Definition of sin

Today I was the guest speaker at a class called Religion and Pop Culture down at the local community college and I was reminded again how diverse we are as we think about God and belief systems and especially about sin. As a pastor, folks often ask me about sin. They want to know if what they are doing is sinful or not. I've fallen into the habit of asking people what their definition of sin is before I answer the question of whether or not what they are doing is wrong. I am amazed at the variety of answers I get to the definition of sin question. Most of the definitions revolve around the concept that sin is doing 'really bad stuff' and, of course, 'really bad' is in the eye of the beholder. I find myself asking folks to draw the line that needs to be crossed for something to be considered sin. Most people agree that Hitler or Idi Amin were way over the line, but that saying you are fine when you aren't is a meaningless 'white lie' that isn't sinful at all. I enjoy, particularly in group settings, observing the debate as folks try to draw a line down the fuzzy middle. "Missing the mark", the classic definition of sin, becomes easy to do when the middle is ever shifting and subservient to the whims of the artists.

Missing the mark requires an agreement as to what the mark is and since we can't agree on that it seems hopeless to answer the question of whether something is sinful. When we get to move the mark to where we shot the arrow we can eagerly point to our own purity and castigate those around us who don't live to our standard which allows us the fading pleasure of self defined holiness. The problem is that our neighbor is busily moving the mark to where her arrow struck and removing us from the company of the holy.

We have an endless capacity to self justify. My sin is always easily explained. When I drive over the speed limit it is because of the importance of the mission I am on. When the guy behind me goes flying by me, he is being a jerk and I am silently hoping for a cop to be hiding out around the next curve. Self justification assures the messy middle stays muddled. It grants us the ability to point fingers. Scripture says that all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God which really messes with the concept of a flexible mark and with the idea that I can self justify.

The picture

Long before I was born my father took a trip to Washington DC and ended up traveling with a group of friends to Mount Vernon where he was photographed sitting on the lawn of that beautiful, old estate. He died when I was just sixteen, but I often found myself looking at that picture and thinking about 'what if'. What if he hadn't died? What if he hadn't ever started smoking cigarettes so that he had never ended up with emphsema? What if he was still alive now? Would we be good to each other? Would he be proud of me, sad for me, angry with me? I wonder if he would be the Dad I wish he would be when I make up dads in my head. So many men struggle with their fathers and the wounds of a father are among the deepest wounds, I think. He wounded me in his dying, but he had already slashed me long before he breathed his last breath. It is the way of fathers to slash their sons. I have slashed mine and though I would love to take all those words, actions, looks, and curses back, they hang between us and they cut still deeper over time. When I was a kid, I believed the lies my father told me. I didn't know that they were lies. And often I believe that he did not mean to tell them as lies, either. He wanted good for me even when his words destroyed the very thing he sought to make good.

I miss him. All these years later, I still miss him. I see men with their fathers and wish that I could chat with mine and say I'm sorry and forgive me and teach me and walk with me and help me when I am afraid and all the other things I imagine sons say to fathers. I long to hear his voice and I remember when I was small and we sat in the living room chair on Saturday night while Mom played the piano and sang the old songs and his long arms snaked around me and held me close and I felt so very, very safe. I look at his brothers and his sister and try to imagine what he might look like now, how he might talk, what mannerisms I have that he must have had. Aunt Marge says I have his personality, his humor, and that when she sees me she remembers him more clearly.

Kathy and I went off to Washington DC on a vacation last year and we made a side trip to Mount Vernon. I found the place where Dad once sat and asked Kathy to take my picture. We took a few until we got the pose correct and the distance from the house just right. George Washington was a creative genius and he was known as the father of our country. His estate is beautifully preserved and as I sat there on the grass, I thought about Dad and fatherhood and God and connections and the importance of good fathers. Countries need them, kids need them, I needed one. I realized in that moment that God is a father to me. That I am his kid. That he knows my longings and that he has his huge arms wrapped around me. I felt very, very safe.

Someday maybe my boys will make the journey. I would love to be the one who snaps the photograph.