Metanoia

A blinding light from the heavens, a booming disembodied voice, and the man falls to the ground. “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?” the voice demands, and the man is forever changed.

This is the conversion story of St. Paul, a man who spent his existence persecuting Christians until a supernatural experience on the road to Damascus turned everything he believed upside down. Like all stories involving redemptive change, we go on to hear much more about the changed person and the impact of the transformation on their lives. They’re our protagonists, after all. But I’m always interested in the other people involved, the supporting characters on the sidelines. It’s one thing for someone to suddenly evolve and pronounce themselves different, but how are the folks who’ve endured the person’s worst self supposed to react to instant, drastic change? Is everyone expected to brush aside decades of hurt and just roll with the punches (or lack thereof)?

People who can do this have an important story to tell, too. Laying down defenses is hard. After all, there’s a reason those defenses went up in the first place. Over the years, they served as protection against the person who now stands there claiming they’ll never do that again.

How do you grant second chances when setting aside your shield leaves you vulnerable to attack?

Of course, most of us have been on the other side of this scenario as well. We’re the ones who’ve changed yet still find that others define us by outmoded definitions of who we once were. It’s frustrating to be forever labeled the difficult one, the ditzy one, the tactless one, the screw-up …especially when we’ve worked hard to understand and outgrow less desirable aspects of ourselves. The process of change is further complicated by the fact that for most of us, no matter how hard we strive to be better, there’s always a kernel of doubt inside, a little voice that wonders if we’re capable of improvement at all. Maybe the other person is actually right about us.

Maya Angelou famously said, “When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.” She wasn’t necessarily wrong. I don’t think allowing others to change means parking our discernment and letting ourselves become selfless punching bags. We don’t have to blindly accept assertions that things are different now, or even rule out the fact that not all changes are for the better. We can keep whatever distance we need until we feel secure. But maybe we also can be brave enough to give people the space and opportunity necessary to prove to us that they’ve grown. Supporting each other’s sincere efforts to be better than we were before might benefit us all.

We’re safer when we believe we know exactly how people will act and protect ourselves accordingly. But we potentially miss a lot, too.