On the Overwhelming Power of Forgiveness 

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Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven. (Lk. 6:37)

He who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power to love. There is some good in the worst of us and some evil in the best of us. When we discover this, we are less prone to hate our enemies. (Martin Luther King, Jr.)

Absolutely nothing will help us if we are not lenient toward the weaknesses of men and forgive them. For how can we hope that God will forgive us if we do not forgive others? (St. Nikolai Velimirovich)

When we are able to see the suffering in him or her, and see that that person is a victim of his own suffering, then it's easy to forgive. Recognize the suffering. Understand the suffering. And by having the desire to help that person to suffer less, you will be able to forgive very easily. (Thich Nhat Hanh)

 

To forgive, to truly forgive, to wipe the slate completely clean, is beyond the capacity of most of us, if only because we are creatures made of memory. From this arises an old, oft-repeated truth: I can forgive, but I cannot forget. And yet, we do surely try. On those occasions when we might succeed, there is a joy that settles upon the heart, a peacefulness, something not easily described. Call it a lightness of being, or even an acceptance of the foibles of the human condition to which we are all subject. When I look back on my own life, I find that some of my deepest joys and my most enduring hurts have to do, above all, with the asking or the giving of forgiveness. We often read that asking for forgiveness is harder than offering it. I have found, however, that both of these life-changing charisms are equal in measure, though each demands a different kind of humbleness.

To ask the other for forgiveness is harder in the first instance because it will normally mean that we must make the first move, and so we put ourselves in an extremely vulnerable position. If this action of opening our heart to another is rejected it can deliver a mental pain to rival, or in fact be worse, than a suffering we might feel in the flesh. Particularly when the rejection comes from someone we have loved. And often in the cruellest form of all: silence. Such an experience can unleash a devastating range of emotions, from a sense of worthlessness to having one’s integrity and intentions called into question. How, then, does one respond to such a brutal rejection? The pain if it be possible is compounded, if we should happen to hold a theology that will see in the other the very Image and Likeness of God.

There is, needless to say, no simple answer but only what our own hearts reveal to us. One thing we must not do is allow another, whose heart does not wish to embrace ours, to extinguish our spirit. Our souls are far greater and infinitely richer in their potential than any hard rejection we might face. To dwell on this truth alone is to make room for divine providence to take its course. At the same time, we can never know what tomorrow may bring, even the joyous possibility of reconciliation. Compassion never ceases to amaze, for even the greatest of enemies have, in many instances, found their way back to each other. What has brought me comfort is carrying the other’s name into prayer. Admittedly, after a strong struggle, that name grows sweet, until the pain itself is almost forgotten. There is a mistake many of us have made, and it is a compulsion that given our angst is not difficult to fall into. We try to get the other to bend their compassion towards us by hammering repeatedly on their door when they have made it clear they have shut us out. By continuing to ‘knock’ we not only do an additional harm to ourselves but also to the other whose time has not yet come. It pulls us further into our own despair, and it hardens the heart of the other. Let us make our peace with a sincere and genuine spirit and then turn towards the souls who love us and see in us not only our heaven-sent gifts, but also that which is common to us all, our brokenness and need for acceptance.

Now we come, let us say, to the flip side of the coin. And for a large number, this has proven the more difficult, if only because once we forgive, the memory of the injustice committed against us remains. Once more, in such matters, we can only speak from experience and learn best we can from the wisdom writings of those who have gone before us. To forgive demands the giving of the benefit of the doubt for a trust has normally been broken, but also the practice of other-compassion and an outpouring of love. This forgiveness is rarely easy when we are young. Early in life, lacking a broader existential perspective, we tend to see the world in stark polarities. We have not yet come to a nuanced understanding of the complexities and contradictions of the human condition. Concepts such as loyalty and betrayal, yes, undeniably important, assume almost mythical proportions when life is viewed through a murky lens.

As we grow into our middle and later seasons of life, a precious awakening occurs, like the shock at suddenly seeing the iridescent shine on a drake’s head or the exhilaration of being introduced to Bruckner’s symphonies for the first time. We come to the self-realisation that we, too, have missed the mark. Jung would speak in terms of “individuation” and of coming face-to-face with our shadow. We have all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. Looking at the accusers who brought the woman caught in adultery before Him, the God-Man responds: “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her” (Jn. 8:7). And who amongst us would claim to have never been a prodigal or has not considered pulling the arm back before casting the stone? Not only in biblical but also in those inspirational Levinasian terms, the “Other” is my salvation and not my hell. We are all of us, boats in the ocean, with rust and brine on the waterline.

Put in more earthly language, none of us is perfect. Though we might sometimes dare to convince ourselves that we are at least a little more perfect than the other. And who has not? So, then, forgiving the other for misdemeanours that we ourselves could be guilty of, is not as impossible as it once could have been. In this way, too, bringing the other to prayer, and allowing time to do its work, can become a great liberation for the soul. This is not to idealise forgiveness nor to trivialise the hurt that has been done; to forgive a grievous wrong demands an act of moral courage. Yet, in that one act alone, power is paradoxically restored to the one who forgives. This is the charism of the transformative power of love, for it endures, it does not fracture nor can it be broken, like a young oak tree that grows to become “windproof” as it matures. By far there are more gentle and compassionate people in the world than those who would will us harm. Let us allow for the possibility that we are acting in good faith.

Forgiveness is not a question of prescribed rubrics, in either its asking or its giving. It remains a profoundly personal act. Nor is it always a decision of a single moment. In any case, it cannot be hurried, especially when deep trauma is involved. Boundaries may need to be initially set. There is no “one size fits all” formula, any more than there is a single eye colour. What remains essential, if forgiveness is what we seek, is prayer, patience, and the belief that the potential for the redirection of another soul is rarely absolutely lost. Over time, forgiveness draws us further into those tremendous realms of self-sacrificial love revealed by Christ on the Cross, who forgives even as He is being executed (Lk. 23:34). From this mystical place, the thinnest divide between divine and human, the greatest graces and mysteries will flow. 

Finally, if I may add a personal reflection drawn from my own experience and from listening to others during my earlier vocation as a spiritual advisor. Asking for forgiveness liberates the soul from its guilt and resentment, and allows for the heart to be loved again. As much as we need creativity to survive, we also need to practise forgiveness so that we may live our humanness to its fullest expression. And for those who are able to forgive, this one act of grace alone, renouncing the claim that they once held over the other, can reverberate across generations. It can even save a brother or sister from death, for we know there are many ways in which one can die. It will foster beautiful friendships, or completely destroy them should we hold on to the bitterness. Rocks can crack bit by bit to then fall apart under the stress weathering of the sun. And such is the power granted to us from our Maker (or, indeed from the Universe) that with a single word—yes— (or, no) we can alter the direction of the future. The temptation is to forgive yet still deny access to those we have forgiven. For those of us who are members of the community of believers, we are asked to discern what it means that God Himself remains forever open to the cry of our lament and requests for mercy.

Is life unfair? Yes, but what does this mean

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For myself I have been parted from my possessions, stripped of my offices, blackened in my reputation, and punished for the services I have rendered… [s]o then I may cry aloud… (Boethius, The Consolation of Philosophy)

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. (Rom. 8:28)

In my younger days, filled with enthusiasm for theology and navigating the early stages of what some might call a “messiah complex” (a term familiar to seasoned seminarians and priests), I would have confidently answered the question, “Is life fair?” with a resounding “yes”. At the time, I believed I had a firm grasp on divine providence. I was young, healthy, and felt as though the future held limitless possibilities. Vigour and optimism, pulsed through me, even though I had already witnessed suffering. Still, I believed that my perspective aligned with the nature of God’s justice. I was also familiar with the story of Job and had reflected on his unwavering faith amid trials; a story that, despite its initial horrors, ultimately had a positive ending. The biblical narrative of the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus Christ was, as you might expect from a young seminarian, at the very heart of my worldview. But then, things began to change. Not my worldview, nor my steadfast belief in divine providence, but rather how this very theology was to be practically understood and lived out beyond the seminary walls and course textbooks.

As my life became richer with experience over the years, I began to confront certain harsh realities— loss, illness, death, and the injustices that came with them, whether they affected me directly or those close to me. At the same time, my travels exposed me to the stark economic disparities across the world. This combination of personal encounters and global contact led me to question the early assumptions I had that everything was, in fact, “good”.  In my role as a pastoral cleric, as I would then have conceived of myself, my visits to the wounded and terminally ill and especially to the young, were precious opportunities to offer comfort to those grieving. And then there were my weekend walkabouts through the cemeteries of Sydney where the message of the Cross in its deeper manifestation was made known to me. Over time, this became less about offering the idea that everything was divinely planned and more about acknowledging the raw pain of loss, helping others find solace in the midst of their despair.

My self-confidence began to erode after clashes with my superiors, which eventually led to my departure from the ministry. I found myself adrift, without an identity, and at every turn, blocked from new opportunities by the Church I had once served but could never stop loving. In time, more followed. Loss of valued friendships and my good reputation. There are many ways to stand up a human being against the wall to execute them. Later the taking away of my intellectual labour and eventually chronic illness with its everyday pain. Before that, one branch of my extended family was wiped out due to disease. Was this fair?  It was a question I found myself asking more and more. I must accept that, in my case, having requested to be relieved of my ministry for reasons I still cannot openly share, I did also contribute to my own tribulations and for this I am alone responsible. But what about the suffering of others— those who had brought none or very little of this anguish upon themselves? People stripped of their rightful place, denied the chance to reach their potential; the seemingly undeserving rising to positions from unqualified persons, or worse, placed there through bribery or fraud. Even more heartbreaking when innocent children are ravaged by illnesses, or in other places, made to die of hunger and thirst due to economic conditions. Such suffering is not optional. Was this fair? The Scriptures themselves also seem to speak to this truth about the unfairness in life: “Under the sun, the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happens to them all” (Ecc. 9:11).

I am not here to argue for a theodicy nor delve into the famous "problem of evil," that I have tried best I could to address in my novel and in a few of my essays, but simply to ask: Is life fair?

A saint would more than likely say, “Yes, life is fair, for it is all preordained by a just and all-knowing God.” I am not a saint, of course, and as such, I can no longer make such sweeping declarations. I cannot view the world through the same lens as those enlightened souls, blessed with unwavering faith. As I approach my 70s, I have come to understand more deeply the unpredictable nature of life, its shocks, disappointments, and uncertainties. This is not to say that there are no moments of pure joy; indeed, those moments exist. But life’s duality— the intertwining of joy and sorrow— is the lesson we must learn, one that speaks to the core of our existence. There is a spurious saying attributed to the Buddha, yet it persists since it is informed with tried and true wisdom: “Pain in life is inevitable, but suffering is optional. Pain is what the world does to you, suffering is what you do to yourself by the way you think about the pain you receive.” I well understand, these are enormous enquiries to make of the human mind, it is not inconceivable that for a serious thinker, they could last a lifetime.

Let me pre-empt my few, gentle readers by saying this: life is not fair. Even so, what does this mean? My own response, which is all we can do for now, comes from a man who, though jaded, endures. Nothing more, nothing less. I have witnessed and experienced both the beauty and the harshness of being active and involved in the world. In the same way to you, for we are made from the same essential elements, or “mud” and “clay” as mythologies and religious traditions have described. I could easily quote a long list of philosophers and writers, Friedrich Nietzsche, Hannah Arendt, Primo Levi, and Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, for example, who have eloquently explored the inherent unfairness of life. It would be enough for now to read the chapter which features Ivan Karamazov’s well-known argument in "The Grand Inquisitor" from Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. In it, the intellectual and analytical Ivan Karamazov, raises a compelling argument about the existence of suffering in a world supposedly created by a benevolent and omnipotent God— arguments that can be traced to the Russian philosopher and theologian, Vladimir Soloviev (and a close friend of Dostoevsky’s). Jesus Christ himself in the Garden of Gethsemane asks for the cup of suffering he was about to endure to be taken away from him (Lk 22:42). I will return to this pericope in a moment which has on more than one occasion saved me.

Through these brief reflections, dare I call it “flash theology”, I find a path toward self-healing, like I do with most of the humble ponderings that I share on this web site. Primarily, these reflections serve as a conversation with myself and, later, as something for my children to read. But I also hope they offer some meaning and a little solace to the occasional visitor— to a soul on its own irreplaceable journey, seeking a quiet park bench to rest for a moment. In recent months, I have been compelled to reflect on this problem even more deeply, due to personal losses and the pain endured by a family member. But, as I have shared earlier, the question of life’s fairness is one that has long weighed on me. Beyond the comfort of Scripture, particularly the Book of Psalms, I have oftentimes reflected on Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. In essence, the Holocaust survivor and psychiatrist, Frankl, offers profound insight when we feel ourselves to have become overwhelmed: “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.” The interesting thing here is that Elder Ephraim of Katounakia, an Athonite monk, in his own way, conveys a very similar message:

Everyone has a cross to carry. Why? Since the leader of our faith endured the cross, we will also endure it. On one hand, the cross is sweet and light, but, on the other, it can also be bitter and heavy. It depends on our will. If you bear Christ’s cross with love then it will be very light; like a sponge or a cork. But if you have a negative attitude, it becomes heavy; too heavy to lift.

The Agony In The Garden by Gustave Dore

And so I now return to the Lucan pericope of Christ’s passion in the Garden of Gethsemane to offer my final thoughts. On a personal note— and I believe I speak for most— there are moments in life when we feel that things are unfair. However, unless we allow ourselves to be entirely undone by these struggles, we have at least one time-tested way forward: to acknowledge the cup we did not seek and to accept it as a sign. “Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done” (Lk. 22:42). Here in His underserved punishment, the God-Man acknowledges both the presence of suffering and the overarching goodness of God Himself. If we endure, transformation awaits us, just as it did for Jesus Christ after Calvary, in His resurrection. This endurance in perseverance is not about resigning from life; rather, it is about recognising that, even during the most challenging of trials, there exists a path toward realising the fullness of our potential as human beings. Accepting, too, that there are many things to be grateful for, in spite of any injustice that might surround us. So, yes, life might not always be fair, but its “joyful-sorrows” are not without meaning.

Like a tree I would be blasted by wind, struck by sun and rain, and would wait with confidence; the long-desired hour of flowering and fruit would come. (Nikos Kazantzakis, Report to Greco)

Over the years, I have come to personally understand and have observed in the lives of others that, in the face of pain, an unfairness done to us can often lead to unexpected rewards, and beyond all measure. In fact, there is a freedom in it, along with a unique opportunity for genuine growth, even if for most of us, this may seem paradoxical or counterintuitive. So, yes, together we can say, “Blessed are those who mourn” (Matt. 5:4). I do not pretend. Little of this is ever easy. It can be brutal to the spirit of a person, and unbearingly so at times. Is there someone whose mental anguish you can help to alleviate with a word? Have you the power to right a wrong where an unfairness has been done? Even by that one single act of kindness, souls have been saved to affect generations. It all goes too quick. We soon enough grow old. It is then that these certainties of the human condition reveal themselves to be our infallible truths. As for the suffering of the innocent, those who do not have the time, nor the means, nor the luxury that we have been blessed with, tangible hope can only touch their lives through the opening of our hearts in communion, that heroic compassion may burst through. Time and time again, it has been revealed acts of supreme generosity, to the extent of self-sacrifice, are not beyond our reach— if only because we are capable of the divine, capax Dei.

My departed Father’s birthplace

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Paphos, Cyprus, November 2016/January 2017

From Sydney, via Dohar, to Larnaca; long haul flight over the Indian Ocean; please an aisle seat if possible; who will sit next to me; young man with sparse chestnut goatee; the ritual before I go on board; comfort shopping; buy a biography [Nikola Tesla]; a double-shot of Bombay Sapphire; since the near miss over the Caribbean; frightened of flying; Mark Webber in the next gate; not long ago it was Eckhart Tolle; and before that the happy songstress; to my right a distressed father of five; we jockey for the middle armrest; why does food taste differently on planes; more to do with smell rather than taste they say; I am repeating myself; Farfalle tossed with Arrabiata Sauce; will George hit his second fifty this weekend; your broken shoulder has healed well my boy; Katina manages amazingly without me; “I have loved you for a thousand years” (Christina Perri); the primary flight feathers of the Mute Swan; crosswind landings; angle of attack; the mythical landscape of Paphos; my changing face and my balding head; my departed Father’s birthplace; the deepest wound is silence; like a mark in the dark; your spirit gives life to the earth; Johann Sebastian Bach; punctus contra punctum [‘point against point’]; Nina Simone; the fingers are an extension of the voice; music smoulders down through to the large toe; C minor naturals and accidentals as required; I should stop for a drink; Zivania grape pomace and dry wine; nothing beats an icy cold beer; Bus 618 to the harbour; Apostolou Pavlou Avenue; Bank of Cyprus; Superior Real Estate; the earth stretches as far as the eye can see; to the end of silence; the suffering of the other is not ever far; Aleppo reveals the actuality of the new world order; Bana al-Abed keep safe under the giant wings of angels; long walk in the heat almost lost; local traffic signs are perilous here; step over cracks with the right foot first; great art like mystery inspires transformation; “The street had its own history/ someone wrote it on the wall, with paint” (Manos Loizos); Kallinikos Stavrovouniotis the inspired iconographer; preparation of brushes and woods; heated beeswax and coloured pigments; two young girls to my right are taking selfies; not long ago they would have been preserved in portraits; nine bus drivers on strike to my left; worry beads fighting a losing battle with cigarettes; no rain for three months; remember take quick showers; hot air masses over from the Sahara; gases and dust; the birth of stars; the big belt of Orion; second draft of the short stories done; “I journey inward seeking a language of lament” (Stephanos Stephanides); “How close we are/ to what we thought was so far away!” (Costas Montis); “Those who die in war, they sing the best songs for peace” (Mehmet Yasin);  true artists will bleed; your voice must bleed to give life to birds; without blood your poems will cease to exist; Aphrodite rises from the foam; Adonis in Ovid’s Metamorphoses (Book X); Pygmalion’s futuristic fetish gave birth to Paphos; most everything has been done and said before; even pixels and robotics; I need another blanket it is cold; two light bulbs burnt out; please make up Room 201; am I the last person on earth without a mobile; immunity from the network; the portable telephone will go inside the head; a 16 year-old Mother missing with her baby boy; we are all refugees; I have too many coats; “If you have two coats, give one away” (Lk. 3:11); scores of souvenir shops; the ridiculous mingles with the sublime; from nodding plastic Messiahs to the Virgin Mary of Kykkos; feather ice, fine as white Iranian Pashmak; figures of speech the folding doors at Pompeii; dreams the building blocks of images; globalism one of the terrible lies; to obliterate history; to deconstruct identity; the monopolization of food; “To the south, to the south, my time is running out” (Frank Turner); “First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin” (Leonard Cohen); “We all live in a yellow submarine” (Beatles); Saint Neophytos Monastery and Temple of the Retreat; a glorious Sunday morning histories and eternities turn together; the Divine Liturgy the summary of all things; Saint Barnabas Apostle to Antioch and Cyprus; Saint Spyridon the Wonderworker; Saint Sapricius the Bishop; mourning must not be wasted; the Berlin Christmas market attack; Russian ambassador assassinated in Ankara; babies freeze in Aleppo; wax honeycombs inside the beehive; synchronized wings; contract pollination; lightning in the form of ribbons; stories trapped in stone; Rock of the Greek; Saint Paul’s Pillar (1 Cor. 2:11-24); Paphos Castle; Tombs of the Kings; the Ancient City of Marion; who am I, dear Mother, and why have I become; what rests in the depths of depths; Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy upon me the sinner; sickening migraine tonight; wild galloping horses; anvils made of splintered diamond; Gustav Mahler Symphony No. 9 in D major; you play music on the inside of my heart; it ends too soon; before we have time to say, this is who I am; a child is asked to decide on a Christmas gift; what will it be a dress or a toy; a small glass of milk, she says; thank goodness it is raining; Trinitarian mystery and supercritical fluids; “Lazarus, come forth!” (Jn. 11:43); I should tell Jeremiah to believe in the resurrection of the living; I should have been in Mexico; I should have brought another white shirt; Gennadios Taverna; White King Chess School; Papaconstantinou Bakery; my jaw is hurting again; oh please Lord, not for a third time; this codeine will not work; the ‘pigeon-toed orange peel’; it never existed Mr Eastwood; film can convince us of almost anything; Zeno of Citium; true good can only exist in Virtue; happiness depends on moral actions; truth is as recognisable as the odour under the armpits; go bald gracefully and delight in the possibilities; a middle-aged man with short-cropped hair waiting for Mediterranean mussels; an elderly woman with cat eye sunglasses is pushing away the past; a young couple bent over, lost forever in their mobiles; Marios Tokas Anoula tou Hionia; Michalis Kakoyiannis Zorba the Greek (1964); Christopher A. Pissarides “theory of search frictions”; a philosopher with broken hands taking notes; dark energy; dark matter; normal matter; expansion of the universe not slowing down; like stars racing on the edges of galaxies; the artist must for a short time forget; only then can he or she create anew; the palimpsest is a valuable example; beards are back in fashion; the Bandholz; the five-blade razor; birds made from old manuscripts and from the virgin’s hair; Pied Wheatear; Warbler Sylvia; Short-toed Treecreeper; Panagia Theoskepasti; Agia Kyriaki Chrysopolitissa; Agios Georgios Basilica; Dostoevsky’s “The Possessed” an ongoing prophecy; please read Albert Camus’ “The Human Crisis”; Dag Hammarskjold Markings; the Cyprus issue falters again; corruption is the mainstay; culture of co-existence a distant vision; the view of the Mediterranean coastline is mesmerizing; each flickering light a poem in the horizon; miles of soul sleeping tonight; “Let the stars appear/ and the moon disclose her silver horn” (Jane Kenyon); South Sudan conflict; another catastrophe; hunger in Yemen; United Nations ineffectual intoxicated on blind power; a rusted door knob; a shoe without a heel; a broken teacup; we become that after which we chase; Midas touched his daughter she turned to gold; let us chase after poetry; why are you reading these lines; have you visited before; would you offer a hat in my distress [or a rope, as he once did]; in Pegeia they speak in key signatures; the young ones still court at the ‘vrisi’; Coral Bay sprays new life into the ancient lithosols; I was a soldier here long ago; one day they prepared us for war; there was lots of crying in camp; House of Dionysos; House of Aion; the “Forum” [the Agora]; the first photo is never right; why do you forget; a wooden boat swaying gently on scattered sunlight; a group of children skipping on pebble skins; seashells on the knees of butterflies; Chapecoense LaMia Flight 2933; from one moment to the next; Alexandrov Ensemble Tu-154 crashes in the Black Sea; a new chorus of mermaids; you will spring from bed one night; the answer would have at last arrived; it will be the last and the hardest of your battles; “years have passed many changes taking place” (Hazel Durham); “what’s changed is you” (F. Scott Fitzgerald); “so take away my passport!” (Mahmoud Darwish); you said you were going away forever; yet I will look for you in the cities; “Or ancient mounds that cover bones, Or rocks where rockdoves do repair” (The Alchemist in the City, Gerard Manley Hopkins); caution no entry; attention heavy vehicles; beware bumps on the road; Troodos Mountains; Pediaios River; Avakas Gorge; the way you clasped your hands; Latin-rig sails drifting into the distance; the secret remains in how we communicate the story; Cyrano de Bergerac and his talking earrings; I sing carols with old ‘Santa Claus’ Lawrence; December 25th Christmas Day; “In the beginning was the Word” (Jn 1:1); “Therefore Christmas, the day of the birth of the God-man the Lord Jesus Christ, is the greatest and most important day in the history of all the worlds in which man moves and lives” (Saint Nikolai Velimirovich); the parcel of land recovered; belongings were watered; January 11th time to go.