Of forgiveness, satyagraha and the weight of grace: A thoroughly unchristian view

When I first wrote about forgiveness more than a decade ago, I was slightly uncomfortable with the term, but willing to see its merits. Or rather, shall I say, I was willing to try to see its merits. I sort of see them, in the same way my uncorrected vision can sort of see road signs: hazy, but not as crisp as they should be.

It is, of course, a concept grounded in Christianity: God writes off your inherent offensiveness (i.e., “sin”) through his grace, a word that means favor. Forgiveness is, at its core, both monetary and legalistic: When we forgive a debt, we strike it off the ledger with the intent of never collecting on it. The bondholder is the only one who can forgive debt, because it is owed to them and they collect it. A debtor cannot offer forgiveness because refusing to pay a debt compounds the crime.

In the classical Christian view, as far as I can recollect it from my Catholic kindergarten and later being forcibly dragged to a Lutheran church, we are born inherently flawed due to an ancient incident of rebellious apple-consumption. Something in us is just hardwired to rebel. Although we are inherently pieces of shit, God loves us anyway because of a loosely defined concept known as “grace.” Grace is not something we can earn; it is given to us undeservedly, through God’s love.

So what is grace?

The Proto-Indo-European root of grace is gwere, or favor; it’s also a word for a pleasing and attractive quality, as seen by the attendants of the goddess Aphrodite (the Graces) and in such innovations as grace notes. When you look at gwere, something interesting turns up: It appears that there was more than one PIE word with that base-sound. One means “pleasing” and is connected to words for praise; the other means “heavy,” and deals with terms connected to strength, force and weight.

What’s the connection between grace and forgiveness? It’s a little hazy, but word-nerd that I am, I tend to think that “God lifts the weight of our debt” might be the gist of it. God lifts the weight of our debt because he is the only one who can; he is the bondholder. The bond is our fundamental obedience to the rules that his representatives set: the church.

I have to say, I do rebel at the idea that we are born flawed and ugly, and that it’s only the unearned “love” of a debtholder whom we need to please that redeems us. It feels … profoundly abusive. If we don’t obey, this debt is not written off and payment is severe: an eternity of torment.

How is this divine love? It’s something I never really understood, even when I was being forcibly dragged to Sunday school. I don’t want God to love me like that. I don’t want anyone to love me like that.

Forgiveness and the law

Outside of the theological, forgiveness also disturbs me on the earthly plane. Cultural Christianity encourages people to forgive; “forgive our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” When we are the bondholders, we should write off the debts owed to us as the height of virtuous behavior.

On one hand, I can see the positives of this. In the ancient world – and in the not-so-ancient world of the Hatfields and the McCoys – there was a concept known as the “blood feud.” In other words, a self-perpetuating cycle of vengeance, with each side exacting bloody payment from the other in the pursuit of justice. To stop the cycle of vengeance-taking, human beings invented the legal system: We assign a larger, external authority to determine the truth of the matter, and levy penalties accordingly. No other unit – be it the individual or a posse – can legally exercise this authority.

The state, in other words, becomes the bondholder. This system, as it is comprised of human beings and reflective of the society that created the laws, is inherently flawed. However, it’s a lot better than the continuation of blood feuds and, unlike blood feuds, the system can be refined and made more just over time.

The legal system takes forgiveness out of the equation. If you kill a family member of mine, it doesn’t matter if I forgive you; the state is the bondholder, and they’re sending you to the hoosegow because that’s what the law says. If you violate a contract and owe me money, I can take you to civil court, as is my right, because we have laws that deal with contracts. 

In summation: Forgiveness can only come from the bondholder. If we don’t hold the bond, we can’t actually forgive. I can say the words “I forgive you” until the cows come home, but that’s not going to stop you from being sent to the state penitentiary for manslaughter because we have a legal system.

So, whence comes all this pressure to forgive? If you believe in original sin, as most Christians do, then we can’t forgive each other our inherent flaws; only God can do that through “grace.” We can’t forgive each other legal crimes, because only the state can do that. So, what are we talking about in popular culture – i.e., cultural Christianity – when we tout forgiveness?

Victim as bondholder

“When people trespass against us,” we become victims. Sometimes, we’re victims in small ways: the subject of rumors or taunts, little thefts, the thousand cuts of daily dehumanization that start to add up. Sometimes, we’re victims in larger ways: We get slapped, sabotaged, or our possessions or livelihood are irreparably damaged. Sometimes, this offense is criminal in nature: We are beaten, raped, shot or killed.

As victims, we are bondholders. In the days of blood feuds, we might exact payment with a fist or sword, or have a tribemember do so on our behalf. In the legal system, the state essentially acts on our behalf – even in cases where we might not want it to. In the latter, that’s because the state considers the victim of the offense as more than the injured individual; it’s the safety of society that’s at stake.

Cultural Christianity encourages victims to write off the debt that is owed to them: to hold no resentments toward the offenders, to seek no vengeance or recompense. To turn the other cheek when you are struck.

There can be power in such an act, but only if all the humans in question share the same sense of ethics or morals. Civil rights were attained in my country by people willing to withstand bludgeons, biting dogs and bullwhips without defending themselves. People died doing so. Gandhi called this satyagraha; it’s a kind of martyrdom.

Interestingly, the actual workings of satyagraha appear to contradict original sin, perhaps because the former concept initially comes from India. There is a kind of deeper truth – an ethics, a compassion – at the core of us that satyagraha taps. Otherwise, we might find the inflicting of pain and suffering on the Other pleasurable. While “normal” people can be induced to partake of sociopathic behavior, the actual number of true sociopaths appears to be small. This makes sense: We are social animals, not tigers or sharks.

The problem with satyagraha, and forgiveness in general, rests in the nature of the offender. Essentially, forgiveness involves the use of shame as a social modifier: Someone forgives our offense –> we feel ashamed that we acted that way –> we don’t do it again (i.e., change our behavior).

That doesn’t always work. Some people seem to be very shame-resistant, and essentially view forgiveness as a “get out of jail” card. Forgiveness, in these contexts, enables bad behavior: the offenders keep offending, while promising that they have changed.

Ultimately, though, it’s up to the bondholder whether to write off the debt. We cannot, and should not, compel people to forgive. “But anger will eat you alive!” goes the common sentiment. But… that’s not necessarily true. Sometimes anger is the only thing that keeps you alive. Sometimes anger inspires you to work for justice – if not for yourself, then for others.

Anger, though, is an emotion we limit to members of the dominant strata of society. In my culture, white men are permitted to be angry, while everyone else – women, children, people of color – are expected to accept and, oddly enough, to love. I’ve written about the dyad of love and anger before: Anger and justice are for the strong. Love and forgiveness are for the weak. When we pressure people to forgive, we are encouraging them to be the feminized Other: that which permits.

Ugly, the whole setup.

Beyond forgiveness

As a Pagan, I don’t believe in sin or, truth be told, forgiveness. When we incur debts, they will end up paid in some way; sometimes, the price is the loss of our reputations or our relationships. Actions have consequences, both good and bad; this is the core of the often-misunderstood Indic concept of karma. 

The Gods aren’t inherently bondholders, either, unless you make actual promises to them. If you break a vow or an oath, there are consequences – not because the Gods are full of malice, but because action-and-consequence are part of the workings of the universe. The breaking of a promise doesn’t mean you are inherently bad because there is no inherent goodness or badness; we are the sum of our deeds. While we can’t erase the bad ones, we can tip the balance through wiser or more beneficial choices.

As I’ve written before, I am opposed to the language of capitalism in the sacred. How then can we view our relationship to the divine or the sacred outside the monetary? Perhaps we can view Gods as friends, lovers, elder siblings. Loving parents – although of adult children, once we reach our adulthood. 

Friends. Community members. Fellow artists. 

What healthy relationships are dearest to you, fellow social mammal? Draw on those for your metaphors and leave the courts to the lawyers and the banks to the financiers. 

And when you screw up, be an adult, make amends and learn from the experience. Give others who screw up the same room, but not carte blanche to abuse you.

That’s enough of a rant for today!