“Forgiveness” is one of those limp, floppy words that create resentment. It sounds vaguely Biblical: If thou art a good person, thou shalt forgive others. It’s not a fun or sexy concept.
But in practice, it can be powerful. Transforming.
Forgiveness is a weightlifter. It removes the burden of anger and resentment that’s weighing us down.
In her new book The Fact of a Body, Alexandria Marzano-Lesnevich explores trauma and forgiveness from many different angles.
It’s hard to do true crime well. It can feel exploitative, especially when it involves the death and possible molestation of a child.
Where do we draw the line between taking a ghoulish interest, and striving to understand a deeply human pathology, such as pedophilia?
Marzano-Lesnevich spins out this crime in multiple dimensions. The criminal in question is Ricky Langley, who killed young Jeremy Guillory and confessed to molesting multiple kids. She looks at Ricky’s own childhood, and skillfully weaves in a parallel story of abuse from her own family history.
What saves the book from being cold-blooded is the writer’s compassion. Without excusing the multiple, overlapping crimes in the narrative, Marzano-Lesnevich finds new lights to shine on these dark areas.
She also understands the complexity of story: the deep intertwining of cause, effect, and other influences that are not so binary or linear.
One of the questions she keeps getting pulled back to is this: When is forgiveness a beautiful, healing, generous action?
And when is it a way to let someone off the hook, to avoid confronting someone about their destructive behavior?
I watched a production of Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure recently, which dealt with the same questions: How do we, as flawed humans, judge others? Do we even try?
We have to, for our society to function. But how do we balance justice with mercy?
Is there a value in offering forgiveness for something terrible?
Does taking that action excuse the wrong-doing?
Or, does it elevate both the victim and the perpetrator of the crime?
At church last week, the pastor talked about a Bible chapter focused on forgiveness. In the passage (Philemon), the writer (Paul the Apostle) offers to take on someone else’s debt: to erase a robbery by paying off what was stolen.
We are all indebted to others, the pastor explained. And we all have chances to take on each other’s burden of debt–not just financially, but relationally.
For example, if two friends of mine are having discord, I can shoulder part of that burden by mediating between them.
But what if one of my friends injured the other, out of spite or fear? What then? How can I get beyond taking sides?
How can I broker forgiveness between others, if my own grasp on it is so tenuous?
The larger and more inflamed our egos are, the lower our capacity for forgiveness. I like Roland Merullo’s metaphor of constantly, carefully sanding down the ego over time, so it gets smaller and smaller, and controls us less and less.
That’s a challenge in a culture that pumps up our egos, where pissing matches are the order of the day (from the playground to international politics).
Will you join me in this exercise?
Think of someone who’s injured you. Think about what their intentions may have been. Think about their backstory, what brought them to that point.
Hold the pain of that injury in your heart. Pray about it if you pray. Meditate on it if you meditate. Sit with it if you sit.
Then picture that pain and anger filling a balloon you’re clutching, making it buoyant with the dark air of that injury.
And let go of the balloon.
Image by Adams Carroll via Creative Commons on Flickr.