With more stops than starts, I’ve been practicing Lectio divina, a meditative reading method I discovered in The Big Book of Christian Mysticism. Although my faith tradition doesn’t go much for Latin phrases or the term “mysticism,” this practice sits comfortably within Christian tradition. It consists of four parts: 1) slowly and carefully read a small portion of a sacred text, 2) deliberately consider the message of the text, 3) respond honestly to God in prayer, and 4) allow prayer to dissolve into restful contemplation in God’s presence.¹

To begin this practice, I chose as my “sacred text” the book Reduce Me to Love, by Joyce Meyer. Each chapter is divided into sections one or two pages in length, ideal for slow reading. In the third chapter, Meyer writes, “Love does not expose faults; it covers them.”² I immediately feel uncomfortable. Covering a fault sounds equivalent to lying. What about honesty and repentance, naming our errors and confessing them? If we cover faults with love, won’t they develop an odor, or grow out of proportion like the rumor-weed of VeggieTales fame? The title of this post feels more comfortable: Love doesn’t cover faults; it exposes them.

The gospel message I learned depends on faults being exposed. It goes something like this: God identifies “right,” and also “wrong.” Once we have right and wrong, it naturally follows to avoid wrong and adhere to right. As wrongs are identified, the way is made for transformation and healing. God is light, light exposes faults, and this is important because if our faults aren’t exposed we won’t pursue a relationship with God. The more we see our bleak character, the more we depend on a Holy God. Who needs God, except as a knight in shining light to rescue us from ourselves?

I’m struggling with this narrative, but I can’t disown it entirely. I do have characters flaws and God is Savior. Maybe it’s both/and more than a division that requires a move from one side to the other. Perhaps black and white—right and wrong—share the same spaces. Could it be that in God’s presence we know our faults, and at the same time know that love is bigger? When the prodigal son returned and looked into his father’s eyes, I think he saw tragedy and pain there—but in small measure compared to love. The father covered his son’s body with a robe and his soiled reputation with the family’s good reputation. A multitude of sins, covered. Love has meaning when it is layered with tragedy and pain.

A covering of love empowers us to offer love. It is out of insecurity—the nagging fear that perhaps we are not worth loving—that we point out the faults and foibles of others. There are two words for this: middle school. Insecure, pubescent young people, feeling suddenly naked in comparison to their younger selves, find solace in laughing at the vulnerability of others, forming cliques, and keeping secrets. It’s a tough time, and even the kids who are covered in love must ask again and again if they really are safe and whole. But, when those questions are answered with a resounding Yes, love becomes a superpower. In finding themselves well-loved they uncover the courage and desire to cover the faults of their peers rather than expose them.

Let’s go way back for a minute and think about about Adam and Eve. Did God expose them and point out their misdeeds? Certainly He could have come in with sarcasm—“Wow guys, way to listen to what I said.” Or anger—“What is wrong with you?! How hard is it to obey one little thing?” Or overblown emotional distress—“I can’t believe you did this to me. How could you seek out the only thing that hurts me and do it? This ruins the whole world!” Or disgust—“I should have known you couldn’t handle this. What a mess. It’s going to cost a fortune to clean this up.”

Certainly, if God was like me, he wouldn’t have come in the evening, allowing time to sew clothes. He would’ve been there at the first bite, to point out their nakedness, ridicule their vulnerability, and mock their lack of self-control—“Do I have to watch you every second?” But God was in no hurry. Nor did He appear angry, arrogant, or distraught. Doesn’t that seem odd? His masterpiece just got spray-painted. It will never be the same again. And what does He do? He covers the perpetrators. He sees their fear, confusion, and sorrow, and provides clothing.

I don’t get this. Maybe I got stuck in the middle-school mindset. I walk into a beautiful room or a put-together group of people and find the one thing out of place. I’m quick to point out faults. The way every smell draws a dog, every imperfection commands my attention. Clean the kitchen and I’ll show you the two spots you missed on the counter. Tell me a memory of last year’s Fourth-of-July potluck and I’ll correct you on the details. To leave a task undone is a liability, and to make an incorrect statement is a lie. Accuracy is more important than love.

The brave souls who love me call this philosophy into question. As friends accept my imperfections—arriving late, overstating things, laughing too loud—I come to know that love is more important than accuracy. My husband, Michael, has opportunity to expose my faults more than any other person. But he chooses to cover with love. When he tells the story of how I plugged our camper incorrectly into our vehicle, causing over $8,000 of electrical damage, he says, “We plugged it in wrong.” When I correct him for the hundredth time on how to straighten the bedcovers, he smiles and teases me. When I get cranky and overbearing, he quietly finds a way to ease my load—fill the dishwasher, spend time with a distraught child, run an errand. My faults have hurt him over and over, but he doesn’t expose them.

Christmas, I think, can be a time of covering. Holidays may bring up painful memories or remind us of broken relationships, and often there’s not much we can do about those things. But this time around let’s find courage to cover up a bit of fault—our own, or the fault of another—with love. In time, maybe we’ll even kill the fatted calf.

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Endnotes:
¹Adapted from The Big Book of Christian Mysticism, by Carl McColman, pp. 193-194
²Reduce Me to Love, by Joyce Meyer, pg. 30