As We Forgive Those Who Trespass Against Us

Seeking forgiveness isn’t enough. We need to pass it on by forgiving others. Here’s a story about a trespass against me:

I used to volunteer regularly at my local library. Every week, I’d spend an afternoon doing whatever it was that needed to be done. Eventually, the staff person responsible for coordinating volunteers and handing out their assignments left her position. I finished the last task she gave me. The branch librarian said they were still adjusting responsibilities for coordinating volunteers, and that she’d call me when something needed to be done.

Fast forward a couple of weeks. I received a phone call. The librarian asked if I could come in and help her with a project. We set a date, the following week on a Tuesday, and I put it on my calendar.

In order for you to understand more fully how the events unfolded, you’ll need to know that my oldest son who lives several states away is a general aviation and charter pilot. He carries passengers and equipment in a jet. He can fly multiple other types of airplanes, and he typically operates out of smaller airports. He can even fly aerobatic airplanes upside down. He also works as a flight instructor and airplane mechanic. Very occasionally, and usually with no advance notice (because the weather has to be just right and his schedule has to have some open time), a plane becomes available for him to borrow. He lives a full day away by car, but it’s just a couple hours by air — if you’re flying yourself.

So, on the morning of the day I expected to go to the library in the afternoon, he called. He could fly down for a brief visit that day or the next. I thought it over hard. “I’ve got a commitment at the library this afternoon, so if it’s all the same to you, tomorrow would work better for me.”

That would be Wednesday. I had something special to look forward to.

I arrived at the library Tuesday afternoon. The librarian wasn’t there. I asked some of the staff. They weren’t sure where she was. “I think she had to go to a conference today,” a person at the circulation desk told me. No one knew anything about the project that needed to be done. So, I went home. I felt inconvenienced. I felt unappreciated. I fretted about having put my son’s visit off a day for no good reason.

Wednesday morning arrived. My son reported that an emergency situation at work would require his attention all that day and the next. He wouldn’t be able to come and visit. I was disappointed.

Then, I got angry. If I had known that I wouldn’t be needed at the library, he would have come the previous day, Tuesday. I blamed the librarian. She had trespassed against me. I fumed about it for hours. I thought about all the nasty things I’d say when I next talked to her. I envisioned a conversation where she would ask me for another favor. I had a reply all figured out. I would say, “I’ll pencil it in on my calendar. If I remember, and if nothing else comes up and if I’m feeling especially bored that day, and if I don’t suddenly discover that I have to go to a conference, I might be able to drop by and lend a hand. Maybe.”

I indulged in self-pity, and I felt righteous for having been so wronged.

During my usual prayer time, God gently pointed out that I was accusing the librarian of a wrong much larger than that which she had actually committed. I was angry with her for the fact that I hadn’t been able to see my son. In fact, she had nothing to do with that.

From the very beginning of this scenario, if he had called on Tuesday morning and said, “I can come visit this afternoon, that’s the only opportunity open.” I would have said, “Come on down!” Then I would have called the library and explained. The librarian would have understood. I would have apologized and asked to reschedule.

The reality of how events unfolded was that I made a choice. With the information I had on Tuesday morning, I opted, freely, to schedule the visit for Wednesday. That wasn’t her fault. And, it wasn’t her fault that an emergency in another state interfered with the plans I had made for Wednesday. I was trying to hold her accountable, to judge her guilty, for something bigger than her offense.

This realization took the edge off my anger. Nevertheless, she was certainly guilty of something. So, I gave some thought to illuminating exactly how I had been wronged.

First, I considered that I had been forced to waste my time. I view my time as a valuable commodity. But how much did I really waste on this errand? Because the library is about ten minutes away from my home and I’d spent only about ten minutes there, the total accumulated time for the trip cost me about half an hour. Furthermore, while I was there, I picked up a book that had been set aside for me. I would have had to make a separate trip to retrieve it anyway. From this point of view, the net amount of time lost was actually pretty close to none.

So how had I been wronged? My feelings had been hurt. I had been embarrassed. I had been excited, even proud, to have been called upon. I felt needed, and then I learned that I was merely superfluous. I felt the value of my time and contributions had been disregarded. These were real offenses. The librarian was actually guilty of these things.

And, it was my job to forgive her. Not because she deserved to be forgiven, but because I needed God’s willingness to forgive me for my transgressions. Receiving forgiveness was part of a transaction mandating that I extend it to others.

Coming before God and asking for his help in forgiving someone who had inconvenienced my scheduling ability and wounded my pride certainly seemed easier than forgiving someone who had committed a larger transgression. Nevertheless, the same process pertains. I am very fortunate to have been on the receiving end of transgressions that ultimately seem very small. Interpersonal conflict. Work-related slights. I’ve been lied to, gossiped about, and stolen from. These seem petty compared with what so many others have suffered.

Yet, Jesus provided an example for even these worse-case scenarios. He forgave those who crucified him (Luke 23:34). Forgiveness didn’t erase the wounds. He still wore the scars in his hands, his feet, and his side. After Jesus’s resurrection, Jesus invited Thomas to touch the scars. Apparently, although the scars remained, forgiveness had rendered them painless (John 20:27).

If I still feel pain when something is touched, perhaps I haven’t yet forgiven those responsible for the wound.