This problem of pressured forgiveness is not unique to the Amish, of course. In The Cry of Tamar, Pamela Cooper-White decries the widespread tendency of Christian churches to pressure victims of sexual abuse to forgive their offenders too quickly. “All too often,” asserts Cooper-White, “survivors of violence are retraumatized by pastors and other well-meaning helpers who press forgiveness upon them.” In these cases, “if the survivor tries to forgive, she can only fail, and her failure will reinforce all the self-blame and shame of her original abuse.” This tendency is especially strong in Christian communities that, like the Amish, place a heavy emphasis on forgiveness.

Although the Amish girls and boys who survived the school shooting are not victims of domestic violence, some observers may wonder if these children have felt a similar pressure from their families and church to forgive Roberts before they were ready. We cannot answer this question definitively, but our impression is that no, they have not. When we inquired about her surviving children and their thoughts about Roberts, one parent told us, “We explain to them what forgiveness is, but we don’t make them forgive.” Continuing, she said, “You can’t make someone forgive. It takes time.” Perhaps because of her conversations with English mental health professionals, perhaps for other reasons, this Amish woman seemed attuned to the counsel of mainstream psychology: those who care for the abused, especially abused children, should not force them to arrive at any place of emotional resolution before they are ready.

Of course, it is also important to recognize the differences between situations of domestic abuse and the Nickel Mines school shooting. Unlike domestic violence, the evil perpetrated at Nickel Mines ended when the gunman took his own life. Also, because of Roberts’s suicide, there was no pressure on victims to reconcile quickly with their offender. In fact, when we pressed Amish people on how they could forgive Roberts so quickly, some of them noted that it was easier because he was dead.

Did this swift forgiveness include an element of self-renunciation? Of course, it did. Forgiveness involves giving up feelings that one has a right to feel. Still, we believe that the Amish willingness to give up the right to be bitter about the shooting was not self-loathing. It may, in fact, be the opposite. In Forgive for Good, Fred Luskin, director of the Stanford University Forgiveness Project, writes that forgiveness means becoming “a hero instead of a victim in the story you tell.” Granted, we heard no claims of heroism when we listened to Amish people talk about forgiving Charles Roberts, but given their understanding of the Christian life, we do see some parallels with Luskin’s assertion. In Amish life, offering forgiveness places one on the side of the martyrs, indeed, on the side of God. It is the spiritually courageous thing to do.

This does not mean, as we’ve noted, that the Amish of Nickel Mines found forgiveness easy. Still, forgiveness probably comes easier for the Amish than it does for most Americans. Genuine forgiveness takes a lot of work—absorbing the pain, extending empathy to the offender, and purging bitterness—even after a decision to forgive has been made. Amish people must do that hard work like anyone else, but unlike most people, an Amish person begins the task atop a three-hundred-year-old tradition that teaches the love of enemies and the forgiveness of offenders. An Amish person has a head start on forgiveness long before an offense ever occurs, because spiritual forebears have pitched in along the way. Like a barn raising, the hard work of forgiveness is easier when everyone lends a hand.