There's a wonderful song by one of my favorite contemporary folk singers, John Prine. Its chorus goes:

Father, forgive us for what we must do.
You forgive us; we'll forgive you.
We'll forgive each other 'till we both turn blue,
And go whistlin' and go fishin' in heaven.

John Prine is known for often adding his unique twist to otherwise traditional themes. Even if some of us do picture some mythical, fatherly type of god-head, few of us would envision that this figure might be in need of our forgiveness. The point of the lyrics is though, that, first of all, forgiveness is relational. Often it needs to flow in both directions; it doesn't usually happen in isolation. And second, if you can extend the idea of fishin' and whistlin' to incorporate thoughts of heaven, is the idea that-only when we have thoroughly done the work of seeking and extending forgiveness-'till we're blue in the face-can we let loose and really live the good life.

The ideal of forgiveness is one of the more difficult religious ambitions we might pursue. Whether we are in need of forgiveness, or whether we need to extend it, forgiveness causes us to reconsider the reality of our life, as we have known it, and then to reform that reality according to the life we are hoping to recreate. Forgiveness is about letting go of something smaller in order to embrace something larger; it is about faith. It is about taking responsibility within our relationships for the wellbeing of those relationships.

Norman Vincent Peale wrote: "A true apology is more than just acknowledgement of a mistake. It is a recognition that something you have said or done has damaged a relationship and that you care enough about the relationship to want it repaired and restored."

We might add that accepting an apology has the same effect. It's about more than simply recognizing that personal justice has been served. Accepting an apology is also about moving ahead into a repaired relationship.

As Unitarian Universalists we say that we affirm and promote the inherent worth and dignity of every person, and that we affirm and promote the interdependent web of existence of which we are a part. If we take that seriously, it places us in personal relationship, spiritually and otherwise, with every man woman and child, as well as with the entire planet, if not the universe.

That means an awful lot of relationships in which, if we are to accept this religious cause, we will be responsible for holding together. That's a pretty high ideal. Can we ever really hope to hold together so many pieces? I don't think so. Not flawlessly anyway. That means we are going to be constantly at fault for some kind of error, and others are going to be continually 'trespassing against us' as well. It means that there will need to be a great deal of continuous repairing and restoring. It means that there will need to be a great deal of forgiveness being shared.

Since damage to the relationship-any relationship-is a given, we need to ask ourselves: Do we care enough about the relationship to seek and extend forgiveness? To what extent? For how heinous an injury? For how distant a relationship? And what is the cost if we are unwilling to participate in an experience of forgiveness that begs our pardon?

Perhaps in trying to find help in answering such questions we can turn to the stories of others who have struggled with these same issues. Maybe we can learn from others who have tried to answer these questions for themselves. This morning I'd like to tell you some of Ernest Goldman's story, and that of his daughter, Bobby.

Some of the long time members of this congregation know the name Ernest Goldman very well. He and his wife, Maria, were members of this church for some twenty years until his job moved the Goldman family to Massachusetts in 1972. But it was here, in this church community, where the Goldmans raised their two daughters, Bobbie and Helen. And it was for and with this church community that Ernest created a series of recitals and performances of beautiful music that rang through these walls for a period of two decades.

In your Order of Service this morning there is a flyer for a concert that Ernest Goldman will be performing in this very room, this coming Friday. We owe much gratitude to Don and Merrilea Trawin organizing this concert, and for working out the details that will bring Ernest back home to be with us. When Merrilea told me the story behind this event, I knew it was a story that we all needed to hear. It's a story of forgiveness that's not only the story of a personal lifetime; it's also a story of redemption for a loss at least as great as any other loss in the history of humanity.

Ernest Goldman was not born here in New Jersey. He was once a Viennese student of engineering as well as a student of classical piano. In fact, his piano teachers provided a lineage of connection linking Ernest in a direct line to Ludwig von Beethoven, himself.

In 1938 though, ten months after the Nazis annexed Austria, life was made most difficult, if not impossible, for the Jews of Vienna. A Jew was defined there by law as anyone having three or more grandparents that were Jewish. Jews were denied protection under the law. They were no longer allowed to attend universities, to practice certain professions, or even to sit on park benches. Nazi troops scoured the streets, randomly knocking on doors in search of Jews.

It was from this cruel and threatening environment that Ernest and his then fiancée, Maria, escaped after nearly being discovered several times. Even though Maria worked in the office of the American Consulate, it still took seven months to secure visas and affidavits that would allow them entry into the United States. When the paper work was finally done, they boarded a train from Vienna to Holland, there to set sail for Hoboken, New Jersey.

It was a long journey just to get out of Austria. They were not out of harms way though, until they reached the Netherlands and embarked upon the ship. The train ride was rife with peril. "...I saw my last Nazi at the Austrian border," Ernest said. "My heart was pounding." The Nazis were in full control. They could have removed the couple from the train on a whim, at any moment and changed their destination from Holland to any one of the notorious concentration camps.

Once in the States, the Goldmans were also able to secure the release of Maria's mother. A massive effort to rescue Ernest's parents though was not so successful. Four years later he learned from a friend that his parents and many other relatives had been sent to the death camp at Theresienstadt.

Ernest vowed that he would never return to Austria, because he didn't want to experience any chance meetings with people he once knew, because it would be too painful, and because, as he said, "It would be a betrayal to my parents." Years later, members of our congregation can remember the vehemence with which Maria and Ernest swore that they would never set foot in Vienna again.

Having had his old life taken from him, Ernest set about building a new life in his new country. He completed his studies in engineering and physics and began what would be a long and fruitful professional career with GTE. He also continued to work with his avocation as an extremely high-level amateur concert pianist. Though he accomplished a broad classical repertoire, he continued his special focus on the works of his much-loved Beethoven.

Many of us know people who escaped the Holocaust. There are still members of our congregation who are its survivors. So many among us lost family members in this, one of the darkest hours in the history of humankind. Holocaust survivors tend not to talk about their memories of those events; they were so unspeakably painful. Often the children of those survivors have been left to try to put the shattered pieces of broken lives and families back together. Often those children of survivors have had very little to work with.

Bobbie Goldman, Maria and Ernest's daughter, was not satisfied to let that dark history continue to shape the future of her family life. In July of 1995 she traveled to Vienna to participate in an encounter with a group of others who also needed to work toward some reconciliation of their common past. The group was composed of children of Austrian victims of the Holocaust and children of the Austrian perpetrators of that Holocaust.

Bobbie would return to Vienna in 1996 and again in 1997 to continue this dialogue. I don't think that most of us can even begin to imagine the trepidation that must have been experienced by those group members as they came together. Bobby has written a significant account of those encounters, which I've had the opportunity to read.

"One of the clear themes for everyone," she writes, "was feeling like an outsider, and not belonging." Another common experience was the denial that had been so formidable a part of the households they grew up in. Some felt that they were betraying their families by participating in the group, but that they had to do it for themselves and for their children.

Some of the children of the perpetrators were, "...overwhelmed by how warm and receptive the Jews were, and did not quite know what to expect from us," Bobby wrote, "others wondered what we wanted from them." In each of the encounters, they told and listened to each other's stories. That was a difficult and courageous thing to do-listening to one another's pain, being open to it, learning how to respond to it, and then moving ahead together.

Bobby wrote, "It was important that this dialogue took place in Vienna, where our families had lived, and that we managed to speak mostly in German, without outside translators. It certainly helped to break down the walls between "them" and "us", and to work through some of our fears and feelings about the other side. As we got to know and care for each other, we realized that we were all victims of our shared legacy..."

Besides the personal strides Bobby and the other group members have taken in redeeming this unfortunate past for a more fortuitous future, there has been another, and unexpected redemptive outcome of these encounters. After the first encounter, one of the adult children of the Nazi's, Gerwald Lentner, came to Boston to visit Bobbie. Lentner is a judge in the Supreme Court of Lower Austria and an amateur musician.

Bobby invited him to drive with her out to Stow, Massachusetts to hear her father in concert. He was so moved by the experience that Lentner invited Ernest to go to Vienna to perform a concert there. After much introspection, dialogue, and what must have been an incredible personal struggle, Ernest determined that such a concert might be as he said, "...something small that I could do through the power of music to help heal some wounds."

The concert was arranged for the following summer. Ernest would perform with the premier Israeli violinist, Yossi Gutmann. In the Jewish Museum of Vienna they performed works by German composers: Bach, Shumann, Beethoven, and Shubert. The centerpiece of the concert was Beethoven's Sonata, Opus 111, Beethoven's last piano sonata that holds in it a wide range of emotion-including grief, resignation and serenity. Proceeds from the concert provided a plaque that was placed at the Jewish Cemetery in Krems.

Though, unfortunately, Maria had died a few years before the trip, Ernest Goldman made it home. "I saw the concert as a reconciliation with Vienna," he said. "It was a good thing to do." It will be music from this concert in Vienna that Ernest will be playing here this Friday evening.

Most of us don't need to be forgiven for the Holocaust, nor do we need to extend that kind of forgiveness. But still, we need to ask ourselves: Do we care enough about our relationships to seek and extend the forgiveness that is needed? To what extent do we need to extend ourselves? For how heinous an injury? For how distant a relationship? And what is the cost if we are unwilling to participate in an experience of forgiveness that begs our pardon?

What in the world needs our forgiveness? How can the Catholics and Protestants of Ireland forgive one another? How can the Israelis and the Palestinians forgive one another? How can the Croats and the Serbs reconcile? If they don't, the blood shed will never end.

Only recognition of our common humanity can lead the way. Only when we recognize that we each have inherent worth and dignity, and that we are all part of this interdependent web of existence, only when we can bear to hear the pain in one another's stories, will we begin to experience the love that might carry us through to acts of forgiveness. Only by asking for and extending forgiveness can we begin to experience that love.

And where in our personal lives do we need to find room for forgiveness? Do we care enough about those relationships to seek and extend the forgiveness that is needed? I firmly believe that no one should ever stay in an abusive relationship in which they are unsafe. Lots of times though, I hear people talk about dysfunctional relationships as though they were abusive ones. The term dysfunctional has become so diagnostic in its usage. The truth is that most if not all, relationships are dysfunctional at times. It goes along with not being perfect.

It can sometimes be so difficult to admit to ourselves and to someone else that we have been wrong. It can be so difficult to let go of the anger we feel towards another for what they have done to us, and to forgive them, returning them to our love. When we fail at forgiveness, we let go of the hope of being more deeply human with our fellow human beings, and we replace those relationships with empty visions of impossible perfection.

When we succeed though, we recognize that the world really is a magnificently beautiful place that is yet filled with imperfections. And we learn how to live with one another, in love, creating wholeness out of these broken pieces. With the poet Pesha Gertler, as we move on our way to yes, we can bump into the places where we have said no; we can find our old wounds, the old misdirections of our lives, and lift them up one by one close to our hearts and recognize them as holy.

We live in a broken world, and its mending is in our hands, guided by our hearts and formed by our faith. For if we forgive others their trespasses, we too will be forgiven yours.

We can learn to be more human, more divinely human, by accepting the humanity of others.

We can learn to be more human, more divinely human, by practicing the religious art of forgiveness.