Robin Hardy Online
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We're cheating on this topic. Dorothy Sayers' introduction to Dante's Purgatory (Part 2 of The Divine Comedy) contains the best description we've ever seen of the steps involved in forgiveness. So we're quoting her:
Suppose that, in a fit of rage, or through carelessness, you have destroyed a valuable vase belonging to a friend. The effect of this act is to disturb the friendly relations between you, and to bring matters back to normal it is necessary that you should be (a) sorry, and (b) forgiven.
The first necessity is that you should "accept judgement"—i.e. admit that you are in the wrong. The vase did not "come to pieces in your hands," and nobody else knocked it out of them: your own ill-temper or your own negligence is alone to blame. When you have frankly admitted this, to yourself first and then to your friend, you have performed the first of the three parts of Penance, viz. Confession.
The next necessity is that you should both be sorry, and say that you are sorry, for what you did, and for the fault that caused you to do it; and that you should ask to be forgiven. This is the second part of Penance, viz. Contrition.
When this is done, your friend forgives you, and good relations are restored. You are now, without any further act, free of the guilt of your evil act; in technical language you have "purged the culpa."
Two things, however, remain: the vase is still broken, and you yourself are still liable to attack by the rage or negligence which caused the trouble in the first place. Technically, you have still to "purge the reatus" [debt of guilt]. This leads you to the third part of Penance, viz. Satisfaction, and calls for two further acts: reparation to your friend and amendment in yourself.
Note that if you are really sorry, these are acts which you will wish to perform. For the value of the damaged property you are indeed legally responsible, and the owner could sue you for it. But even though you have been forgiven, you will want to "make it up to" your friend as best you can; and you will also be particularly anxious to rid yourself of any tendency to fall into the same fault again.
Now, when we sin, we always wrong God, and usually our neighbour as well. Our acts of confession, contrition, and reparation have therefore to be made, not only to God, but to the injured human parties and also to the Church in general. The setting-right of the wrong done is our duty to our neighbour; the bestowing of expiatory alms, offerings, and so on is the outward token of our wish to pay reparation to the Church. But reparation to God is a different matter. Just as (in one sense) it is impossible for us to injure the infinite and immutable Omnipotence—in the sense, that is, of doing Him any personal damage, so (in the same sense) it is impossible for us to offer reparation or compensation to Him, since all that we have is His already. The only "property" of God's which we can really harm is ourselves; and the only offering we are able to make to Him is again ourselves, mended and made presentable at whatever cost. Thus, in this unique case, reparation and amendment are the same thing.
True, no individual repentances, nor the sum of them, can totally restore mankind as a whole; neither can any human "satisfaction" be wholly disinterested: our best amends are always partly in our own interests. We are all too much involved in the common guilt—part wrongers and partly wronged—ever to be sure of a perfectly pure motive for what we do. Mercifully, however, the whole burden of reparation has not been left on our shoulders. The full satisfaction for all mankind was made once for all by the one Man who, being Himself sinless, could offer Himself complete, receiving into Himself the total evil and returning the total good. What remains for us to do is to unite ourselves with that act of Atonement, so that whatever in us is (comparatively speaking) innocent may be taken up into Christ's sacrifice in expiation of whatever is evil in ourselves and others. (pp. 55-57)
We at RHO believe that, in the Protestant desire to separate from anything smacking of Catholicism (such as words like confession and Latin in general) we have thrown out some essential components of forgiveness. Relationships that have been broken by careless or malicious handling require these steps to be made whole again—without them, the relationship becomes that of a taker/giver, user/used. In such cases, you have those people who, when they wrong another, seem to expect Godlike forgiveness from their victims, rendering reparation unnecessary (confession, of course, having already been tossed out as "too Catholic"). So the guilt is neatly transferred from the wronger to the wrongee, who is now made to feel unchristian for not getting any satisfaction from a "Gee, I'm so sorry." (Pause while the wounded party responds according to script: "That's okay.")
The problem is, it's not okay, because these concepts of confession, contrition, satisfaction, reparation and amendment represent realities that won't go away just because we ignore them. So what do you do if you're in a relationship with someone who won't play by the rules but expects you to? We have to start by acknowledging Jesus' warning to "forgive your brother from your heart" (Matt. 18:35) "seventy-seven times" (Matt. 18:22)--whether he fulfills his part in the process or not.
We believe this has more to do with our relationship to God than to the offender. King David, in acknowledging his sin with Bathsheba, confesses to God, "Against you, you only, have I sinned" (Ps. 51:4). And the Apostle Paul cautions, "Do not take revenge, my friends, but leave room for God's wrath, for it is written: 'It is mine to avenge; I will repay,' says the Lord" (Rom. 12:19). So it becomes a matter of obedience for us to say to God, "You see how this person has wounded me. I am trusting you to lead them to conviction and repentance, because they're not listening to me. I am not going to get back at them; I'm not going to gossip about what they've done; I'm not going to dwell on it. I'm going to forget about it and move on with my life."
The catch is, this only works if you are able to remove yourself far enough from the offender to avoid a perpetual replay of the offensive behavior. Paul recognizes this, for in the verse just previous to that quoted above, he says, "If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone" (Rom. 12:18). Sometimes it's just not possible. Forgiveness is not subjecting yourself to continual abuse: that is bondage.
Forgiveness is a Godlike action; to be effective, it has to be delivered from a position of strength. True forgiveness changes the offender's heart: it makes him want to be different, to want to do the right thing. If the offender sees that you are helplessly under his thumb, how it is going to change him for you to forgive him? He expects that. He's in control. Remove yourself from harm's way; don't reengage unless you see him enact confession, contrition, reparation, and amendment—the whole nine yards. It is not realistic to expect that a simple confession will change anything. Some offenders want to see just how little it will take to convince you to submit again without real repentance on their part.
God is not sadistic, and it is wrong to interpret any Scripture in such a way to make Him appear to be. While He may keep us in difficult situations for our instruction or someone else's salvation, He will give grace and peace to carry us through them. Pray for wisdom and discernment, but don't turn forgiveness into shackles.
We say all that on the assumption that the offensive behavior is truly malicious and not just careless. Samuel Rutherford says, "Sinners can only wound," and that's what we do, often unintentionally. We're going to give offense at times just because we don't think. Those are the times that the "spiritual" and "mature" among us are called on to put that maturity into practice and rise above the offense. "Love covers a multitude of sins" (1 Pet. 4:8)—ours and others'. Not only is it great for our own peace of mind, but such an example encourages others to overlook the things we do that drive them crazy.
Then there are those who carry all grievances to their grave. You have offended—maybe in a spectacularly stupid way—and the wounded party will not forgive no matter what you do. In that case, the unforgiveness becomes her sin, and no longer has anything to do with you. Nor does it let you off the hook to commit further grievances—you have to continue to behave responsibly for your own soul's sake. Patient endurance of a cold shoulder may be part of the penance you have earned, and carrying out such a penance is a demonstration of sincerity that could win you everything you want. So while you can ask for someone's forgiveness, you can't force it. That, too, is something we have to leave with God.
copyright 2005 Robin Hardy
