TO FORGIVE IS DIVINE
Sirach 27: 30 – 28: 7; Romans 14: 7-9; Matthew 18: 21-35
A condemned man hangs on a cross just outside of Jerusalem on a hill called Golgotha. Although for three years he has proclaimed Godly love, here he is now met with demonic hatred. Soon this preacher from Nazareth will lift his eyes to heaven and commend his spirit to his Father. But before he does, he looks down. He looks down directly into the eyes of those who five days earlier waved palm branches and shouted out to him, “Hosanna to the Son of David!” but who this day wave their clenched fists at him, curse him, and shout, “Crucify him! Crucify him!” He looks down into the eyes of those who just moments before stripped him and used the very instruments that he had used as a carpenter, hammer and nails, and pounded those nails into his hands and his feet. Into their eyes he looks. And as he does, he says, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
To err is human. To forgive is divine.
Maria was close to her 12th birthday when she was stabbed to death by 19 year old Alessandro Serenelli, a farmworker who shared a dwelling with her family. Alessandro had attacked the young girl when she resisted his efforts to sexually assault her. Alessandro was sentenced to 30 years in prison. Although he was aware that Maria had forgiven him on her deathbed (even saying she wanted to be in heaven with him) he didn’t feel remorse. One night during the third year of his confinement, Maria appeared to Alessandro in his cell. She was smiling and holding 14 lilies to symbolize the 14 wounds she suffered—which she lovingly offered to the man who had taken her life. From that moment on, he lived a life of goodness and grace. Four years after his release from prison, he went to visit Assunta, Maria’s mother. Begging Assunta's forgiveness, she placed her hands on his head, caressed his face and gently said, "Alessandro, Marietta forgave you, Christ has forgiven you, and why should I not also forgive. I forgive you, of course, my son! Why have I not seen you sooner?" The next morning Assunta took Alessandro by the hand and led him to Mass. From that day on he was welcomed into the family as "Uncle Alessandro." Assunta and Alessandro were also side by side when St. Maria Goretti was canonized.
To err is human. To forgive is divine.
This past April (2017), Robert Godwin Sr. was walking home from an Easter meal when a man walked up to him and shot him in the head. To add to the horror, the killer recorded the shooting and uploaded it to Facebook. Thousands of people saw the slaying before it was removed over an hour later. The family’s grief, particularly that of Godwin’s children, was painfully evident on the next day’s morning news. But so was their love. In a baffling demonstration of grace, three of his children publicly forgave their father’s killer. His daughter Tonya said, “Each one of us forgives the killer, the murderer. … We want to wrap our arms around him.” Godwin’s son said, “I forgive him because we are all sinners.”
To err is human. To forgive is divine.
I know what you’re thinking: “I could NEVER forgive like that! I just couldn’t. But in today’s Gospel, Jesus tells us that we CAN . . . and more than that . . . . we MUST.
In our Gospel, Jesus offers a parable about a servant who is ultimately condemned by his master, not because of the servant’s debt to him, but because the servant refused to forgive the debt of his fellow servant. So do you think Jesus is serious about this forgiveness thing? I think so. It’s the only time in all four Gospels that he put a PS on one of his parables: “So will my heavenly Father do to you, unless each of you forgives your brother from your heart."
To understand what Jesus is talking about in today’s Gospel, maybe we need to understand what he isn’t saying: He’s not saying that forgiving is condoning. By trying to understand those who have wronged us, or even forgiving them, we aren’t saying that their actions are acceptable. He’s not saying that forgiving is pardoning. When we forgive, we aren’t exonerating anyone from responsibility. He’s not saying that forgiving is a form of martyrdom. When we forgive, we don’t suppress our emotions and we aren’t doing it for the person who wronged us . . . We’re forgiving for ourselves.
So what is he saying? He’s telling us that forgiveness means freedom. Forgiveness frees us. It opens us up. It allows us to stop playing games. We no longer have to pretend that it didn't hurt, because it did; we don't have to pretend that everything's fine, because it’s not. When we forgive, we say to the person who has hurt us, “I will not allow you to do that again!” But more importantly, when we forgive, we say to ourselves, “I’m moving on with my life; I refuse to be held back by her mistakes or his problems!” That's forgiving. It's not saying that everything’s alright (that would be a lie) it’s saying, “I’m moving on now... there’s no grudge, no revenge - it's over; I’m through; the past is past and I’m free!”
Guess who gets blessed when you forgive. YOU do. The importance of forgiveness is not so much that it absolves the person forgiven as that it cleanses the person who forgives. Forgiveness is the greatest gift you can give yourself. Forgiveness just might be the most gloriously selfish thing that we do.
Maybe this story can better explain what I’m talking about: This is probably going to seem silly to you, but I did something on August 15th that I never thought I'd do because I thought it would be too painful. But I decided I needed to do it. I drove to Bergen Catholic where I used to teach. I only work ten minutes from the school but have avoided it like the plague. You see, my exit from there six years ago wasn’t pleasant and has left its scars. And even though I’ve prayed to be able to forgive those that I felt wronged me, the hurt was still there, as were my fantasies of revenge. I always felt that if I even saw the building again, all the hurt would come flooding back. But on that day last month, I decided I needed to do this. So I drove to the school and into the semicircle in the front of the building. And you know what? I felt nothing! No hurt. No nostalgia. No bad memories. No happy memories. No anger. No regrets. NOTHING! I even said a prayer as I did it. The demons that held me in their grasp for six years were finally released. I felt lighter. Like a weight had been lifted from me. And I felt that I was finally able to move on.
So maybe that’s what forgiveness really is. It’s letting go so we can move on. Too many of us are controlled by events that occurred yesterday. We drive through life looking in the rearview mirror rather than keeping our eyes on the road ahead. The decision to forgive is a decision to live in the present moment.
So this week, let’s take our hurts and our grudges to a trash heap. The heap is just outside of town at a place called Golgotha. Here one sinless man hangs falsely accused between two criminals. He is abused but will not retaliate; condemned but will not judge. He is beaten, but will only show mercy. At the cross, his mercy becomes his justice, and that all becomes grace. Let’s take that grace home with us and lay in bed at night with it when we are tempted to tally up the score of hurts from the day. Because to err is human. And to forgive is . . . well, you fill in the blank.
