Reflections
on Matthew 18:26
The poor wretch threw himself at the king's feet and
begged, “Give me a chance and I'll pay it all back.”
Matthew
18:26 (MSG)
It happens a lot.
The moment judgment is pronounced, the guilty almost
always cry for mercy. They beg the court for leniency as if, in a last ditch
effort, they’ll be heard. Their voice usually gets louder as they’re taken away
– desperately louder. The doors open, the doors close, and their muffled voice
trails off until, at last, it’s gone.
But this one is different.

Not him.
His voice is barely audible. Even from a distance, it
looks like he knows his guilt. His posture, his head buried in his hands, speaks
of a broken, guilty man.
At once, the King’s police descend on him but they stop
the moment the King stretches his hand out and makes them step back. There’s an
audible gasp in the chamber. Silence fills the room except for one small voice
heard by those closest.
“Give me a chance.”
It doesn’t seem possible that the King would listen to
the poor wretch. After all, he’s nothing more than a slave now and slaves in
his kingdom have no voice. They are nothing more than personal property –
animals to be branded, used, and abused – expelled from the rank and dignity of
even being called human.
“I will pay it all back – everything.”
One flick of the King’s hand and the police would descend
immediately on the man who refuses to hold up his head. One flick and it’s
over. But instead, he has the beginning of a smile on his face and a kindness
about him. Is it because the man actually thinks it’s possible to negotiate the
absolutely impossible?
He can pay back everything? Really?
The King just stands there. Every eye is fixed on him
wondering why he hasn’t banished the wretch already. They expect it. Especially
this man for what he’s done. But still the King doesn’t move. Is he actually considering
it?
The sound comes once again, slowly, quietly.
“Give me a chance…”
*
* *
“This
is beautiful,” I said to Ricky, handing the papers back to him. “I mean, really
well done. It’s like you’re giving your daughters your heart.” A waitress came
by, poured more coffee, and landed the check on the table.
“Thanks,
but it needs work.”
“Not
much from what I can tell.” I watched as he put cream and sugar in his coffee
and stirred it. “Have you finished writing it?”
“Not
yet, I haven’t written the part about my father. They’ve got to know the whole
story. The men in my family have messed up for generations – me included – and
I gotta break the cycle. It ends with me. I don’t want it touching my
grandsons. If my daughters can see it, they can do something about it.”
“Tell
me about your dad.”
“Mind
if I hold off on that for a bit? I’d much rather tell you what happened next,
after that night in the jail cell.”
“Yeah,
of course,” I apologized, not wanting to rush him.

He
stopped, his smile came back, his look confident. “Oh, thank You, Lord! Just
remembering that night makes me praise Him!”
I
smiled back, echoing his thanks.
“The
guys in prison knew something was different too. They’d come to me, spilling
their guts, asking me to pray for them and I did. It’s like God had favor on
me. He let me do for others like He was doing for me. I’m telling you, I saw miracles,
prayers answered. Some of the guys got saved. I was there a couple of months
and it was like the best time of my life. I almost didn’t want to leave but
when I did, I came out a new man. I was never gonna be what I was.”
I
sat there, amazed by his story.
“That’s
when you and I met, remember that?” Ricky said, pointing at me. “And I asked
you to pray for me. Man, I needed prayer. I hadn’t seen my daughters yet, not
since the day they saw me arrested in front of my house. I was so scared. I was
afraid they didn’t want to see me let alone talk to me.”
Again,
Ricky turned his face toward the window. I could tell this was hard for him to
relive.
“The
Lord helped me. I said to Esther and Dora, ‘I know you’re not going to believe me.
But something happened to me in prison. The Lord did something in my life. If
I’m right about that, if I’ve changed, you’ll know it not because I’m saying it
but because I’m living it. All I ask is that you pray for me.’
“But
they wanted nothing to do with me. They were hurt – hurt bad. So I made up my mind
to do the best I could. I went to rehab upstate. When I got out, I found a job,
found a place to live, and started going back to church. The pastor is a good
man. He took me under his wing and promised to help me.”
Ricky
picked up the stack of papers and said, “And you can read the rest.”
“Hey,
that’s not fair. You’ve got to finish the story!” I teased.
He
got that Ricky smile again, ear to ear. “I gotta go.” He grabbed the check and
went to the counter to pay for it. “If you don’t mind,” he said when he got
back, “do what you can to make it better. I’ll try and finish it before we meet
again.” We set a date two weeks out, same time, same place, and said our
goodbyes.
As
I walked to the car, I kept looking at this letter in my hand, a long letter,
maybe thirty pages handwritten back and front. I found the place where he’d
ended his story and, once in the car, I started reading. As always, Ricky surprised
me. What I thought was coming next wasn’t coming at all.
Not
yet anyway.
If I wasn’t working or home sleeping I was at the church.
I wanted to be there to help out, clean up, do work projects on the building,
be at every meeting I could. If the church went out to serve, I went. If they
stayed back for prayer, I stayed back. Nothing in me wanted to be the man I
used to be. I was free – really free.
One day, the pastor looked at me said, “Why are you
always here?”
“I feel like God wants me here,” I replied.
“You doing what you do for Him or for you?” he asked.
“I hope it’s for Him.”
“You think about it and get back to me,” he said and
walked away. That really bothered me. I prayed about it for weeks. I finally
asked, “Lord, maybe I’m trying to prove myself to my daughters -- is that it?
Is that why I’m doing all this?” I finally went to the pastor and asked him
what he thought.
“What else could it be?”
“Could be guilt for what you’ve done. Guilt for the
people you hurt. Guilt for the man you killed and the family he left behind.
Guilt for the father you hate. Guilt for what you’ve done to your family. Guilt
for all the sins you’ve done to God. Guilt that piles up as high as the mountains
and pushes the soul down into hell.”
I hate it when I cry. The older I get the more it
happens. But for me, it almost always happens when I feel the Holy Spirit
working on me. And, right then, I started to cry in front of the pastor.
“You’re trying to pay it back, Ricky. Pay it all back.
That’s what I think.”
“I’m doing my best, sir,” I told him, wiping my eyes.
“I’m doing my best.”
+ + +
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