Forgive Us Our . . . Debts?
Theologically speaking, we “owe” forgiveness to one another, much like a financial transaction.
By Mark Moring
I’m in quite a bit of credit card debt, very little of which can be chalked up to what I’d call “reckless spending.” Most of it is has been accumulated through unplanned real-life incidents – car repairs, home repairs, medical bills. Basically, just fixing broken things.
Jesus pretty much has a Master’s degree in fixing broken things, made abundantly clear in those three decades he walked among us. Healing the sick, the blind, the mute, the lame. Casting out demons. Even raising the dead.
He also taught us how to live, forgive, confess, repent, and pray—much of which is summed up in The Lord’s Prayer. Most of us can recite it by memory, but when we do so in a new environment, we inevitably reach that line where we’re not sure what to say: “And forgive us our . . .”
Our what?
Trespasses? Sins? Debts? When it comes right down to it, it doesn’t really matter which of the three options we choose.
Let’s look at each, starting with that last option. And let’s start with my credit card debt. I’d love pick up the phone, call the bank, and say, “Hey, remember what Jesus said about forgiving our debts? I’ll forgive yours if you’ll forgive mine!” I don’t think that request would go very far.
But is that what Jesus means by our “debts”? That’s the way it’s literally translated Matthew; Luke’s version is typically translated “sins” or “trespasses.” In Aramaic, the word for debt can also mean sin, and in both cases, Jesus clearly means that we should forgive another’s sins in the same way we’d forgive another’s debt. Theologically and practically, it’s the same type of “transaction.” One person owes another – whether it’s money (a fiscal debt) or restitution (righting a wrong).
Scripture also says that we essentially owe one another forgiveness. Matthew’s version of The Lord’s Prayer includes this little PS that we don’t say aloud: “If you forgive those who sin against you, your heavenly Father will forgive you. But if you refuse to forgive others, your Father will not forgive your sins” (Matthew 6:14-15).
I don’t like that part very much. Seems too hard, doesn’t it? We’re only human; how can we be expected to forgive as God forgives? He’s perfect; we’re not. It’s part of his nature, not ours. It certainly doesn’t feel like it’s part of mine.
And yet there it is, in black-and-white: A command. Not a negotiation. Not a suggestion.
Consequently, I try to live it as best as I can, forgiving those who’ve “trespassed against me.” Maybe I snap back first, or hold a grudge, or give them the temporary cold shoulder. But eventually, sometimes more quickly than others, I usually get around to forgiveness.
But some wounds go so deep that forgiveness seems impossible. It’s much easier to hold on to anger/hatred/hurt than it is to forgive. We deserve to feel this way! Aren’t some transgressions simply unforgivable from our human perspective?
In my mind, I know it’s possible to forgive even the worst of sins, but my heart and my gut didn’t always believe it. But now that I’ve seen such “impossible forgiveness,” I am beginning to understand that it can be done.
When I visited Rwanda in early 2009, I met a few people who have demonstrated what such forgiveness looks like – as the givers of such incredible mercy, and as recipients. It’s an astonishing, beautiful, life-changing thing to see.
I met people who lost loved ones – spouses, parents, children – in the 1994 genocide, people who had seen their kin hacked to death, right before their eyes. People who had been maimed and raped and tortured. People who had lost everything.
And somehow, many of these people – victims of heinous crimes – had forgiven the killers. Not just in the privacy of their hearts or homes, but face-to-face. And many of the killers, crippled by remorse for their sins, had not only graciously accepted forgiveness, but were now providing restitution to their victims.
I’ll never forget meeting Marc Sahabo, who had killed 15 people in the genocide – including many members of Felicita Mukabakunda’s family. Felicita and Marc had been neighbors and friends before the genocide, before ethnic tensions rose to the point where all hell broke loose, Hutu killing Tutsi, neighbor killing neighbor, brother killing brother.
“I had so much hatred,” Felicita told me. “I wanted Marc to die a slow, painful death. I would have killed him if I could.” But Marc, fearing for his life, had fled Rwanda. When he later returned, he was arrested and spent seven years in prison before his 2003 release.
A few years later, a reconciliation ministry called Rwanda Partners encouraged Marc and Felicita to reconcile – he to confess his sins, and she to forgive. Marc, saddled by guilt, was anxious to take the step, but Felicita, clinging to hate and paralyzed by fear, wasn’t so ready. But through patient counseling, reading God’s Word, and Spirit-led conviction, she eventually agreed.
Marc and Felicita sat side-by-side as they told me the story. Then Marc got out of his chair, demonstrating how he got down on his knees before Felicita, folded his hands, confessed his crimes, and begged for mercy. She put her hand on his shoulder, looked him in the eyes, and said simply and quietly, “I forgive you.”
Marc says that at that moment, he felt like he “just came out of a shower, a clean man, except it was like a holy shower, because I felt clean on the inside.” Felicita’s heavy burden was lifted, and the migraine headaches and nightmares she had suffered for ten years immediately disappeared.
Today, Marc and Felicita are best friends. When I visited, they shared a beer and many laughs. Their children play together, and their families regularly share meals. The two of them ride a bike from village to village, telling their story.
“I’m not scared of him anymore,” says Felicita. “Without Jesus, I’d go back to hating Marc. But because of Jesus, I have forgiven Marc, and I love him now.”
It’s true, then. Such forgiveness is possible. It’s not just theoretical theology. It actually can happen.
Since hearing their story, I’ve been more apt to forgive, to grant more grace, to extend the mercy that I, a sinner myself, so do not deserve. But I forgive because I am forgiven.
I don’t expect my creditors to feel the same way. But being in debt also helps me to understand the gravity of my own debt to God – for his grace – and to others.
Mark Moring is senior associate editor of Christianity Today, where he covers social justice, pop culture, and other issues. He has written about reconciliation in Rwanda, and is a big fan of Laura Waters Hinson, As We Forgive, and the Living Bricks project.
