hope. mercy.
Nancy Kennedy
When I think about getting a tattoo, which I will never, ever do, I’ve always wanted it to say, “hope.”
Lowercase letters with a period.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about getting a second tattoo, which I will never, ever do. This one I want to say, “mercy.”
Also lowercase letters with a period.
Why a period? I don’t know. But there has to be one.
hope.
mercy.
I think about mercy a lot. I’m fascinated by merciful people. The ones who embrace people in ways I don’t think I would.
Years ago, I read about Irish Catholic novice priests who failed to become ordained or who were dismissed for moral indiscretions. They were called “spoiled priests.”
They were cast out, but instead of being outcasts, they were the ones people would go to when they messed up their lives.
Instead of seeking help from the “official” Catholic priests, they sought the ones who also knew what it meant to be damaged goods.
They were “spoiled,” but not unusable.
They still had faith. They still knew forgiveness and grace.
No judgment. Just mercy.
It’s as if their falling and failing somehow made them more approachable, more attractive.
I’ll never forget a story I wrote for the newspaper about a woman named Crysynda, the pastor of a tiny Pentecostal church.
She grew up watching evangelists on television and felt called to be a traveling evangelist herself. At one time she preached three services a day, seven days a week.
She wanted to change the world for Jesus.
After a while, she became discouraged and disillusioned by the things she saw — corruption and abuse of power by other ministers.
“One in particular would tell poor people that unless they gave God their food stamps and jewelry, they couldn’t receive a blessing,” she said.
Fed up, she walked away from anything having to do with God or the ministry and jumped headfirst into using and dealing drugs.
And yet, something way, way deep within her wouldn’t — couldn’t — stop believing, she said.
“I know it wasn’t what God wanted for my life, but the whole time I was getting high, I was still preaching the Word,” she said. “People would come to me with their spiritual questions and I’d open the Bible and we’d pray together.”
That’s my favorite part of her story.
hope.
mercy.
When I think of spoiled priests and failed evangelists, I think about my own life.
I’ve done things I’m not proud of. I have memories that make me cringe, others that bring shame.
I’ve felt like damaged goods.
Probably we all have at some time in our lives.
At times I’ve wondered if mercy ever runs out. As if God would ever say, “Sorry. You’ve reached your limit.”
This morning at church the pastor read, “His mercy is over all that He has made.” (Psalm 145:9)
Then he said, “This is the word of God.”
I had one of those “Whoa” moments and imagined a canopy of mercy, a shelter over all He has made.
It covered everything.
Truly, our hope is that we are never beyond mercy’s borders. Because of mercy, we’re still usable.
Still valuable.
Worthy.
That’s not a wish, but a fact.
It’s not a dream, but a statement.
hope.
mercy.
Period.
Contact Nancy Kennedy at 352-564-2927 (leave a message) or email at nkennedy@chronicleonline.com.
