“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!” (Lk 23:24)
Forgiveness is at the absolute core of the Christian life, and yet it can seem so vague, so elusive. What does it really mean to forgive? How do we forgive our parents for childhood wounds? How do we forgive a spouse for sharp words said in the heat of the moment, words that still sting to call to mind? How do we forgive friends who apologise for poor behaviour, only to do the same thing again? How do we forgive politicians who seem impervious to the destruction wrought by their power-driven decisions? How do we forgive ourselves? How?
At this moment in time, I feel a lot of anger. There are no words to describe the utter hellishness of what is happening in the Holy Land, and the horror of knowing that there is so little we can do to dissuade the bloodshed. I am holding pain as old wounds are reopened by difficult events in my family. I feel crippled by the apparent randomness of suffering, as I watch people I love walk through valleys of tears, wondering why it’s them and not me, whilst also praying please, not me.
Forgiveness can seem an unreasonable ask, a sign of poorly held boundaries, or even a concession to evil. But in fact, there is nothing more powerful to stem the tide of the hatred and violence that saturates this world. Jesus’ final prayer is the perfect model, and one that we can emulate simply by using His exact words in our own prayer.
For they know not what they do. None of us do. None of us understand the depth of our sin, the ways that we hurt eachother, ourselves, and God in even our most “every day” sins. When we pray this prayer for others, we acknowledge that those who have inflicted pain do not - cannot - understand the impact of their actions. It allows us to enter into the goodness of God, who wants to offer forgiveness to everyone, and not just those we think deserve it. It is aspirational, expressing our hope that we can forgive others as God as forgiven us, whilst maintaining distance from those we wish to forgive if necessary. It chips away at hostility and self-righteousness, recognising that even the most heinous acts can be forgiven and redeemed. Perhaps most importantly of all, it breaks down our belief that they are worse than us, because it is impossible to pray this prayer for others without praying it for ourselves, too.
Father, forgive me, for I know not what I do.
At Confession last week, I rattled off the usual list of sins, painfully aware that I am unable to identify the sins that don’t check obvious boxes. “For all these sins and those I have forgotten, I am deeply sorry.” (Father, forgive me, for I know not what I do.)
I harbour bitterness and resentment, I judge others with abandon, I think I am holier than this or that person. When I pray Jesus’ words, I am changed just a tiny little bit, to see myself and my fellow sinners more as He does. Unknowing, lacking in understanding, blindly compounding the sins in the world, and in need of forgiveness.
Father, forgive us, for we know not what we do.
Oh, this is so good and true, Gina.
I loved this one so much Gina. <3