seventy times seven

His name was Art.

Will there be a choir gown for me? Maybe. There's bound to be an extra one for me somehow. Many years ago, while struggling with high school biology and algebra, I would make time to go to church every Saturday afternoon to practice the anthem for the following Sunday's service. Art, or more specifically, Kuya Art, was my choir director. A gentleman, he would give me a ride back home whenever he could. He was everything I thought a Christian man should be. Until one Sunday morning when he stood behind the pulpit and declared,

“I've been keeping a secret from you all—I have been a smoker, for many years now. And I have been diagnosed with leukemia.”

More details flowed. Kuya Art was guilty of duplicity and owned up to it. That was the first time that I was jarred by the shame of sin. Imprinted on my young mind then was how a broken man could stand before God and man, and admit his sinfulness. Our church continued to love and support him while he battled the ravages of his disease. Yet although his spirit won, his body, sadly, failed him.

His name is Art.

Or at least that what he wanted Mike Jones, the male prostitute, to call him (his second name is Arthur) . Unlike my choir director, I do not personally know this man. What I know about him is based on what I read on the internet and magazines. More popularly known as Rev. Ted Haggard, he is the founder of the New Life Church in Colorado Springs that boasts of a 14,000-strong membership.

“The fact is I am guilty of sexual immorality. I am a deceiver and a liar. There is a part of my life that is so repulsive and dark that I have been warring against it for all of my adult life.”

Aghast, I mutter: “How terrible! How could he do such a shameful thing?” But before I said any more, an inner voice challenged me, “Do you realize that if not for the grace of God, you would have fallen into the same trap of sin and shame? Don’t you too struggle with rebelliousness and self-sufficiency? Have you always won the battle against pride and lust?”

The ugly Pharisee in me was hushed—and hopefully will stay hushed for long. With my heart softened, I shed some tears for this fallen brother, and some more tears for his family. For his wife who will probably lie awake in bed at night, wondering if she can ever fully trust the man beside her. For his five children, who every time would see a gay couple might whisper, “That could’ve been my father.”

Sin breaks hearts, and not just the heart of the one who commits it.

I am not a perfect Christian; I do not have a halo. I still fall short, many times awfully short, in fact. Sometimes I don’t like to pray. There are days when I wonder if God really exists at all. If He does, I ask, then why doesn’t He make His presence more known?

During the times when I am in the pit of doubt and despair, He lets down the rope of truth and hope. When I sin against Him, the God of love grants me a second chance. A third chance. And seventy times seven more chances await me. Yet I do not claim exclusive right to this privilege. For this was also true for Art, my former choir director now in heaven, and is true for "Art", the disgraced Colorado pastor. And this will hold true for men and women who have fallen into sin, broken and repentant, and need Someone with a grip strong enough to pull them up and never let go.