Forgive one another as quickly and thoroughly as God in Christ forgave you.
—EPHESIANS 4:32 THE MESSAGE
This is the story of Buster. His name isn’t Buster, but I need to keep his name private because my story isn’t complimentary. Besides, the name fits him. He was a buster. In high school football he busted through offensive lines like a bulldozer. In baseball he busted baseball after baseball over the home-run fence.
Buster ruled our campus like a gang leader. He was raw and ripped; he had linebacker arms and a tiger snarl. Most of us avoided his orbit. But one Friday night I got caught up in it. Several of us were hanging out in a grocery store parking lot. Buster didn’t like something I said or the way I said it. Emboldened by a belly of beer and a bunch of buddies, he came after me. He shoved me through the open door of a sedan and set out to reshape my jaw. Buster on Max was a grizzly on a squirrel. He pounded my face until some guys grabbed him by the ankles and pulled him off. I climbed out—eyes bruised, pride bruised even more—and walked away with my tail between my legs.
I spent the weekend trying to sort out his actions. What had I done wrong? Should I have fought back? Should I go find him? Was he looking for me? I plotted what I would say to him on Monday. It took some courage, but I mustered enough to catch him in the hallway between classes.
“Why did you jump me Friday night?”
He gave me a crooked, cocky grin. “Oh, I don’t remember. I was drunk.” And he walked off. The explanation hurt more than his fists had. I wasn’t his enemy. I just happened to be the nearest punching bag.
I haven’t seen Buster in decades. But I see his type almost weekly. When the young wife told me about her abusive husband, I thought of Buster. When I read about the kid who was bullied at high school, Buster came to mind. A corporation bought a small business, cleaned house, and fired everyone. Buster.
We all have a Buster. Or two or ten. Mine was a gadfly compared to yours. Your Buster was your dad; he came at you daily. Your Buster said, “I love you,” when you were young and slender and “I don’t want you” when you grew older and rounder. Your Buster flunked you out of spite. Your Buster cheated on you. Your Buster abandoned you.
You’ve been Bustered.
Maybe you’ve moved on. If not, a question needs to be raised regarding your happiness. Resentment sucks satisfaction from the soul. Bitterness consumes it. Revenge is a monster with a monstrous appetite. One act of retaliation is never enough. One pound of flesh is never enough. Left unchecked, grudges send us on a downward spiral.
Your Buster took much. Are you going to let him take even more? Brood at great risk. Is life sweeter when you are sour? Better when you are dour? Of course not.
“It is foolish to harbor a grudge” (Eccl. 7:9 GNT).
Some people abandon the path of forgiveness because they perceive it to be impossibly steep. So let’s be realistic about the act. Forgiveness does not pardon the offense, excuse the misdeed, or ignore it. Forgiveness is not necessarily reconciliation. A reestablished relationship with the transgressor is not essential or always even possible. Even more, the phrase “forgive and forget” sets an unreachable standard. Painful memories are not like old clothing. They defy easy shedding.
Forgiveness is simply the act of changing your attitude toward the offender; it’s moving from a desire to harm toward an openness to be at peace. A step in the direction of forgiveness is a decisive step toward happiness.
When researchers from Duke University listed eight factors that promote emotional stability, four of them related to forgiveness.
1. Avoiding suspicion and resentment.
2. Not living in the past.
3. Not wasting time and energy fighting conditions that can’t be changed.
4. Refusing to indulge in self-pity when handed a raw deal.1
In a paper titled “Granting Forgiveness or Harboring Grudges,” researchers relate how they invited people to reflect on a person who had caused them harm. Just the thought of the perpetrator led to sweaty palms, facial muscle tension, a higher heart rate, and increased blood pressure. When subjects were instructed to imagine the possibility of forgiveness, all the above physiological issues were reversed.2 Health and happiness happen when forgiveness begins to flow.
It’s no wonder then that the flotilla of “one another” scriptures includes one named the USS Forgiveness. “Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God in Christ forgave you” (Eph. 4:32).
There goes the apostle Paul doing it again. It was not enough for him to say, “Forgive one another as your conscience dictates.” Or “to the degree that you feel comfortable.” Or “as much as makes common sense.” No, Paul did what he loved to do: he used Jesus as our standard. Forgive others as Christ forgave you.
So we leave the Epistles and thumb our way leftward into the Gospels, looking for a time in which Jesus forgave others. We are barely through the back entrance to John’s gospel before we find an example. The story includes a basin of water, a towel, two dozen sweaty feet, and one dozen disciples.
Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into His hands, and that He had come from God and was going to God, rose from supper and laid aside His garments, took a towel and girded Himself. After that, He poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet, and to wipe them with the towel with which He was girded. (John 13:3–5)
This was the eve of the crucifixion and Jesus’ final meal with his followers. John wanted us to know what Jesus knew. Jesus knew he had all authority. He knew he was sent from heaven. He knew he was destined for heaven. Jesus was certain about his identity and destiny. Because he knew who he was, he could do what he did.
He “rose from supper” (v. 4). When Jesus stood up, the disciples surely perked up. They may have thought Jesus was about to teach them something. He was, but not with words.
He then “laid aside His garments” (v. 4). Even the simple, seamless garment of a rabbi was too ostentatious for the task at hand.
Jesus hung his cloak on a hook and girded the towel around his waist. He then took a pitcher of water and emptied it into a bowl. The only sound was the splash as Jesus filled the basin.
The next sound was the tap of the bowl as Jesus placed it on the floor. Then the shuffle of leather as he untied and removed the first of the two dozen sandals. There was more splashing as Jesus placed two feet, dirty as they were, into the water. He massaged the toes. He cupped crusty heels in his hands. He dried the feet with his towel. He then stood, emptied the basin of dirty water, filled it with fresh, and repeated the process on the next set of feet.
Splash. Wash. Massage. Dry.
How much time do you think this cleansing required? Supposing Jesus took two or three minutes per foot, this act would have taken the better part of an hour. Keep in mind, Jesus was down to his final minutes with his followers. If his three years with them were measured by sand in an hourglass, only a few grains had yet to fall. Jesus chose to use them in this silent sacrament of humility.
No one spoke. No one, that is, except Peter, who always had something to say. When he objected, Jesus insisted, going so far as to tell Peter, “If I do not wash you, you have no part with Me” (v. 8).
Peter requested a bath.
Later that night the disciples realized the enormity of this gesture. They had pledged to stay with their Master, but those pledges melted like wax in the heat of the Roman torches. When the soldiers marched in, the disciples ran out.
I envision them sprinting until, depleted of strength, they plopped to the ground and let their heads fall forward as they looked wearily at the dirt. That’s when they saw the feet Jesus had just washed. That’s when they realized he had given them grace before they even knew they needed it.
Jesus forgave his betrayers before they betrayed him.
Hasn’t he done the same for us? Yes, we each have a Buster, but we also have a basin. We’ve been wounded, perhaps deeply. But haven’t we been forgiven preemptively? Before we knew we needed grace, we were offered it.
Heaven must have a basin warehouse that contains row after row of ceramic bowls. Each bowl has a name affixed to it. One particularly well-worn basin bears the name Max. Every day, multiple times a day, Jesus sends an angel to fetch it. “Lucado needs another cleansing.” The angel wings his way over to the warehouse and informs the manager. “Again?” asks the supervisor. “Again,” affirms the angel. The angel retrieves it and carries it to Christ. The Master takes my container, fills it with cleansing grace, and washes away my sins. All my betrayals sink like silt to the bottom of the bowl. Jesus throws them out.
Have you considered how often he washes you?
Suppose I were somehow to come into possession of your sin-history video. Every contrary act. Every wayward thought. Every reckless word. Would you want me to play it on a screen? By no means. You’d beg me not to. And I would beg you not to show mine.
Don’t worry. I don’t have it. But Jesus does. He’s seen it. He’s seen every backstreet, back-seat, backhanded moment of our lives. And he has resolved, “My grace is enough. I can cleanse these people. I will wash away their betrayals.” For that reason we must make the Upper Room of Mercy our home address.
The apostle John championed this thought of Christ’s perpetual cleansing:
“But if we live in the light, as God is in the light, we can share fellowship with each other. Then the blood of Jesus, God’s Son, cleanses us from every sin” (1 John 1:7 NCV).
“He can be depended on to forgive us and to cleanse us from every wrong” (1 John 1:9 TLB).
Christ, our cleanser. He knew our promises would fall like broken glass. He knew we would dart into a dark alley of shame. He knew we would bury our faces between our knees.
It is in this context that Paul urged us to follow Jesus’ lead. To give grace rather than get retribution. To give grace, not because our Busters deserve it but because we’ve been doused with it. “Forgiving one another, even as God in Christ forgave you” (Eph. 4:32).
Wearing the towel and holding the basin, he said to his church, “This is how we do it.”
“If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have given you an example, that you should do as I have done to you” (John 13:14–15).
Let others bicker and fight; we don’t.
Let others seek revenge; we don’t.
Let others keep a list of offenders; we don’t.
We take the towel. We fill the basin. We wash one another’s feet.
Jesus could do this because he knew who he was—sent from and destined for heaven. And you? Do you know who you are? You are the creation of a good God, made in his image. You are destined to reign in an eternal kingdom. You are only heartbeats away from heaven.
Secure in who you are, you can do what Jesus did. Throw aside the robe of rights and expectation and make the most courageous of moves. Wash feet.
Let’s be “tenderhearted, forgiving one another” (Eph. 4:32).
Tenderhearted: malleable, soft, kind, responsive.
Hard-hearted: cold, stony, unbending.
Which words describe your heart?
A friend’s nephew recently purchased a brand-new home. He was thrilled. New marriage, new job, new life. Things were looking up until foundation issues were discovered. The builder found a leak in the slab. A plumber jackhammered a large hole in one of their bathrooms to reach and repair the leaking pipe. The foundation repair company proceeded to tunnel under the house and backfill the hole with a concrete substance. They filled and filled. One truckload was not enough, so they emptied a second into the hole.
When the homeowner returned from work, he couldn’t get the door open. It was soon discovered that the jackhammered area of the bathroom had never been closed. The truckloads of concrete had been emptied, not just into the foundation but also into the residence. When my friend’s nephew was finally able to enter the house, he found the furniture cemented to the floor, and the toilet looked as if it were made for someone with no legs. He could rest his arm on the molding of a nine-foot-tall doorway.
Their house hardened while they weren’t watching.
The same can happen to hearts. To be clear, my aim is not to dismiss a perpetrator or downplay your pain. The question is not, Did you get hurt? The question is, Are you going to let the hurt harden you? Numb you? Suck up all your joy?
Wouldn’t you prefer to be “tenderhearted, forgiving one another”?
Try these steps.
Decide what you need to forgive. Get specific. Narrow it down to the identifiable offense. “He was a jerk” does not work. “He promised to leave his work at work and be attentive at home.” There, that’s better.
Ask yourself why it hurts. Why does this offense sting? What about it leaves you wounded? Do you feel betrayed? Ignored? Isolated? Do your best to find the answer, and before you take it out on the offender . . .
Take it to Jesus. No one will ever love you more than he does. Let this wound be an opportunity to draw near to your Savior. Does this experience and lack of forgiveness hamper your well-being? Does it diminish your peace? If the answer is yes, take steps in the direction of forgiveness. Talk to Jesus about the offense until the anger subsides. And when it returns, talk to Jesus again.
And if it feels safe, at some point . . .
Tell your offender. With a clear head and pure motives, file a complaint. Be specific. Not overly dramatic. Simply explain the offense and the way it makes you feel. It might sound something like this: “We agreed to make our home a haven. Yet after dinner you seem to get lost in emails and projects. Consequently, I feel lonely under my own roof.”
If done respectfully and honestly, this is a step toward forgiveness. There is nothing easy about broaching a sensitive topic. You are putting on a servant’s garb. By bringing it up you are giving forgiveness a chance to have its way and win the day.
Will it? Will grace triumph? There is no guarantee. Whether it does or not, your next step is to . . .
Pray for your offender. You cannot force reconciliation, but you can offer intercession. “Pray for those who persecute you” (Matt. 5:44 NIV). Prayer reveals any lingering grudge, and what better place to see it! You are standing before the throne of grace yet finding it difficult to give grace? Ask Jesus to help you.
Here is one final idea:
Conduct a funeral. Bury the offense. I don’t mean to bury it in the sense of suppressing it. Nothing is gained by shoving negative emotions into your spirit. But something wonderful is gained by taking the memory, placing it in a casket (a shoebox will suffice), and burying it in the cemetery known as “Moving On with Life.” Take off your hat, cover your heart, and shed one final tear. When the anger surfaces again, just tell yourself, “It’s time to walk boldly into a bright future.”
Many years ago a man came to see me regarding his wife’s boss. As her supervisor, he overreached his bounds, demanding extra work and offering poor compensation. The husband confronted the man. To the credit of the supervisor, he owned up to his mismanagement and made amends.
The wife was grateful. But the husband was still angry. Chalk it up to a husband’s intense desire to protect, but he could not forgive the man. So he came up with an idea that included a letter. He brought it to my office along with a box of matches. (I was a bit concerned when I saw the matches.) He read the letter to me. It was addressed to his offender and contained an account of the actions.
The husband then asked me to pray and watch as he burned the letter “before my anger burns me up.” We did.
You might try the same.
Forgiveness is the act of applying your undeserved mercy to your undeserved hurts. You didn’t deserve to be hurt, but neither did you deserve to be forgiven. Being the recipient that you are of God’s great grace, does it not make sense to give grace to others?
General Oglethorpe once said to John Wesley, “I never forgive and I never forget.” To which Wesley replied, “Then, Sir, I hope you never sin.”3
You’ve not been sprinkled with forgiveness. You’ve not been spattered with grace. You’ve not been dusted with kindness. You’ve been immersed in forgiveness, submerged in grace. Can you, standing as you are, shoulder-high in God’s ocean of grace, not fill a cup and offer the happiness of forgiveness to others?
During the season I wrote this book, the world watched in horror as twenty-one Christians were martyred for their faith by ISIS terrorists. Two of the slain men were brothers, ages twenty-three and twenty-five. In an interview, a third brother was asked about his feelings regarding the loss of his siblings. He said:
“ISIS helped us strengthen our faith. I thank ISIS because they didn’t cut the audio when [my brothers] screamed declaring their faith.”
He was asked what his mother would do if she saw the ISIS member who killed her sons.
“She said she would invite him home because he helped us enter the kingdom of heaven. These were my mother’s words.”4
Let’s do likewise.
Happiness happens when you offer to others the grace you’ve been given. It’s time to follow the example of Jesus in the Upper Room. It’s time to forgive, just as God, in Christ, forgave you.