Working as a clerk in the U.S. Patent Office in 1861, Clarissa Harlowe Barton, saw the first units of soldiers arrive in Washington D.C. The Civil War had just begun and in its wake the young soldiers, some already wounded, were destitute. Clara Barton began taking supplies to the young men who were temporarily housed in the unfinished Capitol building. Remembered as the “Angel of the Battlefield” and the founder of the American Red Cross, Clara Barton would minister to the wounded soldiers for the duration of the war, following the cannons into battle. When the Civil War ended, she answered over 63,000 letters in an effort to identify 22,000 missing men, bringing comfort and closure to their families, and avoiding burial in unmarked graves.


Clara Barton spent nearly five decades of her life physically and emotionally mending the wounds of others. However, one of the most important evidences of her healing ability is found in a small story. On one occasion during a conversation with a friend about an incident in which Clara had been cruelly hurt by another, her friend remarked, "Don't you remember the wrong that was done to you?" Clara simply replied, "I distinctly remember forgetting that.”


It is a delightful irony to me that Clara’s christened name, “Clarissa,” means “clarity,” for with perfect clarity, she teaches profoundly in five words--“I distinctly remember forgetting it”--the idea that we can heal and be healed because we are “agents unto ourselves.” We have the power as sons and daughters of a living God endowed with moral agency, to “remember to forget.”


In 2 Nephi 2:13-14, the prophet Lehi writes, “. . . I speak unto you these things for your profit and learning; for there is a God, and he hath created all things, both the heavens and the earth, and all things that in them are, both things to act and things to be acted upon.” In what Elder David A. Bednar calls, “the grand division of all of God’s creations,” we have “as [His] sons and daughters . . . been blessed with the gift of moral agency, the capacity for independent action and choice. Endowed with agency, you and I are agents, and we primarily are to act and not just be acted upon.” The power of this doctrine is magnified when paired with verse 11 of the same chapter in 2 Nephi. “For it must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things,” Lehi writes. “If not so, . . . righteousness could not be brought to pass, neither wickedness, neither holiness nor misery, neither good nor bad.” Ultimately, all creation would be as a “thing of naught,” Lehi continues, and without purpose, were it not for opposition in all things.
It intrigues me that so often the mantra of the day seems to accept the doctrine taught in 2 Nephi only in part. Many continue to claim that we are free to choose the way we respond to mistreatment. However, they carve out a portion of life that is outside this realm of agency. Elder Bednar further teaches in his address, “And Nothing Shall Offend Them,” given in October 2006, that “[to] believe that someone or something can make us feel offended, angry, hurt, or bitter diminishes our moral agency and transforms us into objects to be acted upon.” “ . . . it ultimately is impossible for another person to offend [us],” Elder Bednar continues. “Indeed, believing that another person offended us is fundamentally false. To be offended is a choice we make; it is not a condition inflicted or imposed upon us by someone or something else.”


Despite the absolute freedom that comes with our conversion to this doctrine of agency--what Elder Bednar calls the doctrine of choice in opposition to a condition inflicted upon us--I have felt at times helpless in the face of others’ mistreatment. This has been a curious journey.


How is it that there are times when I am mistreated and feel to respond with patience and love yet other times I am mistreated and feel wounded, hurt, angry and even seek revenge? More curious yet is the fact that when I have chosen to become offended, were you to question the validity of that choice, I would insist that my wounded thoughts, feelings and emotions are genuine—genuinely felt and genuinely caused. I would insist that I have been acted upon, by something or someone outside my control. In these circumstances I experience the “hardness of heart, the deafness of ears, and blindness of the mind,” of which Jarom speaks (Jarom 1:3). In these circumstances I am not unlike Christ’s disciples, who “in days of old, sought occasion against one another and forgave not one another in their hearts.” In Doctrine and Covenants 64:8, the Lord calls this offense-taking and refusal to forgive, an “evil” for which the disciples were afflicted and sorely chastened.” In my own life experience when I have chosen to be offended, I need no God to afflict me nor sorely chasten me. By the very nature of taking offense, I separate myself from others. I seek to gather allies. I set myself up to judge another, and sadly, at times I grant myself the right to punish. In so doing, I deny the Father’s gift of moral agency, the gift to act for myself. I have chosen the bondage of allowing another's actions to determine the quality of my heart and my ability to hear and see the truth with clarity.


Not only do I deny my Heavenly Father’s gift of moral agency when I choose to be offended, but I also deny the fact that by covenant, I have promised to do otherwise. I have covenanted to love my enemies. “Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy,” Christ says, in the New Testament (Matthew 5:43-44, 46-48). “But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.” Weekly we renew these covenants made at baptism to take upon us the name of Christ and to “keep His commandments,” even the commandment of loving our enemies (Moroni 4:3). Weekly we also covenant to always remember Him (Moroni 4:3). Such remembrance is necessary in this fallen world when offenses come. Christ is our great examplar, our mentor, for as Nephi writes, He was judged a “thing of naught,” scourged, smitten, spit upon, and yet he “suffereth it, because of his loving kindness and his long-suffering towards the children of men” (1 Nephi 19:9).


It is this loving kindness, this long-suffering, His sacrifice as the “Lamb of God,” which frees us from the bondage of another’s mistreatment. He “offereth himself a sacrifice for sin,” (2 Nephi 2:7) and “suffereth the pains of all men, yea the pains of every living creature, both men, women and children, who belong to the family of Adam” (2 Nephi 9:21). Ironically when we choose to be offended we fail to remember that Christ has already offered himself a sacrifice for that sin, that he has already suffered for the pain we feel, and that both we and our offender have already “been bought with a price” (1 Corinthians 6:20), even the blood of the Lamb of God.
Moroni, the captain of the Nephite armies, severely rebuked and condemned Pahoran, the chief judge and governor of the land, for failure to send adequate support to his troops. Engaged in putting down a rebellion against the government, Pahoran could have taken offense and resented Moroni’s censure. Instead he responded, “Behold, I say unto you, Moroni, that I do not joy in your great afflictions, yea, it grieves my soul. … And now, in your epistle you have censured me, but it mattereth not; I am not angry, but do rejoice in the greatness of your heart” (Alma 61:2, 9).

In October 1987 General Conference, President Boyd K. Packer repeated an address from 1977 entitled “Balm of Gilead,” wherein he shared the story of a patriarch, who as a young man lost his wife in childbirth to an infection brought into the home by the very doctor who came to deliver her baby. Deeply bitter, the young father thought of little else but his anger towards this doctor as his grief festered. President Packer writes, “One night a knock came at his door. A little girl said simply, ‘Daddy wants you to come over. He wants to talk to you.’ ‘Daddy’ was the stake president. A grieving, heartbroken young man went to see his spiritual leader. The counsel from that wise servant was simply, ‘John, leave it alone. Nothing you do about it will bring her back. Anything you do will make it worse. John, leave it alone.’”


President Packer recounts “. . . this [was the young man’s] trial—his Gethsemane. How could he leave it alone? Right was right! A terrible wrong had been committed and somebody must pay for it. It was a clear case. But he struggled in agony to get hold of himself. And finally, he determined that whatever else the issues were, he should be obedient.”
Years later the man said, “I was an old man before I understood! It was not until I was an old man that I could finally see a poor country doctor—overworked, underpaid, run ragged from patient to patient, with little medicine, no hospital, few instruments, struggling to save lives, and succeeding for the most part. “He had come in a moment of crisis, when two lives hung in the balance, and had acted without delay. “I was an old man,” he repeated, “before I finally understood! I would have ruined my life,” he said, “and the lives of others.” Many times he had thanked the Lord on his knees for a wise spiritual leader who counseled simply, “John, leave it alone.”


I remember sitting in Pretoria, South Africa, one winter morning, alone, before a small wooden stove trying to keep warm in bitter cold. I was reading a fictional book written by an African author which had been given to me by a friend. I remember with clarity this thought, “Ann would like this book.” It was a startling thought, for Ann was a colleague who had, over the years, become an enemy. She openly attacked my faith and quietly undermined my efforts as a teacher. I actively avoided her, and secretly despised her. Again the thought came to me, “Ann would like this book.” When I returned to school the following year the thought persisted. I dismissed it. Why should I share a gift from a friend with an enemy? What would she think when I offered her a book? That I had ulterior motives? I sensed that she knew I resented her. I felt torn. I went to the Lord in prayer. The answer was, “Ann would like this book.” And then this, “You have the capacity to love her.” I gave Ann the book. She loved it. We talked about Africa and literature. I confessed I had taken offense. There was healing. We avoid discussion of religion, but there is genuine interest and support professionally. The healing still persists.


Offenses will come. Some will come in the form of a mere scratch, requiring perhaps nothing more than a silent prayer in the moment for understanding and compassion. Others will come in form of a piercing wound, which may require the help of a surgeon in the form of a loving bishop, a kind home teacher, a wise counselor. When offenses come it is neither a matter of overlooking them nor excusing them. It is a matter of seeing the offense truthfully, with clarity, by the light of Christ. In every case the wounds of offense, whether intentionally given or intentionally received, require the hand of the Infinite Healer, even our Savior Jesus Christ. We are changed through His love and purity, not through our own.


Our Savior calls to us through His words, and the words of others: “I distinctly remember forgetting.” “It mattereth not.” “Leave it alone.” “You have the capacity to love.” “Stop it” (Dieter F. Uchtdorf, April 2012).


Towards the end of his life, Nephi bears a sweet, yet powerful testimony in 2 Nephi 26:8-9 when he writes, “ . . . behold, the righteous that hearken unto the words of the prophets, and destroy them not, but look forward unto Christ with steadfastness for the signs which are given, notwithstanding all persecution—behold, they are they which shall not perish. But the Son of righteousness shall appear unto them; and he shall heal them and they shall have peace with him . . . .” The words of the prophets are true. We must “destroy them not,” but look to them, understand them, live them. They will point us to Christ. In so doing, He will heal us and in Him we shall find peace.

Hope and Belief

A year ago I had a conversation with someone I love which was difficult. At that time I had also revisited Emily Dickinson's poetry. Written between February 14-20, 2011, are the following thoughts which I previously posted on a earlier blog.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
(“Hope is the thing with feathers” 254 by Emily Dickinson).

The fact that Emily Dickinson would use the conceit of a bird to represent hope does not escape me. For does not the dove descend upon the Son of God—a representation of the Spirit, the Holy Ghost? And does not that same Spirit “perch” in each of our souls, never stopping the tune, and keeping “so many warm”? Even in our darkest hours, our “chillest land,” our “strangest sea,” the Spirit whispers, “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; And lean not unto thine own understanding” (Proverbs 3:5). And in our “extremity” we are asked nothing material in return, not so much as a “crumb,” but only the acknowledgment of the gift.

Aside from holding out hope for those I love, I also feel an obligation to those who come laying down their burdens at my feet. That obligation is fueled by the belief that truly what I might offer to lift and to heal, must be what He would offer. That obligation is not unlike Alma’s desires which are described in Alma 31:5, “ . . . as the preaching of the word had a great tendency to lead the people to do that which was just . . . therefore Alma thought it was expedient that they should try the virtue of the word of God.” In a small way, I shall endeavor to “try the virtue of the word of God.”

Upon the death of King Solomon, the kingdom of Israel fell to his son, Rehoboam. Rehoboam inherited the effects of the later sins of his father, debt and the bondage of the people due to Solomon’s desire for wealth, power and pleasure. In I Kings 12, Jeroboam, who had divided from the tribe of Judah, returns to Rehoboam and he, with “all the congregaton of Israel” plead, “Thy father made our yoke grievous: now therefore make thou the grievous service of thy father, and his heavy yoke which he put upon us lighter, and we will serve thee” (1 Kings 12:4). “Depart yet for three days . . . .,” Rehoboam says, and then he consults with the “old men,” the elders, those with wisdom. To his question, “How do ye advise that I may answer this people?” they reply, “If thou wild be a servant unto this people this day, and wilt serve them, and answer them, and speak good words to them, then they will be thy servants for ever” (1 Kings 12:6-7). Wise counsel this seems; after all we can look at the example of King Benjamin and see the blessings of such counsel. However, like many young men and women, Rehoboam “[forsakes] the counsel of the old men,” and “[consults] with the young men that were grown up with him” (1 Kings 12:8). Their counsel, “My little finger shall be thicker than my father’s loins” (1 Kings 12:8), brought not only the subsequent downfall of Rehoboam and his house, but also the tragic enslavement of all of Israel.

The story of Rehoboam intrigues me as I think about counsel. I try to pose this question of myself, “Whom do I seek for counsel?” Is it the wisdom of my elders? Or is it those of my peers? When I feel lost do I “wander from sea to sea, and from the north even to the east . . . to and fro” to seek the truth? (Amos 8:11-12). And what might that wandering and seeking look like? Am I searching the internet, the magazine racks, the books--taken in by every “wind of doctrine,” every new (or old) philosophy, every humanistic and individualistic tune that is being played because it comes from the newest bright mind? Or am I opening the scriptures, reading the words of latter-day prophets, tuning my heart to hear the wisdom of my elders?

In a deep way, I would say to those of you who wonder if the counsel of these “elders” is true: believe. Even if in these moments you can only respond, like the father who brings his possessed son to Christ, “Lord, I believe; help thou my unbelief.” Simply believe. The song of hope never “stops at all,” it is a “song of redeeming love” (Alma 5:26). In a deep way, I would also say, “Turn off your computer. Close your psychological and philosophical books. Step outside and look at the world around you, being grateful for the Creator. Look into the face of your wife, your husband, your roommate and pray to see the ‘mystery’ of that human being (which is the greatest mystery that can be revealed to you).”

This life is a walk of faith that requires the counsel of elders. Their words will keep you warm, even when it feels that the life you are in is so cold. They too, walked by faith and “died in faith,” and never “received the promises, but having seen them afar off, . . . were persuaded of them, and embraced them”(Hebrews 11:13). If you think you have been robbed, that life did not turn out the way you expected, just reading their words will remind you that you are in good company.

Hope on. Believe.