The New Testament tells us that in the days following his execution at the hands of those for whom political, social, and economic power had become more important than God, many of Jesus’ followers became acutely aware of his presence among them. As they wandered about in despair, wondering if the hope of freedom from oppression that had taken hold of them over the previous three years had been lost forever to a Roman cross, their eyes were opened. They began to see the light, piercing the darkness that had engulfed them. Some saw Jesus in a stranger on the road to Emmaus and others on a mountaintop, some in an intimate gathering of friends, and some even in a graveyard. In what perhaps may have seemed some of the strangest of places, they experienced the presence of Jesus, the crucified.

One of the meetings of presbytery I attended recently happens to have among its membership several good Cumberland Presbyterians with whom I would say I’ve had a less-than-engaging relationship. The reasons for our estrangement vary by person. Some have to do with seemingly irreconcilable differences in theology, some with differences in politics, and some, I believe, with mere misunderstandings or miscommunications. I’ve been as guilty as any in not doing more to seek reconciliation, and in most cases, the relationships have just been idling along at the point of “agreeing to disagree”.

There is one relationship in particular, however, that owed its estrangement completely to a mistake I made early on in my tenure here. This individual—someone whom I had never met and whose name I did not recognize—had contacted me about submitting an article for the magazine in the early part of the year and, as is almost always the case with an editor, I was pleased both to receive the pitch and to commit to publishing the piece when it was complete—especially as it fit very nicely with the theme of the issue in which it would appear. My mistake was perhaps a mistake that any rookie editor could make, but it was no less hurtful to the writer, who had obviously invested a great deal of effort and passion in the project.

My recollection is that the submission arrived in my office even before the agreed-upon deadline (another joy for any editor), and I filed it with the other content I’d gathered for the issue in which it would eventually be published. When it came time to actually start the editing process and to begin assembling the magazine, I opened the article and found that, as well-written and timely as it was, it did not conform to one of the magazine’s conventions of style.

Matters of style are not often deal-breakers. The edits involved in resolving such issues are usually pretty simple and straightforward, and rarely if ever have anything to do with the author’s intended meaning. Pressed for time (the reason for which now escapes me), I proceeded to edit the piece so that it would conform to our style convention without saying anything to the writer about what I saw as a problem. The real problem, as it turned out, was that in doing so, I completely destroyed the literary conceit the writer had employed—a conceit which, had I left it alone, was quite creative, and made for a very entertaining article.

Understandably, the author was livid when the issue containing the article was published. The ensuing phone call was awkward, and despite my efforts to explain my reasons for having edited the piece as I did, I could tell that the hurt and disappointment the writer felt made those reasons meaningless. I had apologized, but looking back, I suspect that that apology came across more as “I’m sorry you didn’t like the way I edited the piece, but you need to get over it” than a simple (and more accurate) “I was wrong”… Hardly the kind of apology that heals wounds…

After a few days of my own wandering about in despair (I was, after all, less than a year into my job), I slowly—too slowly, I’d argue—realized that I’d been completely wrong. But even during the brief email exchange that followed the phone call, I was unable to admit that fully. I expressed hope that the writer would work for us again, but the damage had been done and the answer seemed clear: “not likely.” The incident became one of those cockleburs of the conscience for me—an always-present reminder of my own propensity for failure.

Now, back to that meeting of presbytery… It had been a long but pleasant afternoon, and like others in attendance, I was heartened by the number of persons received as candidates for the ministry, licensed, and approved for ordination. It was a wonderful day, filled with hope—by any presbytery’s standards. At some point, the moderator called a brief recess so that folks could stretch their legs. I was standing in the aisle when I felt a tap on my back. I turned around to find a person whom I’d never met, and as far as I knew, had never even seen before—a stranger in almost every sense of the word.

Yes, it was the writer I’d hurt so many years previously, and after having self-identified to me, I received the warmest hug and one of the most sincere, most gracious affirmations I’ve ever received. Had my mistake been forgiven? Actually, the words the writer used were “forgiven and forgotten”, and in that moment, my eyes were opened. I saw Jesus.

It’s like that for all of us, isn’t it? Whether he’s in the homeless person we encounter as we serve her a hot meal on a frigid night, or in the child who has given us a Crayola sunrise, or in a dying parent in dimly-lit hospital room, or in someone we have wronged, but who forgives and forgets our transgression, we become aware of Christ’s presence. As I see it, the post-Easter Christ still walks this earth, and like his friends and disciples before us, we may still see him—sometimes in the strangest of places—if we just look at it right. In turn, we too can be the vessels in which others see Christ. Does that not go to the heart of the Great Commission? In this Pentecost season, let us go forth and be the vessels of Christ in the world, so that others may see him, just as his friends and family did.