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nothing to see here for now

Continued from the last post where I am writing about how a 2022 book is helping me clarify my thinking about repentance and forgiveness.  Recap:

 

The point here is, this book helped me immensely in clarifying my thinking… It mostly has to do with untangling concepts that have become, at least in my mind, enmeshed with each other. 

…First off, Rabbi Ruttenberg separates the concepts of "the perpetrator's repentance" and "the victim's forgiveness."  The work that the perpetrator must do is not dependent on the victim's ability or willingness to extend forgiveness.  The victim's decision to forgive or not forgive may take place whether the perpetrator ever repents or not.  The two processes can inform one another but they are not the same process and they do not require the perpetrator and the victim to have contact or an exchange of any sort of information or messages with one another.

That divides our discussion into two bundles of concepts:  one about the perpetrator's work, and one about the victim's process.   In a subsequent post, I'll write about how Rabbi Ruttenberg has clarified my thinking about the victim's part.  For the remainder of this post, I'll take up the perpetrator's bundle.

The last post was about how Rabbi Ruttenberg's book clarified my thinking about the perpetrator's job of repentance.  This post will be about the work of forgiveness.

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The discussion of forgiveness begins in the part of the book where Rabbi Ruttenberg is laying out the steps of repentance, because she needs to explain what it does and doesn't have to do with the perpetrator's responsibilities.  Recall (from the last post) that Rabbi Ruttenberg laid out the scholar Maimonides's five steps of repentance, and one post-script:

•  owning up to the harm
• forming a firm purpose of amendment (starting to change for the better)
• making restitution and/or accepting punishment
• making a sincere apology to the victim and other affected parties, possibly to the public
• transformation of the self into someone who doesn't do that anymore

When the obligations of the penitent (taken from the above five steps) are adequately discharged as far as he has power, then (in Maimonides's tradition) he may seek the last closure, i.e.,

• atonement,

understood in the context of Yom Kippur.

The way that I'm being personally helped by this book is by the separation of these concepts, these steps of repentance as separate and necessary parts of the larger work of repentance, so they can be individually considered and evaluated.  And so, as we turn to considering forgiveness —let's look at that step of apology, which is obviously closely related. 

In a good, complete, apology, a perpetrator usually asks for forgiveness.  I think we all understand that a perpetrator does not have the right to demand forgiveness; he should understand that forgiveness, if it is offered, is a free gift—otherwise, it's a confused sort of apology, if it counts as an apology at all.  Right?  Isn't that sort of the essence of an apology?  An acknowledgment that forgiveness is not deserved at least without some demonstration on the perpetrator's part?

And indeed, in the steps of repentance, the apology does not come first, nor even second.  First the harm and one's part in it must be admitted, confessed to, acknowledged, truthfully and without minimization.   Next, the beginnings of change—and the barest beginning of change is the desire to do better.  Next, restitution and/or accepting consequences; at least this must be begun; one of the consequences one should accept is the necessity of the humble apology and the begging for (not demanding or coercing) forgiveness.  And then, with that evidence of walking the walk of repentance shoring him up, the perpetrator may apologize.  

He begs for forgiveness, and then, whether the victim agrees to forgive or not, he must continue with the rest of the work. 

In Rabbi Ruttenberg's view of Jewish law here, the victim is encouraged for their own good to forgive, but in certain circumstances is not required to do so.  Nevertheless, even without the victim's forgiveness, there is mercy here for the perpetrator.  Rabbi Ruttenberg explains that the law lays out a way for the perpetrator to know when he's apologized and begged forgiveness "enough:"  perhaps it wasn't "enough" for the victim, but it can be "enough" for the perpetrator to lay down the work of begging, accept that they will not receive the gift of the victim's forgiveness, and continue the work of transformation.  Atonement becomes possible when the whole process has been sincerely tried.

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Recall, though, that our big question is:  what is meant by forgiveness?  What is this thing which, from the perpetrator's point of view, we are to regard as an undeserved gift from a victim—but which we Christians have often heard described as a required step for our own salvation?  How to untangle these concepts?

The first clue we get from Rabbi Ruttenberg (who notes that English "forgive" comes from a word meaning "to give, bestow") is a distinction between two Hebrew words that are used in the context of forgiveness.

The first is mechila, which might be better translated as "pardon."  It has the connotation of relinquishing a claim against an offender; it's transactional… the acknowledgment that the perpetrator no longer owes them, that they have done the repair work necessary to settle the situation…. It doesn't mean that we pretend [it] never happened, and it doesn't (necessarily) mean that our relationship will return to how it was before….With mechila, whatever else I may feel or not feel about you… we're done here.

Slicha, on the other hand, may be better translated as "forgiveness"… It looks with a compassionate eye at the penitent perpetrator and sees their humanity and vulnerability, recognizes that, even if they have caused great harm, they are worthy of empathy and mercy…. [i]t does not denote a restored relationship…(neither does the English word, actually; "reconciliation" carries that meaning), nor…a requirement that the victim act like nothing happened.  But it has more of the softness, that letting-go quality associated with "forgiveness" in English.

Notably, the Jewish literature of repentance mostly deals with mechila… What needs to be done to close accounts, here?

 

So we begin to think of these two different ways we might imagine "forgiveness."

And then we also consider the two sides of the forgiveness coin, or currency:  There must be a sense in which forgiveness, if it is to be given, must be given freely; else, a perpetrator would have the right to demand it from us (and we know, especially from having been repentant perpetrators ourselves, that it is repellent to consider such a demand as just).  And there must also be a sense in which Christianity requires it of us somehow:  the words in the Gospel of Matthew must mean something.

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I'm inclined not to make any prescriptions at this point about whether one or both of these Hebrew concepts, slicha or mechila, is exactly what Jesus meant when He talked about forgiveness.  I'm inclined just to note that they do, indeed, appear to be two different concepts, and it is easy to imagine being prescribed (as a victim) to do our best, at the appropriate time, to achieve one or the other. 

Mechila:  It makes sense that there may come a point when the perpetrator, having repented, having paid us what he can, has done enough and we don't need him to do anymore; a point when it would be better for us to move on with our lives.   (Rabbi Ruttenberg notes that, in cases wheref the harm is irreparable, she agrees with authoritative sources who say the victim is not obligated to forgive at all; but she concedes that it may be better for the victim's healing to choose to do so.)  It squares with Christian thought that we ought to refrain from total retribution or from insisting on reparations that leave the perpetrator in utter poverty, even if this was the only way to be made whole.

Slicha:  It also makes complete sense, in the Christian worldview, that no human being is worthless, God loves everyone, and so simple humility and truthfulness requires us to remember that humanity, the need for mercy.   They may, for instance, deserve pity, and an understanding of circumstances that explain, if not excuse, the behavior.  This is the sense where instead of hoping for the perpetrator's downfall, it accords more with Christian thought to try to hope for the perpetrator's conversion, repentance, and eventual salvation.

So maybe Jesus means:  When the perpetrator has repented, apologized, and made amends, started to become better:  then, release them from their obligation to you.

Or maybe Jesus means:  After the hurt has passed, remember that the perpetrator needs mercy, as you also need mercy.

But neither of these are necessarily places that we can get to quickly, or easily.  The medicine may be good for us, but it can be bitter.  And it doesn't go down in one gulp.

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From a podcast called We Can Do Hard Things, episode 163, "How to Make Wrongs Right with Rabbi Danya Ruttenberg," in which the hosts interviewed the author:

…It often feels like, 'can you forgive me?' feels shorthand for 'can we pretend that that never happened?  Can we go back to a way where that never happened?'  And that feels like… the opposite of forgiveness for the person, which is accepting that it can never be…"

Here are some things that forgiveness (either kind) is distinguishable from:

• forgetting what happened
• healing from the trauma caused by the perpetrator
• transforming the injury into wisdom or growth
• transforming anger, rage, or sorrow into positive actions
• having compassion for the perpetrator's suffering or poor situation
• declining to hold the perpetrator accountable
• minimizing the harm or the intent
• silence that protects the perpetrator or the systems within which he was able to cause harm
• restoration of the relationship to the way it was before; pretending the injury never happened
• reconciliation, returning to a renewed relationship
• putting oneself back in reach of the perpetrator, where he has the opportunity and perhaps the temptation to harm you again in the same way.

The injunction to forgive others their trespasses—mechila or slicha or some other mysterious thing—has been used against sincere Christians in a sneaky way, to imply that Jesus wants their silence.  Jesus wants their not making trouble.  Jesus wants them to forget, to pretend, to not be so goddam sensitive.    So there is a long, painful history of coerced forgiveness there, which is not really coerced "forgiveness" but is instead coercion that aims at some combination of these other things, these things which serve the perpetrator and serve the structures that let the perpetrator do harm.

Rabbi Ruttenberg's formulation also seems to imply that in serious situations, forgiving too soon may actually deprive the perpetrator of an opportunity to do the real work of repentance.  What if, deprived of consequences, the perpetrator never realizes he has work to do at all?  Forgiveness is a gift, but (at least initially) withholding forgiveness might be a gift as well.  It depends on the human beings involved.

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I think that the answer  to "how do you know when you've forgiven?" is not one that can be addressed in generalities.  I very much doubt there is a single formula that is correct for everyone.

Instead of asking "Is forgiveness something that mostly happens inside the forgiver?" —I think we have to, within our situation, ask:  Is the forgiveness I am called to try to achieve, something that will happen mainly inside me?  

Instead of asking "At what point in the process of a penitent's repentance must forgiveness be offered?"  I think we, in a particular situation of forgiveness, need to be asking:  What evidence is there that this person who harmed me has acknowledged what he did, has remorse for it, desires to change?  Has he repaid me or accepted the consequence?  Has he done as much as he is capable of?  And then, upon determining the answer to these questions:  Can I forgive him at this point?  Would that interrupt his process?  Does he need to know about it?

These are principles that must be considered and worked through—like so many moral questions.  They are not canned answers that work the same way in every circumstances.  But with a clear idea of the difference between forgiveness and the things that masquerade as forgiveness, victims have a better chance of escaping the false forgivenesses that serve neither justice nor mercy, and finding a place of real peace and closure.

I recommend Rabbi Ruttenberg's book as an example of that clarity.

Most of us are aware of the radical teachings of Jesus regarding response to harm and injury caused by another.

"Turn the other cheek also… give your cloak as well."  (Mt 5:39-40)

"Forgive us our debts — as we also have forgiven our debtors…for if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you."  (Mt 6:12-14)

"[Forgive], not seven times, but I tell you, seventy times seven times."   (Mt 18:22)

Are these instructions clear?  Is their meaning obvious?

I think perhaps they are not, at least not to us in our culture.  Because we, in our culture, are not very clear about what we mean by the word "forgive."  And because we are not very clear about what we mean by "forgive," these instructions lay a heavy weight on people who have been harmed, are aware that there is something that Jesus calls us to do, something by the name of "forgive."  The person who wants to follow Jesus' injunction to forgive may have many questions that leave them uneasy.  When you don't know what forgiveness means, exactly, how do you know when you have forgiven? 

•  The thing about seventy times seven seems to imply a sort of limitless forgiveness—but is it limitless in the sense of a mass formless quantity of which you can never have too much?  Or is it limitless in the sense of an unlimited number of discrete, completed forgivenesses?

• Is forgiveness something that mostly happens inside the person harmed?  Or is forgiveness something that is not real until it has been experienced by the perpetrator?

• Who is the forgiveness for?  Is it for the perpetrator's good, to bring them peace and encourage them to change for the better?  Or is it for the perpetrator's just punishment, to "heap burning coals on their head" (Prov 25:22) by offering them an undeserved kindness?  Or is it primarily for the harmed person, to help them move forward and away?

• When must forgiveness be offered?  Does it matter if the perpetrator has admitted the wrong and tried to repair it?  Does it matter if the wrong is actually irreparable?  Does it matter if the perpetrator is unable to understand that he has injured someone, or unable to take any steps toward repentance, sorrow, or change? 

• What if the perpetrator doesn't accept our extended forgiveness as good enough?  What if he accuses us of holding a grudge and refusing to forgive, because we do not indulge him in his own idea of forgiveness?  Is he correct?  Have we failed to forgive?

• We all understand, I hope, that forgiveness is rarely instantaneous:  is there a time limit?  If we can't manage to attain it in our lifetimes, will our own trespasses remain unforgiven?

There is a desperate need for clearer thinking, if we are ever going to answer these questions.  That goes for theoretical, general questions, and for the specific wounds in our own lives.

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I recently read a book that seeks to clarify the thinking around these issues:  On Repentance and Repair:  Making Amends in an Unapologetic World (Beacon Press, 2022) by Rabbi Danya Ruttenberg.   Rabbi Ruttenberg calls on a framework of repentance that originates in the law regarding Yom Kippur, and that was further codified by Torah scholar Maimonides (1138-1204).  With this she lays out for us what the Jewish tradition, at least, asks of human beings as they move forward after one has injured the other.

Along the way, Rabbi Ruttenberg points out how the vagueness of our understanding of "forgiveness" has allowed people to weaponize it  against victims, demanding their silence and their peace in the face of injustice, minimizing the harm, even demanding that they put themselves back within reach of real harm.  This tactic works particularly insidiously against many sincere Christians, who know they are supposed to forgive but don't understand how to make that forgiveness co-exist with, to put it bluntly, boundaries.  She carefully separates and untangles forgiveness from the things that it is not, things that should be considered separately.  Grounded in the Jewish tradition, she offers a way of understanding a process of forgiveness.  She does not go so far as to affirm a positive responsibility to forgive in all cases—but I think her approach is wholly compatible with a Christian understanding of Jesus's radical call to mercy, and her careful treatment of the subject and distinguishing of different parts of the process can only help inform us as we try to live up to it.  

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I will begin with the confession that I'm writing this a little too hastily for it to count as a complete book review.  I bought the book because I needed some specific advice about repentance and forgiveness in networks of interpersonal relationships, and I pored deeply over the chapters that directly addressed these while skimming over the chapters on institutions, nations, and justice systems.  (I'm very interested in those topics too, so I'm going to dig into those soon!)  The point here is, this book helped me immensely in clarifying my thinking, and I now feel equipped to figure out a way forward where before I was wallowing in confusion.

Let me see if I can explain where the clarity comes from.  It mostly has to do with untangling concepts that have become, at least in my mind, enmeshed with each other. 

(By the way, speaking of clarity, I'm going to use the term "perpetrator" to mean someone who has done a specific harm to a specific person, and "victim" to denote that person, just to make the identities of whom I'm talking about very clear.  The choice of those terms is not a statement of the permanent status or identity of either.)

First off, Rabbi Ruttenberg separates the concepts of "the perpetrator's repentance" and "the victim's forgiveness."  The work that the perpetrator must do is not dependent on the victim's ability or willingness to extend forgiveness.  The victim's decision to forgive or not forgive may take place whether the perpetrator ever repents or not.  The two processes can inform one another but they are not the same process and they do not require the perpetrator and the victim to have contact or an exchange of any sort of information or messages with one another.

That divides our discussion into two bundles of concepts:  one about the perpetrator's work, and one about the victim's process.   In a subsequent post, I'll write about how Rabbi Ruttenberg has clarified my thinking about the victim's part.  For the remainder of this post, I'll take up the perpetrator's bundle.

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Ruttenberg explains that Maimonides set forth a five-step task list for the perpetrator who desires to become a penitent.  The five steps help us to separate and distinguish parts of the work.  They may remind you, as they did me, of the steps taught to Catholic children leading up to the sacrament of confession.  

Step one:  Naming and owning harm; comprehending it, facing it, confessing it in an appropriate venue, whether private or public.

Step two: Starting to change.  Says Ruttenberg, 

Translated to our own time, the work of transformation might include tearful grappling with one's behavior in prayer, meditation, and/or some other practice; making financial sacrifices that have meaningful impact both on one's own wallet and the world; changing one's self-conception and self-identity in appropriate ways; putting oneself in new situations both to consciously avoid the opportunity to cause harm and perhaps to experience what it's like to not have control or power—someplace where one might get some practice in the virtue of humility.  

These days the process of change might also involve therapy, or rehab, or educating oneself…a concrete action plan….grappling with the root causes of the harm.  Some of these things may be necessary even before the confession stage, some may be appropriate at this point in the process, and in many cases the answer might be both.

Step three:  Restitution and accepting consequences.  "Repair work isn't really repair," says Ruttenberg, "if the only thing that's changed is the perpetrator."

Step four:  Apology.  Notice how late in the process this step is!  "I think he was trying to tell us," says Ruttenberg about Maimonides, "that apologies, and even amends and reparations, don't truly have the needed effect if the work to become different isn't already underway."  Maimonides says, she  tells us, that the perpetrator has an obligation to "'pacify [the person harmed] and to beg their forgiveness.  Even if they only offended their fellow verbally, they must appease and implore until [the harmed party] forgives them.'"  And she notes that "the focus is the mental and emotional state of the victim, not the boxes that a perpetrator needs to check in order to be let off the hook."

Step five:  Making different choices. 

The critical fifth and last stage of this process is that the perpetrator must, when faced with the opportunity to cause similar harm in the future, make a better choice.  This can happen only if they've done the deep work of understanding why the harm happened, stayed out of situations that would make the harm easy to perpetrate again, and reoriented themselves and their life….[T]he choice will happen naturally because the person making it is a changed person in the ways that matter.

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So what we see here is that the following threads, actions, can all be successively separated from one another and deemed individually necessary parts of repentance:

• owning up to the harm one has caused
• forming a firm purpose of amendment
• repaying the debt, literally (restitution) or figuratively (accepting punishment)
• making a sincere apology to the victim and possibly also to other affected parties or the public
• transformation of the self into a person who does not do that harm anymore

Besides these, there is another.  Rabbi Ruttenberg reserved for the very last chapter in the book a sixth distinct concept, atonement, which she says is more about the perpetrator's relationship with God.  But, she says, it's "the last step, after everything else is complete":

[A]tonement works only if you've done the necessary work of owning harm and undergoing transformation—repentance.  And if that harm has an interpersonal dimension, atonement is entirely impossible without repair, amends, and in most cases, apology.

Catholic readers may note that for us penitents, absolution at least (our personal wiping-clean of the slate, since the atonement in our tradition has been accomplished by Another) is available on the making of a good confession, and doesn't necessarily depend on us already having completed the transformation, repaid anyone, or apologized.  However, it's not unreasonable to argue that in order to make a good confession, one must be wholly ready to do these things insofar as we can.  If we are not ready to apologize, make restitution, or reform ourselves, do we really have the firm purpose of amendment that the "good confession" requires?  And indeed the priest is empowered to withhold absolution, or to call upon us to make restitution as part of our penance.   Part of examining our conscience is to discern whether we indeed have the will to do better. 

Should we stay away until we are sure we can do all those things?  I think it's better to approach the sacrament even with imperfect contrition, and the fear of having to do all that necessary work.  The sacrament is there to give us grace and to strengthen us to do better, and we can come back again and again as needed.  I think that for Catholics, bringing the harm to confession happens first somewhere in the first two steps, and can be repeated as we gather strength to move through steps three, four, and five.

More on the other side of the coin—forgiveness and its allied concepts—in the next post.

This vacation rental has four bedrooms.  Mark and I are in one.  The 15yo has one.  The 8- and 12yos have one.  And our two grown boys, the recent college graduate and the one who will be moving to college in the fall, have one.  This is basically the same arrangement in our house at home, at least in theory; but in practice it’s probably only been a handful of times, for the youngest was still sleeping in our bed quite a lot when the oldest went away to college.

This is our third time in Chamonix as a family, after 5 years and the most intense parts of a global pandemic.  The 15yo now has free roam of the entire walkable town, and the 12yo is learning his way around and so his “boundaries” are increasing.  The 18yo can buy himself a drink in a bar.   

Jet lag has not been kind to the 15yo, who has been plagued by unrestful sleep for many months; there is still no diagnosis, but we are trying some medications with the help of a pediatric sleep clinic.  We let them sleep as much as they wanted for the first couple of days—all of them—and everyone has adjusted except the 15yo.    Today we will try an 11 am wakeup and see if the sleep schedule can be improved, but no one really thinks that the unrestfulness will be.  So that has been hard for the 15yo.

I don’t know quite what to do with other people’s unhappiness, of the kind that goes on and on and rarely lifts.  “Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep”:  it is good advice for temporary connections and for temporary weeping; but what to do when one lives, all the time, with someone who is suffering?  And at the same time with others who are not, who are even rejoicing most of the time?  I have not learned the trick of rejoicing and weeping and rejoicing again in quick succession, day after day for a year or more.   I have not learned the trick of rejoicing and weeping at the same time, because I am together in one house with one who rejoices and also one who weeps, as well as some other people, and they are getting on each other’s nerves.  Cultivating a serene acceptance, would perhaps be easier.  But detachment, which is the only way that I know to achieve serenity, succeeds exactly because it fails to be “with” anyone.

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Perhaps “weep with those who weep” was never meant to encompass clinical depression.

I don’t mean that we cannot com-passion-ate, suffer with, someone whose particular sorrow is depression.  I mean, there are two kinds of sorrow there:   the disordered sorrow, the moments of believing the lies that depression tells; and then there is ordered sorrow in the face of depression, the simple wishing that  depression wasn’t there, the longing for what it has thieved away, the unrequited desire to feel better, the weariness of trying one remedy after another, of working through therapies that are, well, work.

I think it must be that “weep with those who weep” means to accompany the sufferer in the latter grief, but not to fall somehow into the disordered thinking and feeling itself.  Or to mistake one for the other.   Clinical depression is an illness manifesting as a collection of unreasonable emotions; and yet it is entirely reasonable to have emotions about the depression.  The former is what therapy works to challenge by deliberate effort of will and behavior; the latter are valid and what therapy works to accept and process.  And yet the two resemble each other; a twisted cord to be unbraided gently.

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The other difficulty, of somehow accompanying the rejoicing and the weeping at the same time, I don’t have an answer for yet.  I hold back from rejoicing for fear of abandoning the one who weeps, and restrain my weeping for fear of deflating the one who rejoices.   Is the answer to compassionate and rejoice interiorly, but keep a lid on it exteriorly?  or to learn to code-switch smoothly from one to the other and back?  or is this advice simply not well applied to the situation of simultaneity, and some other approach is needed?

A family means:  being with, really with, more than one person at a time.  Does that mean being more at one time?  It is hard to see how to be enough.  But logically I must be enough, already.

So instead of thinking of it being pulled in opposite directions, there must be a way forward, hand in hand on either side.

From the Gospel (Luke, chapter 4) for the first Sunday of Lent, yesterday, the middle part:

Then he took him up and showed him
all the kingdoms of the world in a single instant.
The devil said to him,
“I shall give to you all this power and glory;
for it has been handed over to me,
and I may give it to whomever I wish.
All this will be yours, if you worship me.”
Jesus said to him in reply,
“It is written
            'You shall worship the Lord, your God,
                        and him alone shall you serve.' ”

Of the power and glory of the kingdoms of the world, the devil in this story says:

"I may give it to whomever I wish."

We really need to keep this in mind whenever we are intellectually tempted towards any version whatsoever of the prosperity gospel, the idea that material, physical, or bodily blessings are the natural reward of faith and righteous living.

There is a practice among comfortable Christians (like ourselves) which, though well-meaning, has always bothered me, and I've had trouble articulating exactly why. 

It is this:  when acknowledging that one has escaped a bad material situation, or received a material windfall, or simply lived a comfortable life free from major material difficulties, there is a good-hearted desire to acknowledge that it wasn't through wisdom or had work that good befell them, that they aren't taking credit.  And there is also a desire to avoid saying, for instance, "We've been lucky," I suppose to deny a superstitious-type believe in "luck" or to assert that the hand of God works in all things and so perhaps even to deny the action of random chance.   So, not wanting to take credit, and not wanting to use the word "luck" for whatever reason, they substitute:  "We have been blessed."

But… this is also a problem, especially when spoken aloud in a society like ours where many people do believe in the prosperity gospel, whether they realize it or not.  Anyone who says "We have been blessed" may mean "We have received this consolation through no deserving action of our own," but a lot of folks may hear "God has looked with favor upon us and rewarded us for our innate goodness and/or our faithful behavior."  

So I don't think it's a good idea to use those words.

And the Gospel gives us another reason.  Are material goods and comfort and power and respect necessarily blessings?

Are the opposites necessarily curses?

"I may give it to whomever I wish."  

(I once heard a perhaps apocryphal story of a page-a-day Scripture calendar that had printed on one page, "All this will be yours, if you worship me."  It was meant to be funny, the story; but honestly, I think "I shall give to you all this power and glory, for it has been handed over to me and I may give it to whomever I wish" would work better.  I think a lot of people would like to believe that the voice that says this is the voice of God.)

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Satan, of course, is the epitome of the unreliable narrator.   But Satan is here a character, not a narrator.  The narrator chose the words to put in the mouth of the devil, and chose them with care.

I don't know what phrase we should substitute for "We've been blessed."  But I do think we should stop using it that way.