What causes suffering when we do not forgive? (Listen.)
Let me start by admitting that, on first reading, tonight’s texts terrify me. From the Hebrew Bible we heard that the Lord threw the Egyptian army into panic. They decided to flee, but before they could get away, the Lord ordered Moses to stretch out his hand over the sea so that the waters would return; and then ‘the Lord tossed the Egyptians into the sea. The waters returned and covered the chariots and chariot drivers, the entire army of Pharaoh … not one of them remained’ and the Israelites saw the dead wash up on the shore (Ex. 14:26-30).
Then in the parable from the gospel according to Matthew, we heard that a slave who is forgiven an unimaginable debt, but who fails to extend forgiveness himself, will be handed over to be tortured until the debt can be repaid. Says Jesus, “So my heavenly Father will also do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother or sister from your heart.” (Matt. 18:35).
So in the first text, God is a murderous force who destroys an army, even as it’s running away. In the next, God looks like a fickle sadist. In one moment, he forgives; in the next, he responds to our weakness by whisking that forgiveness away and sending us to be tortured. So yes, these readings terrify me.
Of course, many Christians are comfortable with the idea of a violent God. The mighty warrior fighting for righteousness’ sake. The vindictive ruler. The angry judge. The flaming sword. Perhaps these people are confident that they are on the right side, and that God’s righteous anger will protect them. But for those of us who are less confident of our own righteousness, perhaps, or who have borne the brunt of other people’s righteous anger, this image of God is less comfortable. It does not describe a God we can easily love and trust, only a God of fear and loathing. But maybe there is another way.
In the gospel reading, Jesus says we need to forgive not seven times but seventy-seven times.* Right away, it’s interesting. Way back in Genesis, we are told that ‘whoever kills Cain will suffer a sevenfold vengeance’ (Gen. 4:15). Seven generations later, Cain’s descendent Lamech kills a young man who wounds him, then claims his own vengeance to be seventy-seven times (Gen. 4:23-24). So Jesus’ audience, who know these stories by heart, are being reminded of retaliation, retribution and vengeance. But Jesus is flipping the script entirely. What he demands is not vengeance seventy-seven or even seven times. Instead, he demands forgiveness.
But having insisted on abundant mercy, he goes on to tell a story. Someone who has experienced great forgiveness and yet fails to extend it to others will be handed over to be tortured; so, too, will it be with us if we fail to forgive.
How is this possible? First, Jesus tells us that we need to offer forgiveness over and over and over again; then he tells a story in which, if we fail to forgive, we will be sent away to be tortured. Surely this is contradictory!
The nub of the question lies, I think, in who is doing the torturing. If it is God, then we have a violent sadistic God who punishes those who fail to live up to God’s standards. To those of us who know that we fail time and time again, this is absolutely appalling. We are all destined for hell. If, on the other hand, God is giving us our freedom and letting us experience the consequences, then the torture represents the effects of our choices.
You’ve probably heard it said that refusing to forgive is like drinking poison, then waiting for the other person to die. Resentment destroys us. It eats away at us. Resentment allows the wounds that others have inflicted to fester, and to shape and define our lives. We get stuck nursing our hurts and injuries; we remain caught in cycles of bitterness and revenge, unable to live out the expansive fullness that God intends for us. We are not free but bound to the ones who hurt us, lurching in lockstep all the way to hell.
Forgiveness is different. It changes the script. But before we talk about forgiveness, we need to be clear what it is not. Forgiveness is not the same as reconciliation. It’s not denial, it’s not about glossing over things, it’s not easy, it’s not quick, and it cannot be compelled. Instead, it must always be a free choice. And forgiveness is not a free pass. It does not mean there are no consequences for harmful action. As we saw last week, addressing injury takes a lot of time and work. When there is harm, it is the responsibility of the community to engage in processes which minimize harm, facilitate truth-telling, and, where possible, restore relationship. But this is all different to forgiveness.
Instead, forgiveness is a way of positioning ourselves, and of declaring ourselves to be free. It’s a way of refusing to be defined by the evil that we suffer, and it’s a refusal to mirror it back into the world. Lamech receives a wound and responds by killing the man, thus intensifying the violence and ensuring escalating payback for generations to come. But followers of Jesus are called to reset the narrative: not to avenge ourselves seventy-seven times, but to forgive, and forgive, and forgive.
When we are wounded, our work is to interrupt the cycles of hurt and trauma and violence. And when we say I forgive you and This stops with me, we are declaring our own freedom. We become part of something new and healing, life-giving, good; we become citizens of the commonwealth of heaven. So forgiveness takes us to heaven, while resentment throws us into hell; and where we end up is a consequence of our choices, not a punishment from a violent God.
Similarly, the Exodus text might be seen as a story about what the Egyptian army did to itself. The soldiers drowned because they insisted on pursuing Israel, despite all the signs and warnings that Israel must go free. At any stage, they could have let up. Yet they pursued the Israelites out of Egypt, through the wilderness, and into the boggy seabed. Of course the heavy chariots got stuck. Of course the sea came back, and drowned them all.
But in the coming days and years, as the story was told and re-told around campfires, the tale was interpreted. The destruction of the Egyptian army was seen as a sign of God’s action on behalf of the Israelites, and so God was said to have actively drowned the lot of them, even to the point of tossing the Egyptians into the sea.
Yet even in the text we have received, the text we call Exodus, there are traces of a different story. Up until this point, God had kept the Israelites and Egyptians separate from each other, placing the angel of God and the pillar of cloud between them. In other words, God protected the Israelites simply by keeping them separate from the Egyptian army; they couldn’t get at each other. More, when the Egyptians were destroyed, it was not at the hand of Israel, nor was it by military violence. Perhaps these are hints of an older story, a truer story, of a God who rejects all forms of human violence and finds another way.
I don’t know for sure. But as followers of Jesus we interpret these texts through the lens of Jesus Christ. And in Jesus we are made to understand that “the measure you give will be the measure you receive.” (Matt. 7:2). Violence begets more violence. The Egyptian army was so intent on taking Israel captive that it trapped itself. Then this army of a violent nation, which had inflicted so much violence upon its slaves, suffered violence in turn. Not the violence of humans, not even, perhaps, of God, but the violence of that ancient symbol of chaos: the violence of the sea.
Violence, retaliation, payback, revenge. Countless voices justify this pattern with cherry-picked stories of a violent God. But these stories are part of a wider picture of salvation, in which we are liberated from these cycles of hell; and the one we worship did not inflict violence on others, but took it upon himself. He was mocked, humiliated, stripped, whipped, and nailed to a cross to die. Yet in his last moments, he did not call upon angel armies or restive disciples to avenge him. Instead, he cried words of forgiveness.
As followers of Jesus, then, may we have the courage and strength to interrupt the cycles of violence; may we find ways to forgive. And in all that we do, may we never be the instruments of our own oppression. Amen. Ω
Reflect: When have you been an ‘instrument of your own oppression’? Where have you seen this played out in a group or nation? What might this idea imply regarding economic policy or climate?
A reflection by Alison Sampson on Exodus 14:19-31 & Matthew 18:21-35 given to Sanctuary on 17 September 2023 © Alison Sampson 2023 (Year A Proper 19). ‘May we not be the instruments …’ quoting the Right Rev. Barbara Harris as heard on the Pulpit Fiction podcast, but perhaps in turn quoting Bal Gangadhar Tilak’s address to the Indian National Congress in 1907. Photo by Melanie Stander on Unsplash (edited). Other translations say seventy times seven; text fragments vary.
Alison and the whale 