HOW REAL IS FORGIVENESS?
The following is adapted from a talk given by Fr. Dominique Peridans at the Theology Forum hosted at the Church of the Ascension and St. Agnes on January 18, 2026.
My guess is that many of us hope for forgiveness, hope to be able to forgive, but it is sometimes brutally difficult, and it seems like a lot of wishful thinking.
How real is forgiveness? When I attempt to forgive, what am I doing? What is the attempt at navigating hurt and anger? What happens, aside from the struggle to forgive, the strange interior entanglement? Just when I think I have forgiven,
that which I have forgiven comes roaring back, an unwanted tidal wave,
suggesting that the act of forgiveness was indeed a lot of wishful thinking. A personal dilemma, right? We all have persons who have hurt us, sometimes very, very deeply, whom, on a good day, we want to be able to forgive.
Although there is an interior logic that sometimes inhabits us, suggesting that forgiveness can be an expression of weakness (“forgive and forget”—not what people who have a conquering spirit do!), we are nonetheless told that forgiveness is a good thing.
What is it, and why is it so elusive? Humanly speaking, it is, actually, an expression of magnanimity, of big-heartedness. As Aristotle says in Nicomachean Ethics, “the good-tempered person is not disposed to take vengeance, but to pardon” (4.11.1126a2). Now, that sounds great, but good luck with being “good-tempered,” i.e., being virtuous enough, i.e., having enough heroic interior strength not to take vengeance (especially in a cultural context nowadays where vengeance—outrage translated into destructive acts—is celebrated). Why is forgiveness so elusive?
These observations of Aristotle sketch a definition of forgiveness that I would suggest is incomplete. It is noble and richly human, and it underscores the importance of not losing focus, rationality, which happens when anger overtakes. Anger at being hurt is normal and a healthy response, but good-temperedness entails being angry for the right reason, in the right way, at the right time. What Aristotle describes seems incomplete because it is more about self, about me not being overtaken by anger and me staying the even course. Moreover, it seems not to tell us what forgiveness is, more than moving beyond hurt and anger.
How real is forgiveness? It depends how you define “real.” And how you further define “forgiveness.” How you articulate the reality of forgiveness.
I will suggest that forgiveness is a very particular act of love, not simply virtue. In Matthew 5, Jesus commands, “love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” (v. 44). In Luke 6, Jesus commands “love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you” (vv. 27–28). To forgive your enemy is to love the person who hurts you: the person who hates, curses and mistreats you. The hurt, of course, can be small or big.
So, lets speak of love. Strictly speaking, love cannot be defined, because it springs from a source within us beyond defining. It can really only be situated in a way that does not eliminate that mysteriousness. Nevertheless, allow me a working “definition” of love by St. Thomas Aquinas, the 13th century, yet timeless and thus contemporary theologian. This working definition, I think, is paramount, because it speaks to how we are truly wired and paints a bigger picture of who we are. Specifically, it takes us deeper than our emotional center, which is where many of us may spontaneously situate forgiveness. Many of us think that forgiveness (or forgiving) is about feelings, about not feeling hurt or anger, about feeling better.
But Aquinas writes, “to love someone is nothing else than to will good to that person” (Summa Theologica Ia Q. 20 art. 2 corpus). This “defines” love all the while acknowledging something mysterious: the spring within us, this capacity to will. Mother Teresa (+1997) echoes this when she says, “it is natural in love to want the best for the other person.” This willing, this wanting is the deeper reality of who we are and, as we shall see, speaks to the nature of forgiving. To want the best for someone is to love them. If that is a sincere desire, then it, of course, will be manifest in action, contributing “the best.” It starts deep in the heart, however, deeper than our emotional center.
We all have experiences of willing good. When you visit that relative you don’t really like, you make a choice, you will good to that relative. When you stay up late listening to a dear friend or even to your child, even though you are exhausted and can think of nothing but sleep, you make a choice, you will good to that friend or to your child. This is love. These are true acts of love. When you go to church, even when you’re feeling high on the indifference scale, you make a choice: you will good to the Lord and to your sisters and brothers in Christ.
Now, in wanting or willing good to a person where they are lacking, be it materially, emotionally, mentally—whatever—, love takes on the particular form of mercy. To be merciful is to love, to want good for a person where they are lacking, deficient, broken, and thus struggling. Consider the traditional Works of Mercy, present from the early Church, more formally codified in the 1500s:
The Corporal Works of Mercy:
- Feed the hungry
- Give drink to the thirsty
- Clothe the naked
- Shelter the homeless
- Care for the sick
- Visit the imprisoned
- Bury the dead
The Spiritual Works of Mercy:
- Share knowledge
- Give advice to those who need it
- Comfort the suffering
- Be patient with others
- Give correction to those who need it
- Pray for the living and the dead
- Forgive those who hurt you
Forgiveness is likely the hardest, because it is evil directed at us. To forgive, therefore, is to will good to that person who has hurt us. It sounds absurd, n’est-ce pas ? According to the logic of emotion, it is absurd, seemingly masochistic, even. We are not and never will be emotionally wired to forgive.
We are emotionally wired to hate (i.e., experience aversion regarding that which causes us hurt). This is the normal state of affairs. Forgiveness is not about emotion; it is deeper than our emotional center. I will good to the person who has hurt me and, in that, I forgive them. It is that simple! Of course, in our world, to will good sounds forced, insincere, not “heart-felt”; fake. On the contrary, it is a very real, deeper movement of the heart.
It may help to mention a few falsehoods, unnecessary baggage regarding forgiveness,
a list of five things we sometimes expect forgiveness to be or to do. Some of these notions may be floating in your heads, but remember:
Let us flesh out the first two of these truths.
To forgive is not to feel forgiveness or to feel forgiving.
Again: forgiveness is an act of the will. “But why don’t I feel better when I wish well upon the person who has hurt me?” you may ask. Because feeling is at a different, more superficial level. There is no necessary cause and effect relationship between willing and feeling. Believe it or not, even when we still feel hatred and anger, our willing the person good is an act of forgiveness. Once the wound heals, and there is no more hurt, our willing the person good is a simple act of love.
Wounds, however, take time to heal. And there is no rhyme or reason to their rearing their ugly heads. Which means then, forgiveness is a repeated act, a here-and-now act (see number 3). Do not think to yourself, as many people do, “I am still so upset. I thought I had forgiven.” You did. But that was yesterday. The wound is still there and so today you must forgive. If forgiveness is an act of love, it is always in the here-and-now, in the present. We need to forgive every day, so long as the wound remains.
To forgive is not to forget.
To forgive is of the will. To forget is of the memory. They are two different faculties. Similarly, there is no necessary cause and effect relationship between willing and remembering. One cannot forget so long as the wound remains. Do not think, therefore, that because you cannot forget that you have not forgiven. If you will good to the person, you have forgiven. We must also move away from thinking, as we sometimes do, that forgiving is to recreate a rosy scenario, in which everything and everyone is restored and blissful. To forgive is not to become “BFFs” (best friends forever). That can perhaps occur much further down the road, when the wound heals.
To forgive can be heroic. To forgive is liberating. As Christians, we know in faith that we are given a more powerful love to do this, to love as Jesus loves. Jesus, therefore, makes of us humble heroes of love. Jesus liberates us in enabling us to exercise liberating forgiveness. With Jesus, too, it is a question of willingness.
In the Lord’s prayer, we pray “forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” Jesus says also, “forgive, if you have anything against anyone; so that your Father in heaven may also forgive you your trespasses” (Mark 12:25), and “forgive, and you will be forgiven” (Luke 6:37). This makes it sound like I am forgiven to the degree that I forgive. Not promising! I think it is a question of willingness, which opens me to the love that Jesus gives me. Willingness opens the heart. To be forgiven, we must be willing to forgive. Otherwise respectfully put: “forgive us our trespasses, as we are willing to forgive those who trespass against us.”
Now, about receiving this forgiveness, about being forgiven: Does God always forgive? Does God always will good to me when I betray and hurt Him? The pivotal revelation in the light of which we can answer this question is found in John’s first epistle: “God is love” (4:8). Quite overwhelming, for, in the realm of human affairs, we have no experience of someone who is love. If God is love, then the answer to our question is “yes.” If God is love, God loves unconditionally, God loves me in my brokenness and God loves me even when (dare I say, because, not simply despite) I betray and hurt Him.
God is love. God is all-merciful. “God is forgiving” (Daniel 9:9). Saint Isaac, the seventh-century Bishop of Nineveh, the ancient Assyrian city of the Upper Mesopotamia (now northern Iraq), says “all God can do is love.” In other words, God always and only wills us good. His self-originating eternal love for us is not diminished by our failings. Quite overwhelming, for, in the realm of human affairs, we have little to no experience of love unimpacted by our failings. In the words of Paul to Timothy: “If we are unfaithful, he remains faithful, for he cannot deny himself” (II Timothy 2:13).
The following is adapted from a talk given by Fr. Dominique Peridans at the Theology Forum hosted at the Church of the Ascension and St. Agnes on January 18, 2026.
My guess is that many of us hope for forgiveness, hope to be able to forgive, but it is sometimes brutally difficult, and it seems like a lot of wishful thinking.
How real is forgiveness? When I attempt to forgive, what am I doing? What is the attempt at navigating hurt and anger? What happens, aside from the struggle to forgive, the strange interior entanglement? Just when I think I have forgiven,
that which I have forgiven comes roaring back, an unwanted tidal wave,
suggesting that the act of forgiveness was indeed a lot of wishful thinking. A personal dilemma, right? We all have persons who have hurt us, sometimes very, very deeply, whom, on a good day, we want to be able to forgive.
Although there is an interior logic that sometimes inhabits us, suggesting that forgiveness can be an expression of weakness (“forgive and forget”—not what people who have a conquering spirit do!), we are nonetheless told that forgiveness is a good thing.
What is it, and why is it so elusive? Humanly speaking, it is, actually, an expression of magnanimity, of big-heartedness. As Aristotle says in Nicomachean Ethics, “the good-tempered person is not disposed to take vengeance, but to pardon” (4.11.1126a2). Now, that sounds great, but good luck with being “good-tempered,” i.e., being virtuous enough, i.e., having enough heroic interior strength not to take vengeance (especially in a cultural context nowadays where vengeance—outrage translated into destructive acts—is celebrated). Why is forgiveness so elusive?
These observations of Aristotle sketch a definition of forgiveness that I would suggest is incomplete. It is noble and richly human, and it underscores the importance of not losing focus, rationality, which happens when anger overtakes. Anger at being hurt is normal and a healthy response, but good-temperedness entails being angry for the right reason, in the right way, at the right time. What Aristotle describes seems incomplete because it is more about self, about me not being overtaken by anger and me staying the even course. Moreover, it seems not to tell us what forgiveness is, more than moving beyond hurt and anger.
How real is forgiveness? It depends how you define “real.” And how you further define “forgiveness.” How you articulate the reality of forgiveness.
I will suggest that forgiveness is a very particular act of love, not simply virtue. In Matthew 5, Jesus commands, “love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” (v. 44). In Luke 6, Jesus commands “love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you” (vv. 27–28). To forgive your enemy is to love the person who hurts you: the person who hates, curses and mistreats you. The hurt, of course, can be small or big.
So, lets speak of love. Strictly speaking, love cannot be defined, because it springs from a source within us beyond defining. It can really only be situated in a way that does not eliminate that mysteriousness. Nevertheless, allow me a working “definition” of love by St. Thomas Aquinas, the 13th century, yet timeless and thus contemporary theologian. This working definition, I think, is paramount, because it speaks to how we are truly wired and paints a bigger picture of who we are. Specifically, it takes us deeper than our emotional center, which is where many of us may spontaneously situate forgiveness. Many of us think that forgiveness (or forgiving) is about feelings, about not feeling hurt or anger, about feeling better.
But Aquinas writes, “to love someone is nothing else than to will good to that person” (Summa Theologica Ia Q. 20 art. 2 corpus). This “defines” love all the while acknowledging something mysterious: the spring within us, this capacity to will. Mother Teresa (+1997) echoes this when she says, “it is natural in love to want the best for the other person.” This willing, this wanting is the deeper reality of who we are and, as we shall see, speaks to the nature of forgiving. To want the best for someone is to love them. If that is a sincere desire, then it, of course, will be manifest in action, contributing “the best.” It starts deep in the heart, however, deeper than our emotional center.
We all have experiences of willing good. When you visit that relative you don’t really like, you make a choice, you will good to that relative. When you stay up late listening to a dear friend or even to your child, even though you are exhausted and can think of nothing but sleep, you make a choice, you will good to that friend or to your child. This is love. These are true acts of love. When you go to church, even when you’re feeling high on the indifference scale, you make a choice: you will good to the Lord and to your sisters and brothers in Christ.
Now, in wanting or willing good to a person where they are lacking, be it materially, emotionally, mentally—whatever—, love takes on the particular form of mercy. To be merciful is to love, to want good for a person where they are lacking, deficient, broken, and thus struggling. Consider the traditional Works of Mercy, present from the early Church, more formally codified in the 1500s:
The Corporal Works of Mercy:
- Feed the hungry
- Give drink to the thirsty
- Clothe the naked
- Shelter the homeless
- Care for the sick
- Visit the imprisoned
- Bury the dead
The Spiritual Works of Mercy:
- Share knowledge
- Give advice to those who need it
- Comfort the suffering
- Be patient with others
- Give correction to those who need it
- Pray for the living and the dead
- Forgive those who hurt you
Forgiveness is likely the hardest, because it is evil directed at us. To forgive, therefore, is to will good to that person who has hurt us. It sounds absurd, n’est-ce pas ? According to the logic of emotion, it is absurd, seemingly masochistic, even. We are not and never will be emotionally wired to forgive.
We are emotionally wired to hate (i.e., experience aversion regarding that which causes us hurt). This is the normal state of affairs. Forgiveness is not about emotion; it is deeper than our emotional center. I will good to the person who has hurt me and, in that, I forgive them. It is that simple! Of course, in our world, to will good sounds forced, insincere, not “heart-felt”; fake. On the contrary, it is a very real, deeper movement of the heart.
It may help to mention a few falsehoods, unnecessary baggage regarding forgiveness,
a list of five things we sometimes expect forgiveness to be or to do. Some of these notions may be floating in your heads, but remember:
- To forgive is not to feel forgiveness or to feel forgiving.
- To forgive is not to forget.
- To forgive is not a singular event, a one-time deal.
- To forgive is not to condone the wrongdoing.
- To forgive is not to “let go.”
Let us flesh out the first two of these truths.
To forgive is not to feel forgiveness or to feel forgiving.
Again: forgiveness is an act of the will. “But why don’t I feel better when I wish well upon the person who has hurt me?” you may ask. Because feeling is at a different, more superficial level. There is no necessary cause and effect relationship between willing and feeling. Believe it or not, even when we still feel hatred and anger, our willing the person good is an act of forgiveness. Once the wound heals, and there is no more hurt, our willing the person good is a simple act of love.
Wounds, however, take time to heal. And there is no rhyme or reason to their rearing their ugly heads. Which means then, forgiveness is a repeated act, a here-and-now act (see number 3). Do not think to yourself, as many people do, “I am still so upset. I thought I had forgiven.” You did. But that was yesterday. The wound is still there and so today you must forgive. If forgiveness is an act of love, it is always in the here-and-now, in the present. We need to forgive every day, so long as the wound remains.
To forgive is not to forget.
To forgive is of the will. To forget is of the memory. They are two different faculties. Similarly, there is no necessary cause and effect relationship between willing and remembering. One cannot forget so long as the wound remains. Do not think, therefore, that because you cannot forget that you have not forgiven. If you will good to the person, you have forgiven. We must also move away from thinking, as we sometimes do, that forgiving is to recreate a rosy scenario, in which everything and everyone is restored and blissful. To forgive is not to become “BFFs” (best friends forever). That can perhaps occur much further down the road, when the wound heals.
To forgive can be heroic. To forgive is liberating. As Christians, we know in faith that we are given a more powerful love to do this, to love as Jesus loves. Jesus, therefore, makes of us humble heroes of love. Jesus liberates us in enabling us to exercise liberating forgiveness. With Jesus, too, it is a question of willingness.
In the Lord’s prayer, we pray “forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” Jesus says also, “forgive, if you have anything against anyone; so that your Father in heaven may also forgive you your trespasses” (Mark 12:25), and “forgive, and you will be forgiven” (Luke 6:37). This makes it sound like I am forgiven to the degree that I forgive. Not promising! I think it is a question of willingness, which opens me to the love that Jesus gives me. Willingness opens the heart. To be forgiven, we must be willing to forgive. Otherwise respectfully put: “forgive us our trespasses, as we are willing to forgive those who trespass against us.”
Now, about receiving this forgiveness, about being forgiven: Does God always forgive? Does God always will good to me when I betray and hurt Him? The pivotal revelation in the light of which we can answer this question is found in John’s first epistle: “God is love” (4:8). Quite overwhelming, for, in the realm of human affairs, we have no experience of someone who is love. If God is love, then the answer to our question is “yes.” If God is love, God loves unconditionally, God loves me in my brokenness and God loves me even when (dare I say, because, not simply despite) I betray and hurt Him.
God is love. God is all-merciful. “God is forgiving” (Daniel 9:9). Saint Isaac, the seventh-century Bishop of Nineveh, the ancient Assyrian city of the Upper Mesopotamia (now northern Iraq), says “all God can do is love.” In other words, God always and only wills us good. His self-originating eternal love for us is not diminished by our failings. Quite overwhelming, for, in the realm of human affairs, we have little to no experience of love unimpacted by our failings. In the words of Paul to Timothy: “If we are unfaithful, he remains faithful, for he cannot deny himself” (II Timothy 2:13).
