I took part in a discussion this morning on a friend’s Facebook page (the owner of the Lay Anglicana blog, which I heartily recommend). It was about agreement, disagreement, and the partial ownership of truth. It brought this to mind, and I decided to re-blog it. Because I think we need to hear it. A lot.
There isn’t much on earth I hate. I dislike certain people who have hurt me, and I’m not inclined to give them very much scope to do so again. At least not soon. Even if I forgive them (which generally I try), it doesn’t mean trust is re-established easily. God might be able to do that, but I learned long ago not to mistake myself for God. I take a little more time. Sometimes a lot more. But “hate” is not the appropriate word for how I feel towards those people.
I can fairly confidently say that I “hate” liver. My mother tried to feed it to me, hiding it under other foods, calling it by other names. Something about it always made me gag. I couldn’t swallow it, and I’d spit it into my napkin and discreetly put it in my lap while giving the dog a hand signal…
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