I’m still unclear on how the author contrasts the Biblical definition with the 
modern one, but I appreciate his call to use more precise language.



Should We Always Seek to Forgive?
https://partiallyexaminedlife.com/2020/01/01/should-we-always-seek-to-forgive/
(via Instapaper)

Some time ago, five men were jailed for their part in a failed attempt to break 
into the wine cellar of famed collector Michel-Jack Chasseuil. The men 
threatened Chasseuil with a Kalashnikov rifle, punched him, and broke a few of 
his fingers. With the ordeal behind him, Chasseuil commented: "Je pardonne mais 
je n’excuse pas" (I forgive but I do not excuse).

What did Chasseuil mean by this? In other words, what is the difference between 
forgiving and excusing? To forgive is to overcome justified negative emotions, 
such as anger, resentment, and vengefulness, stemming from an offensive deed or 
state of affairs. To excuse, on the other hand, is to mitigate, or seek to 
mitigate, the moral blame attaching to the offensive deed or situation, with 
the aim of exonerating the perpetrator(s).

And so Chasseuil must have meant that, while he had overcome his negative 
feelings towards the men, this did not imply that they were any less culpable 
or deserving of punishment. It has been argued that to forgive is also to 
exonerate, but Chasseuil’s stance suggests that this need not be the case.

Other concepts related to forgiveness include condoning, tolerating, and 
pardoning. If to excuse is to seek to mitigate the moral blame attaching to an 
offense, to condone is to deny that there is any blame in the first place by 
disregarding or discounting any negative judgement and attendant negative 
emotions. To tolerate, at least in the moral sense, is to acknowledge the blame 
but carry on as if nothing were. To pardon is to write off the offense on the 
grounds that the person did not intend it. A pardon is also a legal and 
political concept exercised by a third-party authority, such as the President 
of the United States, to absolve a person convicted of a crime, who must in 
turn accept the pardon.

Forgiveness ought also to be distinguished from mercy, which is leniency borne 
out of compassion for someone whom we were otherwise intending to blame, 
punish, or harm. In a judicial context, mercy (or clemency) is, as John Locke 
put it, "the power to act according to discretion, for the public good, without 
the prescription of the Law, and sometimes even against it."

Condoning and tolerating tend to apply to patterns of behavior, whereas 
forgiving is more often for a specific, singular offense; and while it is 
possible to condone or tolerate blameworthy actions that are directed at 
others, we can only properly forgive those blameworthy actions that are 
directed at ourselves. Moreover, it is not the actions themselves that we 
forgive so much as the person who committed them, saying something like, "I 
forgive you for …."

Much more than condoning or tolerating, forgiving belies the moral relation 
between the self and the other, which it aims at rebalancing. If I say, "I 
forgive you," I am implying that you have wronged me (or at least that I think 
that you have wronged me) and in some sense placing you in my debt. But if you 
do not accept that you have wronged me, you may yourself feel wronged by my 
forgiveness—and so sometimes, especially for minor offenses, it may be politic 
to keep our forgiveness to ourselves, that is, to behave like we have forgiven 
but without actually mentioning that we have.

Forgiveness is not the overcoming of resentment by any means, or else one could 
forgive simply by losing one’s memory, or by dying. Instead, genuine 
forgiveness involves a particular process by the end of which the injured party 
should have been able to forswear revenge, overcome resentment, and, crucially, 
rehabilitate the offender by reframing their relationship as one of moral 
equals.

Of course, this process is greatly eased by the cooperation of the offender. 
Ideally, the offender readily engages in a reciprocal process of acknowledging 
the offense, taking responsibility for it, accounting for it, repudiating it, 
and committing not to repeat it or anything like it—since the fear of further 
offense is a significant impediment to forgiveness. On an emotional level, the 
offender ought to empathize with the injured party, and express and experience 
remorse. But given enough time, or goodwill, forgiveness need not require the 
cooperation of the offender, who may be unrepentant, unreachable, or dead.

Historically, an offender may also have undertaken, or submitted to, a formal 
apology ritual, which facilitated forgiveness by protecting the dignity of the 
victim in forgiving. In January 1077, the Holy Roman Emperor Henry IV trekked 
to Canossa Castle in Northern Italy to obtain the revocation of his 
excommunication from Pope Gregory VII. Henry had angered Gregory by demanding 
that he abdicate, but now Henry needed Gregory’s revocation to save his crown. 
Before granting the revocation, Gregory made Henry wait outside the castle for 
three days and three nights on his knees through a blizzard. Henry’s penance, 
or apology ritual, enabled Gregory to grant the revocation without losing face 
or looking like a pushover. Centuries later, the German Chancellor Bismarck 
coined the expression, "to go to Canossa," meaning something like "to submit 
willingly to degradation." The modern incarnation of the apology ritual, 
depending on the severity of the offense, is to offer a bunch of flowers or box 
of chocolates.

By rebalancing the moral relation between victim and offender, forgiveness 
enables us to move on with our lives, repairing our relationships and removing 
the resentment or guilt that would otherwise have weighed upon us. What’s more, 
forgiveness reinforces important principles and values such as mutual respect, 
personal accountability, and social harmony. Forgiveness is a major theme in 
Tolstoy’s War and Peace: Princess Marya forgives her father, Natasha forgives 
Anatole Kuragin, Prince Andrei forgives Natasha, Pierre forgives Dolokhov. None 
of it is easy, but by rising to forgiveness these characters are able to grow, 
both in themselves and in our hearts. In contrast, characters like Countess 
Rostova and Prince Nikolai Bolkonsky are brought down by their inability to 
forgive or ask for forgiveness. Their rancor eats at them and blinds them to 
the bigger picture of their lives.

For all that, should we always seek to forgive? There may be certain offenses, 
such as the senseless murder of a loved one, that truly are unforgivable. But 
even if everything can be forgiven, forgiveness might not serve the best 
interests, particularly when the offender has not made amends or enough amends. 
In such cases, to forgive the offense is to condone, and therefore invite, the 
bad behavior of which it is an instance; while to withhold forgiveness is to 
signal that the offense is inadmissible and pressure the offender into 
reconsidering his or her attitude. Even if raw resentment has been overcome, it 
might be judicious to withhold forgiveness as a kind of moral protest, as a 
learning exercise for the offender, or for prudential reasons (for example, if 
the offender has a potential for violence). And so, even if it is the central 
plank, there is more to forgiveness than the mere overcoming of resentment.

Classical thinkers like Plato and Aristotle did not count forgiveness as one of 
the virtues. Neither did they share in the later concept of forgiveness as a 
means of overcoming justified anger or resentment. For them, and in ancient 
morality more broadly, a virtuous person is immune from moral harm by lesser 
persons, and therefore has no need of forgiveness. In Plato’s Apology, Socrates 
tells the jurors that his accusers, Meletus and Anytus, will not injure him: 
"They cannot; for it is not in the nature of things that a bad man should 
injure a better than himself."

In the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle says that actions are either voluntary, in 
which case they attract praise or blame, or involuntary, in which case they 
ought to be (to use the most accurate term) pardoned. Significantly, actions 
that are voluntary—prima facie, most actions—cannot be pardoned because they 
are not involuntary and therefore not pardonable. In the Rhetoric, Aristotle 
says that anger can be quelled by the feeling that the offense is deserved, by 
the passage of time, by the exaction of revenge … and the list goes on. But, 
tellingly, the Master of Those Who Know, as Dante called him, makes absolutely 
no mention of forgiveness as a means of redress.

Like Greco-Roman concepts of forgiveness, the biblical concept of forgiveness 
has much more to do with pardon than with the overcoming of resentment. The 
Greek word aphiemi, which in the Bible is sometimes translated as 
"forgiveness," actually means "to let go or release, as of a debt or bond." In 
Leviticus 16:10, aphiemi is used in the context of the scapegoat, as it is sent 
forth into the wilderness with its burden of sin. The ultimate scapegoat is, of 
course, Christ himself. Upon seeing Jesus for the first time, John the Baptist 
exclaimed, "Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world!"

In Christian ethics, to forgive is to abandon our claims against others, just 
as God abandoned His claims against us, casting out our sins "as far as the 
east is from the west." To forgive is not merely to imitate God, but to have 
Him imitate us: "For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father 
will also forgive you …." Forgiveness is a manifestation of love: our love for 
others is an echo of God’s love for us, and forgiveness is the greatest 
expression of that love.

These notions come together in the parable of the prodigal son. The younger of 
a man’s two sons asks for his inheritance and sets off to a faraway land where, 
in a fabulous turn of phrase, he "wastes his substance with riotous living." 
Having outspent his inheritance, he becomes a swineherd, and is so destitute 
that he envies the swine the husks that they eat. With hunger in the belly, he 
resolves to return to his father and beg to be taken as a servant. Instead of 
spurning him, the old man falls upon his neck and kisses him. The elder son 
walks into the homecoming feast and begrudges the old man for slaughtering a 
fatted calf in honor of his debauched brother. But the old man replies that it 
is right that they should make merry: "For this thy brother was dead, and is 
alive again; and was lost, and is found."

Ancient and biblical notions of forgiveness may seem inadequate or incomplete, 
but manage to sidestep an important problem with the modern concept of 
forgiveness as the overcoming of resentment: namely, that resentment, or the 
kind of resentment that ought to be overcome, is necessarily inappropriate, 
leaving forgiveness with no intrinsic moral worth.

Let me explain. If people have no free will and no meaningful control over 
their actions, resenting them serves no moral purpose. But if they do have free 
will and their actions fall short, they deserve our measured resentment. If 
they then make amends, our resentment is no longer appropriate, and 
"forgiveness" requires no special effort. But if they do not make amends, 
resentment remains the right or moral response: to forgive them in those 
circumstances would be to imply that our resentment was inappropriate or 
excessive, and therefore vicious.

The modern concept of forgiveness is fundamentally flawed. Instead of learning 
to forgive, we should learn to resent rightly, and, in some cases, to pardon.

Neel Burton is a psychiatrist and philosopher. He is a fellow of Green 
Templeton College at the University of Oxford. This article is adapted from his 
most recent book, Heaven and Hell: The Psychology of the Emotions.

© 2019 Neel Burton

by 


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