In recent weeks, several people questioned my forgiveness of others. Without discussion, they delivered flat, critical verdicts on my positions, slighting my values, emotions, judgments, and relationships. I thought they were wrong to question my kindness. Forgiveness doesn’t mean I condone wrongs, want to resume relationships, or waive legal or ethical responsibilities.
After tripping through confusion and pushing aside the superior attitude I had adopted in response to disapproval, I settled down to question my motives. I forgive to relieve my anger and resentment. I dump negative emotions so I can reclaim the energy given to others.
I forgive for me. Maybe my criticizers had valid points. If I abandon rational outrage with the same impulsive nature that lets me procrastinate laundry and dishes, do I end up with a hamper or sink of disgusting relationships?
That seemed logical until I remembered the people I can’t forgive. They prove I don’t forgive with reckless abandon, so what makes me different? And, does being different make me careless or wrong? How and when do I drop resentments others hold, and why don’t I extend forgiveness to everyone?
I forgave the man who nearly choked me to death, but not the man who kicked my daughter. I hold no hard feelings toward the friend who forgot me when I got sick and no positive feelings for the one who insulted every welfare recipient in this country. I wish the best for the woman who devoted years of her life to complicating mine, the co-worker who claimed my work as his own, and the kid who took money from my purse, but I hope the attorney who stole money from my daughter buys himself a case of bleeding ulcers with that money.
I forgive Ted Kennedy’s forty-year-old scandal, Bill Clinton’s personal indiscretions, and Al Gore’s hidden personality. I refuse to excuse George Bush’s dishonesty, Dick Cheney’s corruption, Tom Delay’s fraud, Scott McClellan’s dodging, or Christianity’s duplicity.
Instead of writing myself off as hopelessly fickle, I searched for explanations. Some of the people I forgave never uttered a sorry, an oops, or a my bad. They did not pull me into mediation, send flowers, offer excuses, or try to prove anything to me. Some don’t know I exist or how they hurt me, and don’t need my forgiveness. The difference with them is that either they didn’t know what they were doing, what they did was a one-time infraction, or they later made impressive changes in their lives, demonstrating an appropriate sorrow for their actions – much better than an uttered sorry. Those I haven’t forgiven have dedicated their lives to hurting others and don’t deserve forgiveness.
In conclusion, I believe my forgiveness is rational. Those who criticized me without question made tepid judgments of me for not doing the same.
After tripping through confusion and pushing aside the superior attitude I had adopted in response to disapproval, I settled down to question my motives. I forgive to relieve my anger and resentment. I dump negative emotions so I can reclaim the energy given to others.
I forgive for me. Maybe my criticizers had valid points. If I abandon rational outrage with the same impulsive nature that lets me procrastinate laundry and dishes, do I end up with a hamper or sink of disgusting relationships?
That seemed logical until I remembered the people I can’t forgive. They prove I don’t forgive with reckless abandon, so what makes me different? And, does being different make me careless or wrong? How and when do I drop resentments others hold, and why don’t I extend forgiveness to everyone?
I forgave the man who nearly choked me to death, but not the man who kicked my daughter. I hold no hard feelings toward the friend who forgot me when I got sick and no positive feelings for the one who insulted every welfare recipient in this country. I wish the best for the woman who devoted years of her life to complicating mine, the co-worker who claimed my work as his own, and the kid who took money from my purse, but I hope the attorney who stole money from my daughter buys himself a case of bleeding ulcers with that money.
I forgive Ted Kennedy’s forty-year-old scandal, Bill Clinton’s personal indiscretions, and Al Gore’s hidden personality. I refuse to excuse George Bush’s dishonesty, Dick Cheney’s corruption, Tom Delay’s fraud, Scott McClellan’s dodging, or Christianity’s duplicity.
Instead of writing myself off as hopelessly fickle, I searched for explanations. Some of the people I forgave never uttered a sorry, an oops, or a my bad. They did not pull me into mediation, send flowers, offer excuses, or try to prove anything to me. Some don’t know I exist or how they hurt me, and don’t need my forgiveness. The difference with them is that either they didn’t know what they were doing, what they did was a one-time infraction, or they later made impressive changes in their lives, demonstrating an appropriate sorrow for their actions – much better than an uttered sorry. Those I haven’t forgiven have dedicated their lives to hurting others and don’t deserve forgiveness.
In conclusion, I believe my forgiveness is rational. Those who criticized me without question made tepid judgments of me for not doing the same.
No comments:
Post a Comment