Forgiveness is necessary to a Christian life, but it isn’t simple or free

From my first stint as a columnist in the 1990s, I’ve repeatedly returned to the subject of forgiveness.

The commandment to forgive others’ trespasses is central to the gospel of Jesus Christ, a gospel I try—often unsuccessfully—to follow.

I’ve said this before. But it’s something I struggle with.

It was brought to my mind again as I listened to a true-crime podcast called “Criminal.”

Host Phoebe Judge devoted an episode to the principle of—or, more accurately, the lack of a principle of—forgiveness in our criminal justice system.

Her guests were Harvard professors Dehlia Umunna and Martha Minow, both of whom have thought deeply about this subject.

Umunna is an experienced public defender and a Christian. Her faith compels her to practice forgiveness, she said. She suggests that if Jesus were walking the Earth today, he might be a public defender, since public defenders represent society’s most marginalized and outcast people, those poor and accused of crimes.

In her native Nigeria, the view of criminals is much different than in America, she said. Here, when a person commits an offense, the assumption is that individual is solely responsible.

In Nigeria, by contrast, the community view is, “How did we fail?” Criminals are seen as people who somehow fell through the cracks, who didn’t get vital instruction and support, who should be treated redemptively.

“Human beings have the capacity for change,” she declared.

Minow’s books include “When Should Law Forgive?” She thinks criminals should be appropriately punished, but also believes forgiveness also should be woven into the criminal justice process.

She pointed out that forgiveness for debtors, for instance, is enshrined in the U.S. Constitution, which authorizes Congress to enact uniform bankruptcy laws.

But we don’t exhibit the same attitude toward those who’ve committed crimes. Instead, Minow said, we continue to penalize felons long after they’ve completed their sentences, making it difficult if not impossible for them to vote or find employment or get housing or otherwise redeem themselves.

That observation, I confess, caused me to wrestle again with my own mixed record of restoring those who’ve done wrong.

When I owned an apartment business, I had a four-unit building that gave me fits. I’d gone through a run of bad tenants who’d cost me much money and many sleepless nights.

At last I filled three of the units with excellent renters who paid on time and took care of their apartments. I was breaking even on this four-plex again instead of drowning in red ink. I was eager to fill the fourth unit, which would actually give me a positive cash flow.

A youngish couple applied. They seemed nice. I did preliminary background research. Everything looked fine. I told them I’d likely be able to rent to them. They were thrilled.

Then, while finishing the background check, I discovered the husband had recently been released from prison and (as I recall) was on parole. His crime had been a violent one.

The wife stopped by hoping to sign a lease. I broke the news to her: I wouldn’t be renting to them after all. I feared that if my current tenants—who I desperately wanted to keep—discovered they were living next to a convicted violent felon, they’d leave.

The young woman became distraught. Years later, I can still see the anguish on her face. Her husband had made a terrible mistake, she said. He’d served his time. They’d both reformed. They had honest work. Everything was looking up.

But everywhere they tried to rent, the same thing happened. How were they supposed to make a new life if no one gave them a chance?

I said I understood and was sorry. I did and was. But I couldn’t take that chance.

It was the scenario Minow talked about on the “Criminal” podcast. I cringed as I listened. I’d lived it—from the other side.

Of course, it wasn’t my place to grant this young fellow forgiveness for his crime per se. He hadn’t committed any offense against me.

Still, I wondered if I’d proved myself to be that person in society who didn’t demonstrate compassion, who held this man’s sin against him.

At the same time, I’d had my own problems to consider. To pay my mortgage, I needed that building full of good renters. I’d also considered whether the guy might backslide and assault one of my other tenants. In short, I was afraid of what renting to the couple might cost me or even an innocent neighbor.

I’d cared about this couple. But I hadn’t cared enough to risk anything. It was easier not to take a chance. It wasn’t my fault this fellow had committed a crime. That was on him.

Long after turning these folks away, I’m still going back and forth in my mind about it. I’ve learned forgiveness and compassion can be complicated. They tend to be expensive, too.

I suspect we’d be more willing to forgive if forgiveness were easy and free. But it’s not. And as Umunna implied, I suspect we’d be quicker to forgive if we saw society’s failures as part of a wrongdoer’s problem. But we don’t.

Maybe Jesus would tell us to try forgiveness anyway.

Paul Prather is pastor of Bethesda Church near Mount Sterling. You can email him at pratpd@yahoo.com.

This story was originally published September 17, 2020 at 10:11 AM with the headline "Forgiveness is necessary to a Christian life, but it isn’t simple or free."