Читать книгу Forgiven and Forgiving - L. William Countryman - Страница 8

If we are going to let ourselves in for the possibility of a change of mind, we should probably begin by looking at what sort of mind we bring with us to this topic. How do we conceive of forgiveness? What does it mean to us? For most of us, I think, our concept of forgiveness is a kind of muddle of several different, inconsistent, and inadequate notions. It will be helpful to identify some of them here.

One commonly shared misconception is that forgiveness is a matter of making nice. The motto of this sort of forgiveness is “They didn't really mean it.” We think of forgiveness as a way to maintain the machinery of social interaction in operating order. To keep from disrupting it, we pretend that we have not been aggrieved by the behavior of others. We pretend that everybody's motives are entirely honorable, that everybody we deal with is basically good and rational. If people have in fact done us some harm, we assume that they didn't really mean it or that they were simply striking back at their dreadful childhoods and we had the misfortune to get in the way. We persuade ourselves that if others are treated with a little kindness, they'll all be perfectly nice.

As a means of social interaction, this way of thinking isn't entirely bad. If we confront one another constantly on every action that is less than perfect, we'll waste a lot of time pursuing the mirage of an unattainable ideal. Besides, none of us likes having our failings pointed out. We're more likely to get cooperation from one another if we cut each other a little slack. What is more, we can and do misread one another's motives. Sometimes actions that appear to be deliberately cruel turn out to have been merely thoughtless or inattentive. Sometimes what appears to be thoughtless or inattentive turns out to have been merely ill-informed or accidental.

It's probably also true that if we persist in expecting the best from one another, we are more likely to get it. We are more likely to rise to the occasion ourselves if we expect the best of others as well. Conversely, the assumption that everyone is out purely for number one actually helps create the kind of antisocial behavior that it takes for granted. Forgiveness as “making nice,” then, may be a good thing if it establishes a basic undertone of civility in our social interactions. Assuming the best of others, not taking offense too easily, smoothing over the small, everyday collisions of life—all this has much to be said for it. If we assume that the other person “didn't really mean it,” we'll be right much of the time. Not only that, we'll be creating a prophecy of good that tends to fulfill itself because it becomes the social expectation around us.

Still, it quickly becomes apparent that this kind of forgiveness has serious limits. It can deal with the small collisions of daily life, but it wears thin very rapidly when we are confronted with real and persistent wrongs in our experience. In those cases, we need a very different and more “real” form of forgiveness. Real forgiveness has to be based on something deeper than simple politeness. Ultimately, it needs to be based on “the viewpoint of truth itself.” Maintaining a presumption of the goodwill of others is both polite and socially useful. But no matter how polite or useful it may be, there are occasions in our lives when it proves untrue.

If we are going to learn to forgive in these tougher moments, if we want a kind of forgiveness that is relevant to real life, it will have to be a great deal tougher than forgiveness as “making nice.” It will have to start off by being completely honest, by admitting when people have behaved in a way that cannot possibly be whitewashed by our desire to see them as basically good and responsible persons. At some point, making nice has to yield, and we have to start paying attention and acknowledging how things really are.

Another mistaken notion of forgiveness is to make it a mode of denial, the forgiveness that takes as its motto: “It wasn't really that important.” This is common, for example, in abusive household situations where the abused partner tries to minimize the harm done and to emphasize the perceived good of the relationship (however marginal or imaginary that may be). The abused person tends to think, “Perhaps I'm making too much of this. If I just accept it quietly, we can go back to the quieter times when everything seemed okay”; “He won't hit me again”; “She won't get drunk tomorrow.”

Denial, unfortunately, usually turns out to be a bad idea. For one thing, it is usually wrong. Without some major transformation of life, the offender will hit again, steal again, be drunk again. Only a quite serious and deliberate effort to abandon old patterns and put new ones in their place is likely to change abusive behaviors. Usually, it takes not only some commitment on the part of the abuser but also a good deal of help from other people who understand how abusive personalities work either through prolonged study or because they have been there themselves and have emerged from its worst dangers.

Unfortunately, society and even the church often encourage this sort of denial, no matter how useless or destructive it is—and encourage it under the name of forgiveness. The abused person is urged to be long-suffering, to forgive the same offense over and over. This makes forgiveness appear to be a matter of putting up with the insupportable by making light of its real impact. “It wasn't really that important” moves from being an expression of hope to being an outright lie. In the process, harm is done not only to the abused persons but also to the abusers, who are never confronted in a compelling way with the meaning of their actions—actions that are destroying themselves, other persons, and their own relationships.

Can denial be a way of sharing “the viewpoint of truth itself”? No. When we speak of “the truth itself,” we don't just mean God in the abstract, as if our knowledge or awareness of God bore no relationship to the rest of reality. If God is truth, then all truth is a means toward God and our relationship with God can be fostered only by truth. Lying, then, leads away from God. It can only lead away from God. Denying the reality of harm done to us is a lie, not a way of serving the truth.

Another way we distort and misunderstand forgiveness is by making it a form of emotional manipulation of ourselves or others. We think of it primarily as a feeling to be acquired by whatever means are necessary. How do we get ourselves to feel forgiving—or forgiven? How do we get somebody else to feel forgiving—or perhaps guilty, repentant, pliant, or whatever else would assist our project of winning forgiveness?

This is forgiveness as melodrama, a complicated competition for moral superiority based on who feels the right way and who doesn't. By forgiving one who has wronged me—and doing it with a certain public flair—I can gain and wield a considerable amount of psychological power over others. I can use my “forgiveness” to force the wrongdoer into public (and often insincere) repentance or to make the wrongdoer lose face by demonstrating my own nobility and long-suffering. I can use it to manipulate the audience into believing that I am without fault in the situation.

Conversely, the wrongdoer in the situation may use a display of penitence as a way to force the hand of the wronged party. By being extravagantly (and perhaps publicly) sorry, one may be able to force an act of forgiveness without having to do something more costly, such as make amends or reform one's behavior. Other people may be brought into the dramatic performance as emissaries, go-betweens, or a kind of Greek chorus to express public sentiment. Repentance can become a lever used to extort premature and unwilling (and often insincere) forgiveness.

I don't mean to say that the feelings involved in such transactions are unimportant or necessarily false. Nor do I mean to criticize all public penitence or every grand gesture of forgiveness. Forgiveness, as well see, is indeed a powerful act—an act full of power. And penitence can play a legitimate role in making forgiveness easier. But when the emotional transaction becomes the central issue, something important gets lost, for forgiveness is about more than feelings.

Our emotions are a tremendously important part of who we are. But forgiveness isn't simply about feelings; it's about how we live together, about how we undertake to behave toward one another, about the releasing of old wrongs, the restoration of peace, and the mending of relationships. If we tried to forgive purely by willing it or by thinking it without the involvement of our emotions, forgiveness wouldn't work. Moreover, the emotions, if unsupported by the rest of our life, are notoriously unstable. I can go right on feeling hidden resentment toward people years after performing such an emotion-laden, manipulative drama of forgiveness with them.

It may not always be others we're trying to control. Sometimes we manipulate ourselves into feeling that we have forgiven the other, and sometimes we manipulate ourselves into feeling forgiven. I think, for example, of a certain television evangelist who was caught in some embarrassing sexual peccadilloes a few years ago. Having retired from public view for a little while, he reemerged announcing that he had received assurance that God had forgiven him. Now, I firmly believe that God had indeed forgiven him—along with everybody else in the world. But my immediate reaction was, “Says who?! Why should I take your word for it?”

Alexander Campbell, a nineteenth-century preacher and reformer, used to point out that you can feel you are forgiven for some harm you may have done me, but the feeling doesn't really mean much. You only know you are forgiven if I tell you so. What made me suspicious of the television evangelist was that his announcement of his own forgiveness seemed to depend less on the word of God than on a certain feeling that he had acquired in prayer. Perhaps it was a genuine gift of grace, or perhaps it was a triumph of emotional self-manipulation. Who can say?

The problem arises when our feelings become the supreme focal point. If all we really want is to “feel right,” then once we have manipulated our feelings into the preferred state, that's all that seems necessary. But real forgiveness—forgiving or being forgiven—goes well beyond that. It is a matter of getting a new mind, of having one's whole perspective on the world transformed and the behavior based on that perspective changed and made new.

Still another common misunderstanding of forgiveness treats forgiveness as a commodity. We purchase it by means of repentance—perhaps including penances that cost us dearly. This is the notion of forgiveness as second prize. First prize goes to those who do everything right the first time around. Second prize goes to those who repent really, really well. If you can't be perfect, you can at least be thoroughly ashamed of yourself, and that will earn a lesser reward.

But in Christian faith, forgiveness isn't something we earn. It's too late to earn divine forgiveness, because God has already given it to us as a gift. We may feel very deeply the wrong that we have done. We may feel the need to do some penance as an expression of our profound regret. Fine. Penance then becomes a means of making amends where possible, and a means of rehabilitation. It becomes an educational process in which we let the changed perspective, the new mind that is repentance, permeate our very being. But the penance will not earn God's forgiveness for us, because no one can earn a gift, particularly not a gift that has already been given.

Among humans, too, forgiveness is a gift, given out of the goodness of the giver's heart. For better or worse, you can't make anybody forgive you. If you manipulate people into feeling that they have to forgive you—or even that they already have—they still may not succeed in forgiving you from the heart. When forgiveness does come, it will be because the forgiver has found the interior riches that make it possible to be generous with the offender and the new mind that makes a person desire to do so.

When all is said and done, we are apt to think of forgiveness as a kind of complicated transaction between people that usually involves a good deal of misrepresentation, emotional manipulation, denial, presumption, and even outright lying. It becomes a formula to be invoked, an obligation to be fulfilled. Then, afterward, we sometimes wonder why we haven't really succeeded in turning loose our anger about the past.

We are perplexed because we seem to have done what we were supposed to do. We should forgive, shouldn't we? We're told to forgive by Jesus himself, so we had better just get busy and work on it and get it right, hadn't we? We'll do whatever it takes, from ignoring what other people are really doing, to denying our own feelings, to engaging in the melodrama of manipulation. And we'll feel that we're doing the pious, the religious thing.

But William Temple shows us a better way. Repentance isn't primarily about remorse, it's about the joyful sharing in the mind of God. What would forgiveness look like in those terms? How is forgiveness a way of sharing joyfully in the mind of God?