Maybe Forgiveness Isn’t the Word

We may say “forgive,” but what many of us are really trying to do is release what we no longer want to carry.

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I’ve always struggled a little with the word forgiveness.

When someone says, “You need to forgive,” I think a lot of us hear something much bigger than what may actually be intended. We hear: Let it go. Wipe the slate clean. Stop being angry. Act like it didn’t happen. Give the person a pass.

And if the offense is serious enough, that can sound almost offensive.

If someone hurts you badly, betrays you, abuses you, or takes someone you love away from you, how exactly are you supposed to “forgive” that?

I was thinking about this while watching a series about Jeffrey Dahmer. One of the people affected by what happened described being so consumed by hatred that she barely recognized herself anymore. She knew, as a Christian, that she was supposed to forgive him. But she couldn’t.

And I found myself thinking: I understand why.

I’ve never experienced that level of hatred. I’ve been angry. I’ve felt wronged. I’ve carried resentment. But I’ve never had someone murder someone I loved. I’ve never had to sit across a courtroom from the person responsible for something unimaginably horrible and somehow find the words, “I forgive you.”

When I hear people say that, part of me has always wondered: How?

Maybe the problem is the word.

Maybe”forgiveness” Is Doing Too Much Heavy Lifting

We use forgiveness to describe a lot of things that really aren’t the same.

Accepting an apology is forgiveness.

Letting go of resentment is forgiveness.

Reconciling with someone is forgiveness.

Choosing not to seek revenge is forgiveness.

Restoring trust gets called forgiveness.

And in a religious sense, God forgiving sin is also called forgiveness.

That is an awful lot of work for one word.

And maybe that is where some of the confusion begins.

I don’t believe human beings can forgive in exactly the same sense that God forgives.

If I believe that God can forgive sin, then I’m talking about something divine. God can absolve. God can reconcile. God can deal with guilt, judgment, and salvation.

I cannot do that.

If someone commits a terrible crime, I cannot stand in front of them and wipe away their guilt before God. I cannot declare that their slate is spiritually clean. I cannot decide their eternal fate.

That isn’t my job.

So what can I do?

I can release.

Maybe What We Mean Is Release

Maybe when someone stands in a courtroom and says, “I forgive you,” what they are really saying is:

I am not going to allow you to consume the rest of my life.

That makes much more sense to me.

I’m not saying what you did was okay.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t face consequences.

I’m not saying I trust you.

I’m not saying I want a relationship with you.

I’m not even saying I will ever forget.

I am saying:

I am releasing the hatred I have carried toward you.

That is different.

And somehow, to me, it is much more understandable.

Open Your Hand

Imagine walking onto a beach and picking up a handful of sand.

Now squeeze it.

Squeeze as tightly as you possibly can.

After a while your hand begins to hurt. Your fingers become tense. Your knuckles tighten. You are putting enormous energy into holding onto something that was never meant to be held forever.

Then open your hand.

The sand begins falling through your fingers and back onto the beach.

You haven’t erased the fact that you held it.

You haven’t pretended it was never there.

You simply stopped squeezing and the blood returned and you feel better, you feel relief. 

Maybe that is what emotional release looks like.

The anger may have been justified.

The hatred may have had a reason.

But eventually you have to ask yourself whether continuing to hold it is doing anything to the person who hurt you — or whether it is mostly hurting you.

Put It in a Balloon

There is another image I like even more.

Take a balloon.

With every breath you blow into it, imagine putting something inside.

Anger.

Hatred.

Resentment.

Helplessness.

The conversations you keep replaying.

The things you wish you had said.

The revenge you imagined.

The injustice.

The grief.

Keep blowing until the balloon is full.

Then tie it.

Look at it.

That balloon now contains everything you have been carrying.

And then pop it.

One second it is enormous and filled with all of that emotional pressure.

The next second it is gone.

All that remains is a little piece of rubber.

Pick it up.

Throw it away.

It no longer lives here.

That doesn’t mean you forgot.

It doesn’t mean the person is absolved.

It doesn’t mean justice no longer matters.

It means you have decided that hatred is no longer going to occupy that much real estate in your mind.

Emotional Captivity

That may be the part of forgiveness we don’t talk about enough.

Hatred can become a kind of emotional captivity.

The person who hurt you may be dead. They may be in prison. They may be thousands of miles away.

But if they are still determining your thoughts, your emotions, your peace, and your ability to live your everyday life, then some part of them is still present.

They are still living rent-free in your mind.

And revenge doesn’t necessarily fix that.

Punishment doesn’t necessarily fix it either.

Someone can receive every consequence they deserve and still occupy every waking moment of your life.

At some point, the work becomes yours.

Not the work of absolving them.

The work of freeing yourself.

Maybe We Need Better Words

So perhaps instead of telling someone who has suffered terribly, “You need to forgive,” we might say something more precise.

You need to release.

You need to loosen your grip.

You need to reclaim your peace.

You need to stop carrying someone who has already taken enough from you.

And maybe you are not ready today.

Maybe it takes weeks.

Maybe months.

Maybe years.

But at least now the destination makes sense.

You are not being asked to say:

What you did was okay.

You are saying:

What you did was wrong. It will always be wrong. But I will not let what you did continue to govern my life.

I cannot erase your guilt.

I cannot absolve you.

I cannot change the past.

But I can open my hand.

I can let the sand fall.

I can pop the balloon.

I can release what I no longer want to carry.

And eventually I can say:

It no longer lives here inside me. What lives here now is my personal peace within me.