Grace. . .

I watched Dead Man Walking today. Not intentionally. I was flipping through channels, trying to find something that would entertain me for half an hour before I got down to some serious Japanese studying. I stopped when I realized what the movie was, and, although I told myself I wasn't in the mood for something so serious, I couldn't change the channel.

As the movie progressed, I kept asking myself what I would have done if I had been in Sr. Helen Prejean's place. . . would I have stood by the wholly unlikeable, somewhat sleazy, unrepentant Matthew Poncelet who was accused of (and denied until the end) raping one and brutally murdering two teenagers, or would I have turned my back on him? I knew all too well what the answer would have been. Even if something in the man had moved me to stand by him when all others had turned away, it wouldn't have lived for long past the hurt and accusation in the eyes of the teens' parents when they realized a woman of God was taking the side of their children's murderer. I would have changed sides pretty quickly -- and no doubt I would have seemed right to do so.

But I would also have lost the opportunity to help save at least one soul. Because at the end of it all, it was Sr. Helen's persistence in showing love to a convicted murderer, despite all other opposition, including his admission of guilt, that brought both him and his victims' families to at least some understanding of grace -- him to tearfully acknowledge his guilt and need for forgiveness, and them to realize how much courage it takes to extend, if reluctantly and bitterly, that forgiveness.

At Poncelet's funeral, one of the teenagers' fathers approaches Sr. Helen and tells her wistfully, "I wish I had your faith."

"No," she responds. "It's not faith. I wish it were that easy. It's work."

And so it is. Faith motivates us to do the hard and unpleasant work needed to give it meaning, to make others look at us and see something different, something that they want others to see in themselves. Fraternising with prostitutes and tax collectors didn't improve Jesus' reputation or make his social life any easier. But he knew that they, despite their hard exteriors, were the ones that needed someone to reach out to them, to care for them, the most.

And so it is today. It is the office gossip, the school reject, the town grouch, those who seem to deserve the least, who need the most. I've realized that, these days, my idea of extending grace to someone I don't particularly like is to avoid them (after all, if I stay away, I avoid confrontation and keep from making our relationship any worse. . . that's grace of a sort, right?) But not doing harm isn't equivalent to doing good. Not by a long shot. Reaching out and taking a stand for those who seem undeserving of and ungrateful for our love is hard, thankless, heartbreaking work. But those who persevere will be rewarded in the end. . . and the reward may take on unexpected shapes and sizes.