The school of another chance

British author and philosopher C.S. Lewis once observed, “Everyone thinks forgiveness is a lovely idea until he has something to forgive.”

I thought of Lewis’ statement after the University of Louisville hired Bobby Petrino as their head football coach for the second time. Not being a Cardinal fan, forgiving the coach for his past mistakes was easy for me.

But if I loved the Louisville football program like some of my friends do, and if I believed Petrino had disrespected and tarnished it by trolling for other jobs during his four year tenure there, or had I been a part of the Atlanta Falcons organization when Petrino abandoned its ship, or if I’d been on staff at the University of Arkansas when he was fired for misconduct, or were I a part of his family---forgiveness might be a treacherous mountain to climb.

The larger the wound the more painful is the act of forgiving.

Of course, many Louisville fans have excused Petrino and are anxious to give the coach another chance.  

Petrino’s wife has already done that. She was the one who helped convince Louisville’s Athletic Director, Tom Jurich, that Bobby is a different man now.

Forgiveness may not always be easy, but it is possible.  

To be sure, forgiveness is not the same as amnesia. Pretending nothing happened might simply be an escape mechanism for not confronting an unpleasant situation and can enable the perpetrator to engage in more harmful behavior.

Neither does forgiveness erase the consequences of bad choices. Forgiving a cheating spouse, for instance, doesn’t mean his/her behavior was okay or that present actions shouldn’t be monitored in ways they weren’t before.

The school of another chance does not automatically graduate its students in four years.

A change of behavior proven over a period of time is the only true proof of a genuinely transformed life.

Apparently Jurich is convinced his new head coach has turned the corner from selfish ambition. Whatever happens, the lives of many people will be affected for good or ill. At this point, Petrino has done what he can to make amends.  Before asking fans to forgive him for leaving them in the first place, he confessed wrongdoing, “both personally and professionally,” and vowed he would not repeat past failures.

Then Petrino openly acknowledged that his words alone are not enough to prove that he is a new man, that his actions matter and that time is necessary to prove his integrity or lack thereof.

For now, it’s time to take the coach at his word. Give him the opportunity to replace his faults with good actions. It is our all too human tendency is to replay over and over the negative game film of other people’s faults while ignoring the positive contributions they make as the result of a redirected lifestyle.

Fred Snodgrass was center fielder for the New York Giants when they played in the 1912 World Series.  In the 10^th inning of the deciding game, he dropped a routine fly ball that put the tying run on second base. Even though Snodgrass made a spectacular catch the next play, the Red Sox went on to win the game and the series. When Snodgrass died in 1974, the New York Times headline for Snodgrass’ death read: “Fred Snodgras, 86, Dead/Ballplayer Muffed Fly in 1912.” Even though he had made an outstanding catch after his error, and although he had been a successful banker, a rancher, the mayor of Oxnard, California, and had raised a fine family, the headline underscored that dropped fly ball 62 years before.

Granted, Petrino’s mistakes exceed a dropped fly ball. But he is and will be a reminder that we usually have no problem remembering other people’s missteps. Forgiving those who have hurt us--- well, that is another matter.

But the school of another chance is still a lovely idea. Enrollment is painful, but the program is nonetheless, an avenue to healing.

It’s beginning to smell a lot like the New Year

Mention the smells of Christmas and most people have little trouble ticking off their favorites:  the perfume of evergreen , the citrusy  smell of fruit in the Christmas stockings, cinnamon spice tea brewing, the aroma of gingerbread cookies and pumpkin bread baking.

So popular are these smells that they've been packaged in Christmas aerosol sprays, candles, and refresher oils.

Not so with the New Year.

What does it smell like? Bleh: the burnt sulfur of fireworks, hangover breath, the stale odor of cold pizza and soggy chips mingled with spilled soft drinks gone flat from the New Year’s Eve celebration.

We ring in the New while the bad smells of the Old linger on, presuming that the mere dropping of the ball will fumigate the heritage room of our wanton domicile.

It doesn't work; we get fogged in year after year, mired by the memories of our myriad mistakes.

All it takes is a scratch to sniff the scent of most any year.

I scratch 1976, for example, and smell my guilt when my dad proudly gave me my first set of New Testament commentaries. They were in paperback covers, and when I mentioned that I had wanted them in hardback, I saw his smile fade.  He doesn't remember this event. I asked him, just to make sure. (Or was he pretending, just to ease my conscience?) To this day, when I open one of those books, I often think of my insensitive remark.

There are years marred by misdeeds (more bluntly known as sins) when I’ve wronged others (“through my fault…my fault…my most grievous fault”), and those errors can still torture the soul like stick pins on a voodoo doll.

Indeed, the smell of the years has the power to grab us by the nape of the neck and before we can twist free from its stinky claws, the odor of remorse (Why didn't I? How could I? Should I have?) arrests us, while in other years, the smell of resentment (How could she? How dare he? They had no right.) stops us cold in our tracks toward progress.

Just a whiff can make your heart race, even after all those years.

It’s a heavy aroma that throttles our momentum as we try and motor our way onto the highway of a clean new year.

But hope can be found, sometimes in the most unusual of places---even a church.

Several years ago, on a New Year’s Eve, while in downtown Cincinnati, Ohio, I wandered into the Cathedral of St. Peter in Chains. Not really thinking why a long line had formed to my left, I took my place and waited, admiring the beauty of the sanctuary as we crept forward. Were we in line for a short video about the historic Cathedral or maybe a gift book?

No, it turned out to be the line for the Sacrament of Reconciliation (confession).

Oops.

I discreetly stepped out of the queue.

Bumping into people on my way out, I stumbled onto something--- not really a thing but an aroma that drew me back. It smelled ancient but new, familiar but foreign, strange but normal, invigorating yet soothing.

It was incense wafting down the aisle of the Cathedral, and that holy smoke accompanied me all the way to the exit, surrounding me like an invisible halo.

Perhaps confession is the on-ramp  to a the new day of a  new year, and at the same time,  the exit from the stagnant days of every old year we've ever known---years that bog us down, tethering our souls, pulling us backward through the muck and the mire of regret, remorse, and self-reproach.

Stepping onto Plum Street in front of the Cathedral, the fresh air met me with the invitation of an inaugural event:  It was the next moment beckoning me into a sparkling new year.

Could I accept the overture? Releasing the past isn't easy, you know. Did I really want to take the hand of the new? After all, hanging on to the past feels secure, even if it conjures conflicted feelings that can make us smile even as they smite us.

I didn't know if I could, but I stepped forward anyway, and taking a deep breath, inhaled a healing balm and lightly moved on--- into the direction the fresh New Year.