[Jesus said] “For it is as if a man, going on a journey, summoned his slaves and entrusted his property to them; to one he gave five talents, to another two, to another one, to each according to his ability. Then he went away”. [from Matthew’s Gospel 25:14-15]

As Matthew’s Gospel is drawing towards the ultimate moments of Jesus’ betrayal, crucifixion and resurrection, the author recounts some of the most confronting of the stories Jesus tells.

Parables about banquets where guests gathered form the streets are still expelled for poor dress sense; tenants in a vineyard murder the landlord’s son and are punished equally in their turn. Unfaithful slaves and unprepared bridesmaids are punished for their failures. Three slaves are each gifted an extraordinary amount of money, and their master holds them to account for how they invest – or not.

Discipleship is not only invitation. There is more. In the midst of relating these compelling and disturbing parables, Jesus is asked by a lawyer about the greatest commandment. The question is insincere, crafted as a test, but Jesus’ answer is the heart of the whole Gospel.

Love God. And love neighbour. Embracing the first commandment inevitably leads to our embrace of those around us.

The searching rigour of these stories Jesus tells asks much of us. What will we do with these gifts given? How ready are we for the calling upon us? There are resources placed in the palms of our hands; what is asked of us, by Jesus?

I have spoken and written previously about the nature of gifts. We receive them, treasure them, and then decide what we should do. We can become nervous about risk, about loss, about mistakes we might make and the temptation increases to do nothing. We place the gift on our mantel, or in a secure place, holding them to ourselves, convinced that when we are asked, we will use them.

Gift becomes possession, and everything changes. The possession becomes necessary for how we view the world and define ourselves, and the fear of what might happen can become overwhelming. So, we do nothing. We build a safe and lock the gift away.

At its worst, the possession becomes narcotic, necessary to remind ourselves that we are valued, as we forget both the reasons for the gift and the nature of the giver.

In next week’s reading, the plaintive cry of those who have failed in their response is “If we had known it was you, we would have cared for-visited-fed-clothed-loved our neighbour.” It was always Jesus, every wounded, diminished life. Always.

But our gift was sealed away and safe from risk. And service.

Nothing can prevent the mercy of God; nothing is able to inhibit God’s love for each and all. That, thankfully, is not in our hands. Instead, it is our call to participate in the economy of God, investing the gifts God has offered us in the lives of others.

Burying our gift, ostensibly for safety, or arising from our fear, is not the answer. The radical call upon us is to serve the person before us, to share the value in which we have been found with those who believe themselves lost. God has risked his greatest gift with us, and restored creation; we are parables  of this astonishing embrace.

“Then the kingdom of heaven will be like this. Ten bridesmaids took their lamps and went to meet the bridegroom. Five of them were foolish, and five were wise. When the foolish took their lamps, they took no oil with them; but the wise took flasks of oil with their lamps. As the bridegroom was delayed, all of them became drowsy and slept. But at midnight there was a shout, ‘Look! Here is the bridegroom!’ Then all those bridesmaids got up and trimmed their lamps. The foolish said to the wise, ‘Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out.’ … Keep awake therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.” [from Matthew’s Gospel 25.1-13]

Being woken at midnight is rarely easy. Partying, nightshift, neighbours’ dogs barking, family emergency, are all reasons for midnight activity. When we have the additional task of looking our best, of being ready, it can be distinctly difficult.

Half the maidens in this improbable parable are unready; Jesus describes them as foolish. I am not sure how often bridegrooms were so severely delayed, nevertheless our scene is set. They do not have the resources necessary for what awaits them.

Much of this generation in the church is waking to the realty of midnight, conscious that we are sorely ill-prepared for the season in which we find ourselves.

Waking up in this country and time, what does it look like? Both our formal and cultural educations were markedly lopsided, ensuring we were less ready than required for the arrival of the world in which we live and bear witness.

Our knowledge of history, geography and literature reveal a distinct bias toward British, North American and select European heritages. The bias extended to faith traditions; we were educated more about Protestant and Roman Catholic distinctions than the profound and diverse stories of Judaism, Islam, Hinduism and Buddhism.

Our knowledge of, and appreciation for, the sixty millennia of our First Nations peoples were truncated into cliché for most of us at school. We were soundly asleep.

I have wonderful conversations with my Iranian barber about Persian history and politics and the implications of the last fifty years, much of which remains unknown in “western” countries. I learn from Ukrainian, Pasifika, Armenian and Palestinian colleagues about histories, traumatic and courageous, which extend beyond the narrow lens with which we have been trained to see.

Much of our faith formation has been similarly lacking. What resources were we offered to wake and serve in this world around us, to have enough capacity to navigate such a challenging time? How do we navigate technological changes, corruption and the fracturing of alliances we have always known? How is the Gospel heard and spoken?

Frequently, the western church has been preoccupied talking to itself about itself. We are unsure of how to listen (and then, perhaps to speak) with the plethora of faith communities, the members of which all bear the image of God. We must be awake to world in which we live.

Our astonishing story of God with us in Jesus Christ, crucified and risen, is so much more than a biblical cliché. We bear witness to an event which transformed the creation, we are participants in the intention of God to save all of history.

Our own story of discovering our worth and that we are loved needs to be held with the same value as those whose story we have never heard and can barely imagine. Our resource is first in the Holy Spirit, and then in each other, as we wait – and act – together for God’s intention to be realised.

We need to wake up.

Then Jesus said to the crowds and to his disciples, “The scribes and the Pharisees sit on Moses’ seat; therefore, do whatever they teach you and follow it; but do not do as they do, for they do not practice what they teach. … The greatest among you will be your servant. All who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all who humble themselves will be exalted.” [from Matthew’s Gospel 23:1-12]

We have encountered those communities and community groups which, for whatever reason, have lost their way. Sometimes we have belonged to them. They are often in decline, a clear sign of their disarray, but not always.

Urban congregations with a small handful of people proclaiming how friendly they are; service clubs bemoaning that their children head off to tertiary education and never return; sporting associations with rules so arcane that no young person can ever find their way into leadership (even if they wanted to).

One of the signal tests at times of change or stress, is whether a group turns to look inward – from fear, or self-defence – or whether it continues to look outward and engage with the changing world in which it resides.

Turning inward can feel safe. We all know each other and, at the beginning, we have defining reasons for our choice. Eventually, the original maps which formed us now sit in decorative glass cases untouched by human hands. Instead, the keepers of culture hold the keys to the cupboards where the footballs and pumps are kept, and everyone is expected to be compliant.

The group now exists for its own self-approval and survival, not for the community in which they live, or arising from the excitement and hope in which they were founded.

This is the community into which Jesus was speaking two thousand years ago, and much of the church culture into which he is speaking today. Community leadership which had swerved faithfully for generations had, in some cases, formed a religious caravan, drawn into a defensive circle. Facing inwards.

The mark of their self-defined authority was the extravagance of their religious attire, the attention others paid to them and their social elevation. We do not have to look far to see similar characters, both spiritual and temporal, today.

A recent ABC interview[1] referred to “bureaucratic violence” as the harm created by systems as they force people either to comply, or to fail.

Jesus’ penultimate sentence in this stanza guides our understanding: the greatest among you will be your servant.

This is where we look first, to the one who is serving.

There is one further test; look at those they serve. Is it the powerful, the wealthy, the corrupt? Is it the ones who want the best seats at the community events, and who look for praise in all their ventures? Is it the ones who measure their lives by triumph over others – through their finances, or their fists?

Or it the ones so easily ignored, or airbrushed from our vision? Is it the people who cannot repay, apart from their thanks, the ones whose lives are frequently marked by exclusion and scorn? These people who, Jesus tells us, bear his likeness.

We only discern them when we look beyond ourselves, beyond our fear.

Service begun in Jesus looks neither for praise, nor reward. It humbly seeks those in need of being served.

---

[1] Katherine Biber, Professor of Law, UTS; Late Night Live 28.10.2026

…one of them, a lawyer, asked him a question to test him.  “Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?”  He said to him, “ ‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’  This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.” [from Matthew’s Gospel 22:34-40]

Everything is here, according to Jesus. Everything.

Sadducees, lawyers and cynics have come to entrap Jesus in theology or the law, and find themselves stumbling at his feet. Their cryptic inquisition about taxes, marriage and authority is met by Jesus, slicing their Gordian knot in two. They are not seeking wisdom, or hope, but merely the life-denying gossip which avoids justice and cripples our imagination.

As their attacks dissipate, Jesus draws their – and our – attention to the gospel’s crux. Love God and love our neighbour. That’s it. All the law, and all the prophets are here.

Jesus consistently reminds us that loving God immediately leads us to those around us. Our protestations of faith and our worship mean nothing, if there is no echo of this in how we care for our community.

Like the lawyers seeking to trap Jesus, we twist interpretations and definitions, in order to justify ourselves. “Which particular neighbour did you have in mind, Jesus?” we ask in our most innocent voice, hoping for the one who mows our nature strip each week, and not the one with the leaf blower.

We decide that all that is asked of us is to tolerate our neighbour, and our responsibility diminishes almost immediately. Tolerance at is best is permissive, and at its worst is indifferent. The benign smile, the occasional wave, and we fulfil all the tepid righteousness we have defined.

More deliberately and more dangerously, we assert that we will decide who our neighbours are and the manner in which they qualify. This enables us to exclude those we have no intention of serving, and our neighbours become simply the people we choose to like, and who like us. In so doing we become card-carrying members of the cynics’ association.

The rancorous debate in our nation about immigration is the most recent – and recurring – stanza in this decline. Other iterations have included Aboriginal people, people who are same sex-attracted, Muslims, Jews and refugees.

Hannah Arendt identified disconnection as integral to societal breakdown. When someone, perhaps a leader, then nominates a particular group as responsible for our woes, real or imagined, we are on the way to disaster.

Tolerance declines into sufferance. Sufferance becomes discomfort. Discomfort becomes disconnection and blame. A simple question: when we discover that immigrants are not to blame, who will the populists accuse then?

Thus, Jesus. Love God, love neighbour.

Love creates; creates hope, justice, healing, forgiveness, community. Love imagines new relationships, and older ones restored. Love invites, embraces and reshapes community around all who have found their place. Love does not simply tolerate, but transforms, as mercy is articulated by forgiveness and restoration to new relationship.

Love reimagines our neighbourhood, shaped not by geography, or our politics, or our faith, but by our humanity, all of which is in the image of God.

Everything is here.

[Jesus said] “Show me the coin used for the tax.” They brought Jesus a denarius. Then he said to them, “Whose head is this, and whose title?” They answered, “The emperor’s.” Then he said to them, “Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s.”  When they heard this, they were amazed; and they left him and went away. [from Matthew’s Gospel 22:15-22]

As coins and other currency vanish from our pockets and purses, it is not only Caesar’s image, but all those other icons which we no longer glimpse at each purchase. We have an ashtray in our old Land Cruiser stuffed with coins, some fuses and a corkscrew – all of them signs of an age which is fading, or certainly less familiar to our touch.

Debates about taxation are neither new, nor fading, and the Pharisees’ malign attempt to ensnare Jesus mimics the clumsy work of a tabloid journalist, or the chorus on Sky after dark.

When faith engages with the culture in which it is exercised, there is always the danger that we begin to equate them with each other, as if they are similar. Discipleship and the economy frequently exist alongside each other, with critique and challenge, but blending them together does both a disservice.

Living our faith within our community is precisely where most of us are called; how we spend our money is often a reflection of the priorities to which Christ has called us. Notwithstanding, the call to discipleship is a more profound invitation than that of the tax office.

We watch, even now, as “christian nationalism” (lower case intended) pervades much of the political and religious conversation in places like the United States. Heresies, both minor and monstrous, are hallmarks of this perversion, such as the punishment of immigrants being falsely equated with scripture, or the nationally televised execution of a criminal heralded as a sign of righteous judgment. Ironically, the biblical responsibilities of paying tax go largely unremarked or avoided altogether.

When Jesus calls attention to the icon of Caesar on the coin, he intentionally draws our eye toward God and thus, immediately, to our neighbour.

Where do we see the image, the icon, of God? First, always, in Jesus. Then, in our neighbour. In each other.

The early church understood that the affirmation “Jesus is Lord” was more than a liturgical faith statement. It was, and remains, profoundly political; a realignment of priority, of faith, of life.

The question about tax is classic misdirection. Jesus is not fooled. The answer he offers is clear in its intent. When we attend to “the things that are God’s,” it is to our neighbours – to the poor, to the marginalised, to our enemies – that our eyes and our hearts are opened.

In a few verses’ time, Jesus will be asked which is the greatest commandment, and he will tell them to look first to God in love, and then to the image of God which surrounds us. Love God, love your neighbour as you love yourself.

Any claim to faith in Jesus which draws us from this imperative is essentially false.  We, each of us, bear the fingerprints of God. How we live will not be measured by income or expenditure,  but by how we respond to this most profound assertion: we are in the image of God.

Then [the king] said to his slaves, ‘The wedding is ready, but those invited were not worthy. Go therefore into the main streets, and invite everyone you find to the wedding banquet.’  Those slaves went out into the streets and gathered all whom they found, both good and bad; so the wedding hall was filled with guests. [Matthew’s Gospel 22:81-14]

One confronting parable follows another. A landowner, then a monarch, who tolerate no resistance, no insurrection, from those they have invited. Followers of Jesus will wrestle – uncomfortably, even unwillingly – with these parables until all is complete.

Is God (even a little bit) like this?

This violent response is the expected behaviour of history’s monarchs and dictators, of those in power who have been denied their will.  Nothing to see here.

However, look for a moment where Jesus may, in fact, be directing us. Consider the behaviour of the banquet’s invitees. No one accepts the invitation to the monarch’s wedding banquet. No one. When the monarch insists, their response is both impolitic and violent. So the king acts, as monarchs have forever acted; the people are destroyed.

Then, because this is a story and time is somewhat elastic, the banquet remains ready and new invitations issued for all and sundry. – rich and poor, good and bad alike.  In this motley, spontaneous, crew, one is wrongly dressed. He is summarily expelled.

Those who believe they are entitled treat their invitation as nothing. Perhaps they inherited their position or, were gifted their place in society through the social labyrinth some navigate with ease, and which remains a mystery to so many others. Perhaps they paid their way with favours, or finance. Perhaps their skin colour, or their gender, or sexuality, or profession, amplified their assumed eligibility.

Their sense of entitlement devalues the gift of invitation. Thus, gift becomes trophy, becomes possession, becomes what I have always deserved, becomes stagnant.

The gracious offer of God is not offered cheaply. Bonhoeffer showed us that almost a century ago, as much of the German church refused God’s invitation.  Even now, the headlong rush of the North American church (and others) towards the deceit of Christian nationalism is a harbinger for the Australian Christian community. These people regard their invitations as deserved, flaunting them publicly, decrying others.

The measure of God’s offer is the life and death of Christ; God expending everything. Discipleship begins by accepting that generosity, astonished at our invitation. When we discover the diversity of those invited beside us, both good and bad, we are humbled and uplifted.

What, then, is our response? Entitlement, or an equal service with those who invited us, with those who bore witness to us, of the mercy of God? Humility, at the company we share at this banquet, that all – not just the people we prefer – are invited to share, to live and to serve?

What of this last character, banished from the banquet? What of him?

The dress code is not about Armani, as opposed to Op Shop; it is about the servanthood we wear for every occasion, at banquet and with the broken.  We are, all of us, invited.

Now, we have people to serve.

“What do you think? A man had two sons; he went to the first and said, ‘Son, go and work in the vineyard today.’  He answered, ‘I will not’; but later he changed his mind and went.  The father went to the second and said the same; and he answered, ‘I go, sir’; but he did not go.  Which of the two did the will of his father?” They said, “The first.” Jesus said to them, “Truly I tell you, the tax collectors and the prostitutes are going into the kingdom of God ahead of you. For John came to you in the way of righteousness and you did not believe him, but the tax collectors and the prostitutes believed him; and even after you saw it, you did not change your minds and believe him.” Matthew’s Gospel 21:28-32

It can be unsettling to read Jesus’ words, the stories he tells us. If we place ourselves honestly in the crowd he is addressing, we can find ourselves standing somewhat awkwardly.

When we celebrate communion, speaking about hunger and thirst, very few people I have served come suffering from lack of food. Most come well fed and watered, sharing in the benefits of our community’s prosperity. I would assert that almost no one has come unfed, or starving. If they did, is there enough for them, to feed them? Would we sacrifice our own piece of bead, our share of wine, that they might be satisfied?

We talk about sacrifice, even poverty. In the western church, we have spiritualised these to a considerable extent, because most people we know have enough for their daily bread and more.

Is this the appropriate time to mention the astringency of most communion meals – tiny cubes of bread, tasteless wafers, and thimbles of juice, or minimal sips from a chalice? What metaphor resides here for those who hunger and thirst?

Jesus has just ripped through the temple; his anger (as always) is because those who most need it have been prevented from finding life – food, healing and forgiveness.

When people have lived broken lives, the offer of healing, of hope, is considerably more than a sermon theme. When we reduce sin, micro-managing it into “sins”, measuring out our lives in instances of misbehaviour, or naughty thoughts, we diminish the real impact of sin on our world, on those around us and on our own lives.

When women and their children live under the violence of coercive control, what can a community of faith offer which will serve and, even offer safety to, them? When a person in addiction believes they deserve their own suffering, what might we give to them, which offers life, not judgment?

The missionary D.T. Niles is quoted as saying that evangelism is just one beggar telling another beggar where to find food. What is food, for those who are starving?

Do not misunderstand me. Everyone needs nourishment in their lives.

Jesus reminds us that those who are hungry know food when they tase it. Not when they read the menu, or see it on a website.

Matthew’s Gospel leads us through Jesus’ consistent reminders that we are called to act, that our words or protestations of faith have far less merit than the acts which serve, advocate for, and protect. One son proclaims obedience; one son articulates it with his life.

Service is the tangible practice of our faith; this is where we are called by Jesus Christ.

…the owner of the vineyard said to his manager, ‘Call the labourers and give them their pay, beginning with the last and then going to the first.’ When those hired about five o’clock came, each of them received the usual daily wage. Now when the first came, they thought they would receive more; but each of them also received the usual daily wage. And when they received it, they grumbled against the landowner … But he replied to one of them, ‘Friend, I am doing you no wrong; did you not agree with me for the usual daily wage? … Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or are you envious because I am generous?’ So the last will be first, and the first will be last.” [Matthew’s Gospel 20:1-16]

This is one of the passages in which a really energised argument can commence. I have sat in a group after this parable was read, where one person grumbled about “bloody socialists”, while another countered with a comment about capitalists underpaying people and sparking injustice.

So, here we are, with another of Jesus’ disruptive parables. Is it, as economists like to call it, creative disruption, or is it something else? Wikipedia defines creative disruption as “a radical change in a marketplace brought about by the overturning of existing conventions”. Once again, Jesus.

Jesus, with the stories of badly-behaved sons and better-behaved Samaritans, with tales of tax collectors and pharisees, and slaves being forgiven debts of a bazillion dollars.

How do we respond when Jesus offends our sensibilities? Traditionally, many within the church spend considerable time and energy seeking to ameliorate the stories, diluting the language and airbrushing the rough images.

In the case of this parable, throwing in our lot with the socialists, or the capitalists would be to miss the comprehensive challenge of engaging in the economy into which Jesus invites us. This is much more than an argument about the social daily wage, or the measure of labour done. There are elements which can be explained, or perhaps even explained away, which only provides a disservice to the provocation Jesus offers us.

What if the reign of God – the economy of God – invites, serves and eventually redeems each and all of us? What if those who arrive in the last minute are rewarded as completely as those who have been present for the entire day? What if the measures of God’s economy are the mercy and life offered in Jesus, and not the pay scales of the world in which we live?  

We can feel disgruntled at this moment; we have worked hard for most of the day, faithfully and well. They have appeared at the last moment, or after us, at least, and they are rewarded equally?

In the current fraught political conversation about immigration, a whole new meaning is given to “those who arrive later than us”. The definition of fairness has become bastardised by punishment and self-interest, leaving us in a context of shouting and accusation. The spoils from this go only to the punishers.

Jesus measures out our lives and value by the generosity of God, not by hours worked, or arbitration. This generosity, this grace, is both unceasing and beyond measure. This assurance is held, not in our own hands, but in the nail-scarred hands of Christ. Thus, we are able to offer this hospitality in our turn, disrupting and creating as God has done for us.

Then Peter came and said to him, “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?” Jesus said to him, “Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times. [Matthew’s Gospel 18:21-22]

It depends on your frame of mind, on the background you have, on the context in which you have lived, and live now. This shapes how you hear something and, thus, how you respond.

Is this a series about matters of compliance from Jesus, about the requirements of forgiveness and the consequences of disobedience, or is it something else?

Jesus’ compelling parable which follows this saying, – about the phenomenon of forgiveness, and the risk of withholding it – causes ripples all around.

The extraordinary character of Jesus, elevating children several times as exemplars of faith and discipleship is confounding for those who hear it first, and for many who follow in later generations. The story of a shepherd who will leave ninety-nine sheep to search for one hapless wether (probably the same sheep as last time) is an astonishing indication of the context in which these stories are first being told.

What if we read these stanzas from Jesus as some of the ways in which community can be grown, as an astonishing alternative to the world of self-interest and self-justification which thrived then and has never paused?

When Jesus spoke last week about meeting with one who has “sinned against us”, this was not primarily about confronting an aggressor, but about restoring relationship, and, thus, community. This is discipleship, not compliance, or a measure of punishment. 

This rabbi is steeped in the Jewish understanding that people can change, can be forgiven, and can be restored.  The unexpected moment is when Jesus exponentially moves the tradition of accountability being sought and forgiveness offered to seventy-seven instances – a slave’s immeasurable debt of a bazillion dollars being forgiven.

As always, in response to the generosity of God, we consider what we do with the gifts offered to us. We can hold them as property, avaricious for our own advancement and security. After a moment, gift becomes possession, and its value diminishes, alongside our discipleship. Eventually (and sooner than imagined), this experience of God’s mercy becomes only nostalgia, a shrunken trinket over which we reminisce.

The gift of God is for giving. It fs for offering to those we love, to our neighbour – and to our enemies.

We can become misdirected in the parable, looking at the monarch’s final punishment of the slave. The heart of the story is the monarch’s exceptional generosity, which the slave entirely – even wilfully – misunderstands.

Forgiveness is neither a game, nor a transaction, where one person holds power over another. It must never be whimsically considered, because harm caused can be crippling, as we have seen with domestic abuse, coercive control amongst our friends and family and, on the world stage, in the long enmity and violence of nations.

We are consistently offered the gift of forgiveness in Jesus Christ. When we receive this gift, we are responsible to offer it in turn. Sometimes this will be too hard for us to accomplish alone; we will need the company of those we trust, and the compassion of God’s Spirit to step this path out.

This has always arisen from the compassion of Christ. The wonder of being restored magnifies our hope for others’ renewal. It is this hope which upholds, enables and confirms us as we seek to be reconciled to those around us and to the world for which Christ died.

[Jesus said] Truly I tell you, whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.  Again, truly I tell you, if two of you agree on earth about anything you ask, it will be done for you by my Father in heaven.  For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.”    [Matthew’s Gospel 18:18-20]

Wendell Berry died this week, in his early nineties, after a life of  reflection, adventure, farming, theology, poetry and engagement in the beauty of the creation of which he was an avid part. 

His poem, The Peace of Wild Things appears regularly on social media pages, and in the Christian environmental pages. Berry writes beautifully, with patience and attention to detail – in the world around him, in his relationships.

The poem below speaks for itself.

It seems appropriate for the readings we have been walking through in these weeks; in Paul’s Roman letter about how the gift of the Spirit enables us to bear witness to (even to bless!) those seek our harm; in Matthew’s Gospel we are confronted as Jesus speaks about the demands of community and discipleship.

This week  Jesus speaks about shaping community around relationships and reconciliation, being honest and facing difficult issues and people In next week’s gospel reading, Jesus will answer Peter’s enquiry about the budget of forgiveness and blow his bottom line, completely.

May Wendell Berry rest in peace and rise again in glory.

To My Mother |  Wendell Berry

I was your rebellious son,
do you remember? Sometimes
I wonder if you do remember,
so complete has your forgiveness been.

So complete has your forgiveness been
I wonder sometimes if it did not
precede my wrong, and I erred,
safe found, within your love,

prepared ahead of me, the way home,
or my bed at night, so that almost
I should forgive you, who perhaps
foresaw the worst that I might do,

and forgave before I could act,
causing me to smile now, looking back,
to see how paltry was my worst,
compared to your forgiveness of it

already given. And this, then,
is the vision of that Heaven of which
we have heard, where those who love
each other have forgiven each other,

where, for that, the leaves are green,
the light a music in the air,
and all is unentangled,
and all is undismayed.

“To My Mother” by Wendell Berry,

from Entries. © Pantheon Books, 1994.