I wonder what comes to mind when you think of forgiveness. Is it perhaps your own guilt, in need of mercy; your own pain, longing for healing; your own bitterness, tangled and restraining? I wonder if you think first of needing to forgive, or needing to be forgiven. I wonder if the feeling that washes over you is one of locked doors, weighty burdens, and a long, hidden history, or if it is one of relief, and freedom, and transformation.
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| "The Freedom of Forgiveness" by Rebekah Krevens |
Forgiveness is at the center of who we are as people of God, and yet it can be terribly difficult to grasp. For people who are used to counting, and keeping score, and tracking what is deserved or owed, the idea of a gift with no payment, no strings, no catch is unfamiliar and suspicious. Perhaps we hear “you’re forgiven” but still brace for the blow, or say “I forgive you” but still keep a record.
I think it happens, sometimes, that we confuse forgiveness for other things. Sometimes we think forgiveness isn’t really a big deal; we blurt out “I forgive you” whether or not we deeply mean it, because it’s the kind of thing good people do (and of course we’re good people). But that’s not usually forgiveness as much as it is our conditioning about what’s polite and expected.
Sometimes quick forgiveness comes as a relief, because it seems to close the door on an uncomfortable situation, and we feel like everyone can just move on. But that’s not usually forgiveness; that’s covering dust with a rug and pretending the floor is clean.
Sometimes forgiveness is seen as excusing what was done, or canceling consequences, or eliminating the need for repentance. But that’s not forgiveness, either; it’s at best sloppy and at worst a recipe for abuse.
So what is forgiveness? The kind of forgiveness Jesus talks about in the parable we heard in today’s Gospel reading isn’t simple, or shallow, or sleight-of-hand. Instead, the forgiveness Jesus describes is deep, and freeing, and transformational.
It begins with Peter, who follows up on last week’s reading about conflict within the church by offering what seems like a generous read on how many times one ought to forgive someone – as many as seven? But Jesus’ reply sticks a pin in that logic – “Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times (or seventy times seven).” The thing to emphasize is not the math, but that, if you’re still counting, you’ve missed the point. Keeping track, keeping score, keeping a tally - that’s not forgiveness; that’s swapping one cage for another.
Take, for instance, the slave in the parable. Chained up by an impossibly large debt, desperate, fearful of what would happen to him and his family, when the king comes to collect, the slave begs his king not for forgiveness – he can’t even fathom that! – but for patience. The king, whether out of mercy, or shrewdness, or something else, doesn’t just give the slave more time to pay, but rather releases him and forgives the debt – not a payment plan with hidden interest, but gone, erased.
When the slave happens upon a fellow slave who owes him a relatively small sum, however, he misses the opportunity to extend the mercy he himself has received, and indeed refuses to extend even the smaller mercy of patience, for which he himself had begged. The slave demonstrates not the transformation and generosity of the forgiven, but the fear and vengeance of one who is still caged, only this time by the illusion of scarcity and the need to keep score.
The king finds out and, furious that the mercy he gave was hoarded rather than shared, hands the slave over to be tortured until he would pay his entire debt – that is, forever. Ah. Seems like the act of forgiving hadn’t really transformed the king, either, as the slave’s debt is swiftly remembered and reinstated.
Unlike the king in the parable, God’s mercy is not conditional. We are reminded, though, that we are often trapped in cages of our own making. We can refuse the freedom of forgiveness and reject the transformation of God’s love by trapping and hoarding the movement of grace rather than allowing it to flow through us, to others. We confess that we are captive to sin and cannot free ourselves. We confess that we keep score, that we tighten our grip, dig in, and treasure vengeance more than freedom. We’ve become accustomed to our cages and are reluctant to leave them; accustomed to counting and keeping score and unable to imagine a different system.
The good news is that healing and freedom and transformation are what God does. Resurrection is what God does. When we are dead in sin, when we are locked in cages of our own making, God continues to give us forgiveness and new life – not seven times, but again and again. When we cannot free ourselves, God comes to us – not seven times, but again and again, calling us beloved and wrapping us in grace. Forgiveness is hard. Transformation is uncomfortable. Resurrection can only follow death. But made new in the waters of baptism, and strengthened by the meal, we are filled with God’s Spirit. We are reminded that God walks with us always, leading us in the way of forgiveness, and freedom, and life. For a God who loves us, and does not leave us as we are, we give thanks.
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