Following several surveys (1988, 1991, 2009), the Gallup organisation revealed both good news and bad news. The good news is that 94 percent of people believe forgiveness is very important. The bad news is that 85 percent admit they are not ready to do it on their own.
Where does this dichotomy come from—between the value system we claim to embrace and the degree to which we personally live by it? The answer is simple: just revisit your last conflict with a colleague or with your spouse. “He insulted me,” “she despises me,” “he cut in front of me,” and so on. Although forgiveness is a noble value, it nevertheless clashes with another value much closer to our hearts: justice. If we were to identify the kind of “justice” we are defending, we would discover that it is not justice itself, but rather “justice applied to a single case—and that case is ME.” This also explains why, when it comes to others, we understand perfectly well and readily argue for the necessity of forgiveness. But when it comes to ourselves, it becomes almost impossible. The emotional tension subsides only if we are offered compensation—otherwise known as “revenge.”
A conversation with the Galilean
It is in this tense context that a message reaches us. It comes from the Galilean:
“Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, ‘Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?’” (Matthew 18:21)
Peter was clever. As a leading voice among the young men who accompanied Jesus, he decided to revise the Pharisees’ ruling in a Christ-like spirit. So, he broke through their limit of “three times” and replaced it with the impressive “seven.” One can almost picture him, eyes lowered, waiting to hear a resounding “Well done!” from Jesus Christ.
“Jesus answered, ‘I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times” (Matthew 18:22).
Peter is stunned. Without a calculator, he can hardly estimate how many minutes a day he would have to grant another act of forgiveness. Searching for a biblical reference to steady himself, his memory brings up a troubling verse—Genesis 4:24—which strikes him like a final blow. It refers to the diabolical measure of total revenge invented by one of the descendants of the murderer Cain: “If Cain is avenged seven times, then Lamech seventy-seven times.” This time, however, the measure is turned 180 degrees.
An absurd case
To help them regain their bearings, Jesus offers the disciples a parable (verses 23–35):
“‘Therefore, the kingdom of heaven is like a king who wanted to settle accounts with his servants. 24 As he began the settlement, a man who owed him ten thousand bags of gold was brought to him.” (Matthew 18:23–24)
We are quickly overwhelmed by the details of the story. The status of a “servant,” someone who owns nothing, seems irreconcilable with the idea of “financial debts.” What master lends money to his servants? It seems absurd—unless the master behaves in an unusual way. As for the sum, once again we are out of our depth. The price of gold has fluctuated throughout history, but the text is not even referring to coins. The original text speaks of “talents.” The term denotes not a monetary value but a unit of weight: more than 35 kilograms. So, what does 10,000 talents amount to? The scale is staggering.
“Since he was not able to pay, the master ordered that he and his wife and his children and all that he had be sold to repay the debt. At this the servant fell on his knees before him. ‘Be patient with me,’ he begged, ‘and I will pay back everything.’ The servant’s master took pity on him, canceled the debt and let him go.”
It is astonishing. The servant does not even appeal for mercy, because he does not believe such a thing exists. Shrewdly, he simply asks for more time, hoping to deceive a naïve master. But the master is not naïve. He attributes the attempt at manipulation to desperation. And, against all reason and custom, he cancels the debt entirely. Yet the series of absurdities has not reached its peak.
A cynical reversal
“‘But when that servant went out, he found one of his fellow servants who owed him a hundred silver coins. He grabbed him and began to choke him. ‘Pay back what you owe me!’ he demanded. His fellow servant fell to his knees and begged him, ‘Be patient with me, and I will pay it back.’ But he refused. Instead, he went off and had the man thrown into prison until he could pay the debt.”
Why be surprised? There is no injustice here. A debtor deserves prison. The astonishment lies rather in the stark contrast: the debt was only 100 denarii—the equivalent of a laborer’s wages for 100 days. In truth, this is how human beings often behave.
My own debts always seem insignificant. Those others owe me, however, appear overwhelming. Yet those watching from the sidelines can see the imbalance. They perceive the injustice.
“When the other servants saw what had happened, they were outraged and went and told their master everything that had happened. Then the master called the servant in. ‘You wicked servant,’ he said, ‘I canceled all that debt of yours because you begged me to. Shouldn’t you have had mercy on your fellow servant just as I had on you?’ In anger his master handed him over to the jailers to be tortured, until he should pay back all he owed.”
The outcome is seismic in several respects. For the debt itself, the master’s initial sentence had been to “sell him.” But for his attitude, the final judgment places him in the hands of the “the jailers to be tortured.” Until when? Indefinitely. A servant has no income. Nor could he repay a single coin while lying in chains or being subjected to punishment.
Unconditional mercy
Perhaps no other parable reaches the abyssal depths of human nature as this one does. The genius of the divine Teacher is revealed in the way He builds the parable on two antagonistic principles that shape our attitudes every day: justice and mercy. Antagonistic? Are they not both divine principles? Indeed they are—but they operate in different realms: justice operates in heaven, among immaculate beings, while mercy operates on earth, for the sinner who seems beyond recovery. What else could restore such a person?
We probably do not fully grasp the enormity of “sin.” It is like professional fishermen who smell of old fish and no longer notice the odor themselves. In God’s eyes, the magnitude of sin is comparable to the largest numerical expression known in Jesus’ time: 10,000. At that time, no higher quantity existed—and these were talents, and talents of gold at that.
One thing is revealing: when God forgives, He does not do so merely in response to someone’s request, just as the master unilaterally forgives the servant. When God forgives, He acts out of mercy. Mercy is a priori—it exists in itself; it is not the result of external compulsion. It flows from love for the lost, regardless of the sinner’s attitude. Mercy is offered unconditionally—this is the hidden lesson of the parable and the first, and most important, reason to grant forgiveness.
Liberating mercy
And, as the final touch, the practice of forgiveness born of mercy brings about a radical change—not so much in the wrongdoer as in the one who forgives. This offers us a second reason to forgive.
Captain Ernest Gordon was a young Scottish atheist with a degree in history and philosophy. In 1942 he enlisted in the army and was sent to the front in Singapore. After the disastrous defeat of the British by the Japanese that same year, Gordon was taken prisoner and placed, together with 60,000 Allied soldiers and 180,000 Asian detainees, in a labor camp in Burma. The objective was to build a railway through the tropical jungles of Indochina in preparation for a later invasion of India. The route followed the course of the Kwai River through the deadly jungle.
The project, 412 kilometers long and originally planned to take six years, was completed in just 16 months at the cost of more than 80,000 lives. The working conditions and the treatment inflicted by the Japanese guards were beyond imagination. Those who grew exhausted or ill were bayoneted or beheaded on the spot. Ernest Gordon later recounted how these extermination-like conditions transformed everyone into beasts driven only by the instinct to survive and by hatred for their tormentors. Theft of food and personal belongings among the Allied prisoners became common. Each man was the enemy of everyone else.
The defining event of those three years of captivity was the miraculous transformation of the prisoners’ state of mind, triggered by a series of shocking incidents.
One day, as a British work brigade was returning from the construction site, a checkpoint inspection revealed that a shovel was missing. “Who stole it? I’ll kill you all!” one of the guards shouted. A thin young man stepped forward. “I did…” The Japanese soldier beat him mercilessly until he left him dead. At the next count, it was discovered that no shovel was missing after all. The news that the young man had sacrificed himself to save the others shook everyone. Soon afterward it also emerged that a Scotsman had given his food and blanket to a sick companion until the latter recovered—while he himself died of hunger.
The effect of these gestures was revolutionary. Without any propaganda, the prisoners began helping one another. The thefts stopped. The healthy started caring for their sick comrades. One man even gave his watch to a Japanese guard in exchange for medicine for a fellow prisoner. The camp, which until recently had been a living hell, was slowly transformed into a community bound by solidarity.
When Ernest Gordon himself, exhausted and gravely ill, was taken to the so-called “house of death” and left among the corpses, two Scottish Christian prisoners cared for him day and night. They washed his festering wounds, massaged his necrotic leg, and gave him their own food rations.
Their extraordinary altruism shattered the former atheist, leading him—without words—to Jesus Christ. In the end, to everyone’s joy, Captain Gordon returned to the living. For the entire camp, it became a signal of victory.
Soon afterward, a group of Australians challenged the atheist Gordon to speak to them about Christianity. This is how the camp church came into being, with Gordon himself serving as its chaplain. “Forgive one another” and “love your enemies” became the camp’s new philosophy. Spontaneously, a “jungle university” was also established. Those who had a field of expertise were invited to share it with the others. Courses were offered in history, philosophy, economics, mathematics, and the natural sciences, as well as in at least nine foreign languages, including Latin, Greek, Russian, and Sanskrit. Painting and sculpture workshops were set up. Two botanists created a garden of medicinal plants. A wind orchestra was even formed, playing instruments made from bamboo.
The atmosphere of brotherhood gradually influenced the attitude of the Japanese guards, who became more humane. In 1945, shortly before liberation, when the camp was relocated, the column of prisoners encountered a group of wounded and abandoned Japanese soldiers. Moved by mercy and compassion, the prisoners broke ranks. Despite threats, they bent down to help the unfortunate men, offering them water, food, and sympathy.
When the liberating troops arrived and saw the unimaginable conditions in the camp, they wanted to tear the Japanese guards apart. But the prisoners formed a protective cordon around them, shouting, “No revenge! No revenge!”
Apotheosis
Yet the story continues. Among the tormentors was a young officer named Takashi Nagase. An expert in English, he served as the camp’s interpreter. In the days following liberation, he was haunted by the contrast between his own cruelty and the kindness shown by the prisoners. After returning to his country, he found no peace until he publicly denounced himself for the inhumane treatment inflicted in the camp. He helped launch a campaign exposing the policy of extermination pursued by Japan during the war. As an English teacher, he won over generations of students, who sent thousands of letters of forgiveness to former prisoners or their families. He did not rest until he had initiated reconciliation efforts between Japanese veterans and former prisoners of war.
In 2005, exactly fifty years after the end of the war, the Japanese government finally relented. A government commission made up of Japanese veterans invited all the surviving prisoners from the camp, along with their descendants, to meet on the historic bridge built over the Kwai River. Approaching from opposite ends, the two groups met in the middle—amid tears, embraces, and requests for forgiveness.
Yet the testimony of the victims remains the most powerful lesson: “Hatred made me ill. The desire for revenge brought me to the edge of the grave. Now that I have forgiven, I am healed. I am returning to life.”
And Jesus Christ concludes His parable with these words: “‘This is how my heavenly Father will treat each of you unless you forgive your brother or sister from your heart’”.
