I can’t tell you how many times people come to see me about forgiveness, or rather, not being able to forgive somebody.
Sometimes it takes an hour of discussion to get to that point as we talk around what’s actually upsetting somebody but the simplified version goes something like this:
can you help me forgive x? Yes, I know all that, but you see, they …. and it’s affected me like this… upshot = forever changing the course of my life
Really, it’s a request to rubber stamp not forgiving somebody because they’ve been an utter *insert own unforgiven person’s moniker here* and – possibly more importantly? – removed control of one’s destiny over some thing or another, whether it be a relationship, business, promotion, reputation, lifestyle etc. It’s also a moment of solidarity with ‘good’ to share in condemning the exposed words and actions of the guilty party(ies).
I know all of the scriptures, I know the psychology behind reframing and letting go of negative thought patterns, I engage in person-centred listening to enable empathic response and cathartic conversation but…
Forgiveness is far easier said than done, isn’t it? When I preached about it yesterday at St Clement’s in Ordsall, I was surprised at how many people welled up when I described the potential impact of not forgiving just one person in your life. I don’t know why, but it never occurred to me that virtually every one of us has somebody to forgive but haven’t.
Perhaps because when we can’t forgive somebody, unless we are over zealously declaring, ‘Nope, I will never forgive him for doing that to me…’ or ‘After what she said about me…!’ we are actually hiding from the reality that we are more about judgment and retribution than mercy and forgiveness, because where one seems to empower us, the other seems to let the perpetrator off scot-free.
Then thing is, we always seem to miss out the most important bit – letting ourselves hurt and grieve the very thing stolen from us. We are so afraid of feeling our own pain that we bury it beneath bombastic threats, cold-shouldering the reality of what has transpired. We never will regain the possibilities of potential that were stolen from us. Ever. And no amount of hating, stamping, silence or slating will redress that. What it will do, though, is poison our very being as we hold on to the bile of bitterness until it seeps into our being and we lose our very selves and become the thing we loathe, our thoughts consumed with moments of divine retribution and witty one-liners that cut the so-and-so down to size.
In reality, the person that hurt us either wasn’t capable of recognising how much pain they would inflict or they just couldn’t give a stuff; either way our response won’t make an ounce of difference to their little lives, it will only mess with ours. Forgiveness doesn’t release them (although it does, spiritually but that’s a whole other blog), but it does release US.
I know that, because after twenty-odd years of being a Bible-beleivin’ Christian (sorry, couldn’t resist that, it came out in a Southern drawl in my head; clearly still delirious from flu-remedies) three people over the same two years came at my life like three jugonauts colliding with me on a pushbike at an unmarked cross-roads. Every area of my life was impacted; not one part was free of the situations colliding with one another like some form of astral storm that went from 0-60 fast than Hammond in Lamborghini. As was ever the way, plenty of people got their oars out, and as one never quite knows whether they are deliberately trying to push you back in or give you something to grab a-hold of, all we know is that chaos abounds.
Up until that point – I cringe to think of it now – I had been known amongst my friends as being a very forgiving person, always able to sort out issues – even very serious ones – openly and kindly, restoring relationships and moving forward in peace. Indeed, my vicar had one described me as ‘too merciful’ (the irony of which still makes me laugh). But after these last two years, I realised that it isn’t until someone or something really hits you right in the goolies (can I say that? Well, somebody will be sure to let me know if I can’t…) that forgiveness becomes a problem. For forgiveness becomes a problem when pain still buzzes through your brain even as you fall asleep, never mind through every waking moment of a daily life that only serves to remind you that your life has been irrevocably changed and there’s nowt you can do about it. It has been the longest, hardest winter my soul has ever known.
As I renewed my ordination vows at the Chrism Mass in Holy Week, and again, sat in the Maundy Thursday service where we re-enact Jesus being betrayed and denied I had to recognise that judgment is not in my gift, especially if I want my own faults and failings to be released.
‘Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.’
There is nothing we can do except accept that forgiveness releases us to move into new life, bringing people and places and possibly even roles we weren’t expecting, a kind of resurrection I guess, which seems an appropriate analogy for Eastertide. The whole deal with Jesus is that real resurrections only happen after a complete and utter death, they’re not resuscitation or somebody clinging on to life support, because sooner or later it would fade into nothing and people would forget and we’d be left in our grief. Resurrection = new life, new directions, new hope and yes, a kind of disconnect with before – something has died that can never be again – Jesus swaps mortality for immortality and can no longer physically remain with us; I swapped unforgiveness for forgiveness, and although I can’t do or be or live the way I was expecting to, I can now look forward to seeing how my new life unfolds as the places that have been locked in the bleak fields of desolation and pain give way to blades of green as I eagerly watch for signs of recognition as to what they might become in future. Which reminds me of that wonderful Easter hymn, a favourite of mine:
Now the green blade riseth from the buried grain,
Wheat that in dark earth many days has lain;
Love lives again, that with the dead has been:
Love is come again, like wheat that springeth green.
In the grave they laid him, love whom men had slain,
Thinking that never he would wake again.
Laid in the earth like grain that sleeps unseen:
Love is come again, like wheat that springeth green,
Forth he came at Easter, like the risen grain,
He that for three days in the grave had lain.
Quick from the dead my risen Lord is seen:
Love is come again, like wheat that springeth green.
When our hearts are wintry, grieving, or in pain,
Thy touch can call us back to life again;
Fields of our hearts that dead and bare have been:
Love is come again, like wheat that springeth green.
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