The Eastern Catholic and Orthodox tradition of Forgiveness Sunday — otherwise known as Get Out of your Comfort Zone Sunday — is fast approaching. (As my husband is canonically a Ukrainian Catholic, I have the good fortune of discovering another world of “new” old practices.) On the Sunday before Lent, during a Vespers service, you approach particular persons you have either offended or who have offended you and exchange pardon in preparation for Lent.
And be ye kind one to another; merciful, forgiving one another, even as God hath forgiven you in Christ (Eph 4:32).
This is a great example of how revolutionary Christian forgiveness is. Before Christ, it was an eye for an eye. Then He came along and introduced concepts like love your enemies, turn the other cheek, and do good to those who persecute you. His followers became famous for how they loved one another. And we still are to this day — right?
Unless it sometimes goes like this:
Be ye angry with one another; resentful, holding a grudge, even as you have done nothing that needs forgiveness (Pagans 4:32).
We might expect such behavior from the world, which has made a doctrine out of trampling anything that gets in the way of our personal happiness. It is a kind of divorce — a willful separation from someone you were previously intimate with, because that person no longer meets your needs or threatens your happiness in some way. The world is a great champion of divorce.
Catholics are familiar with Christ’s teaching on marital divorce, and perhaps we pride ourselves on being members of the only Church that follows it literally. Perhaps we subconsciously think that following it makes us good Catholics, along with following other hard teachings, like the prohibition on contraception. After all, don’t the majority of Catholics reject those teachings? We call those people “Cafeteria Catholics,” while we think of ourselves as part of the all-you-can-eat remnant.
So why should Christ’s teaching on mercy be considered any less binding? Jesus thought human relationships important enough to give us a checklist of what to do if we have a dispute with our brother:
But if thy brother shall offend against thee, go, and rebuke him between thee and him alone. If he shall hear thee, thou shalt gain thy brother. And if he will not hear thee, take with thee one or two more: that in the mouth of two or three witnesses every word may stand. And if he will not hear them: tell the church. And if he will not hear the church, let him be to thee as the heathen and publican (Mt 18:15-17).
The subject of forgiveness comes up again and again, nowhere more memorably than in Jesus’ exchange with Peter:
“Lord, how often shall my brother offend against me, and I forgive him? Till seven times?” Jesus saith to him:” I say not to thee, till seven times; but till seventy times seven times” (Mt 18:22).
It all sounds so lovely, so peacenik — until it’s time to do it. Just as well-meaning spouses may delight in reading about how “beautiful” NFP is — only to discover that it entails flannel pajamas and late-night Brady Bunch reruns alone on the couch. Suddenly the Church needs to get with the times.
I’ve had a similar distaste for forgiveness. I carried a grudge against a certain relative for two years. (Let’s just say I thought her female dog was nicer.) I had settled into a smug, self-justified resentment; then, one Sunday, our pastor read the Gospel passage about the servant who owed his master 10,000 talents and couldn’t pay. The master let him off. The same servant then met a fellow servant who owed him 100 pence. Inexcusable! He threw the fellow into prison until he paid the debt. The master was in disbelief: You can never repay me for all you owe, and yet for some petty thing you won’t forgive your fellow servant?
The final lines chilled me:
And his lord being angry, delivered him to the torturers until he paid all the debt. So also shall my heavenly Father do to you, if you forgive not every one his brother from your hearts (Mt 18:34).
I knew then that I had to forget my relative’s conscience and do something about my own. Once my guilt packed up, my resentment hitched a ride with it, and I haven’t seen either of them since.
The experience led me to believe that Christ admonishes us to forgive not just for the sake of others — who may never know nor care — but for ourselves. Otherwise, we stand alone — hurt, angry, and downright smug about it. How can God dwell in a heart like that?
In such a case, only a meditation on the greatest injustice ever committed — which was also the greatest mercy ever given — can make forgiveness possible. Who had greater cause for deeply held resentment than the sinless Savior Himself? What are our petty injustices next to Deicide? What ingratitude have we suffered that He can’t trump with, “I raised people from the dead and was killed for it”? Yet even hanging on the cross, He still gave His murderers the benefit of the doubt. “They know not what they do.”
What did they not know? Did they know they were being cruel? (“Crucify him! Crucify him!”) Did they know they were being ungrateful? (“He saved others; let him save himself.”) Did they know they were being unfair? (“I find no cause in him.”) To my way of thinking, all parties knew enough to be guilty — damn guilty, in fact — and still Jesus forgives them. It makes me wonder: What did He know that they did not?
They didn’t know that they were being forgiven without deserving it. Do we know it?
