“..to keep Satan from getting the advantage (through unforgiveness) over us; for we are not ignorant of his wiles or intentions.” (2Cor. 2:2)
Unforgiveness is one of the greatest scourges, casting a shadow that smears andblocks our true identity and character in Messiah Jesus. It produces chaos and destruction in its embrace through many disguises both overt and subtle, from outside
or within; between those who are close by or far.
Unforgiveness against God is a terrifying thing to witness, but the saddest is for someone who cannot forgive himself. Jesus had much to share about this matter using the strongest terms to explain the importance for us always to forgive others from the
heart unconditionally and unreservedly no matter how impossible it may seem. It is embedded in the prayer known as the ‘Lord’s Prayer,’ a shortened version of the “Amidah” prayed by observant Jews twice daily:
“Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us…”
The secret of forgiveness can only be truly apprehended when we begin to understand the enormity of its implications in our personal relationship with God. His unconditional forgiveness of our sins alone brings transformation and reconciliation. Any act of forgiveness on our part is paltry in comparison with His yet filled with utmost significance.
The following is a true account of an American GI in the aftermath of World War 2, on his return train trip after visiting Dachau concentration camp. It illustrates the many dilemmas we must face such as subjective judgments, prejudices and pitfalls, that can cause us to stumble into the darkest pit of bitterness and unforgiveness.
“Until now I had not been aware of the compartment’s other passenger. Slowly my eyes focused on a blond, blue-eyed Aryan! I wanted to spit and run. The thought of sharing a tiny compartment with one of the ‘Master Race’ was more than I could bear. Yet, as my gaze dropped from his face I saw that he was only a pathetic remnant of a man. Instead of arms, a set of hooks protruded awkwardly from his shirt sleeves and his creaseless trousers gave evidence of artificial legs. He was nothing but a torso and a head.
The man was writhing in pain as he tried to adjust one of the artificial legs. The hooks kept slipping as he poked and prodded, trying to straighten that grotesquely bent limb, dangling like a broken puppet. I sat stiffly, arms folded defiantly across my chest.
‘Suffer, you blond Nazi!’ I thought. ‘Whatever pain you feel is nothing compared to what your people inflicted upon mine!’
We sat facing each other. The Aryan and the Jew . . . the persecuted and the persecutor
. . . The German and the GI . . . the uniform of the occupation and the empty sleeves and trouser legs of the defeated . . . the vanquished and the victor.
Suddenly compassion moved me, defying reason, even will, and I found myself standing beside him. He looked up at my uniform, his brow creased with pain, his eyes cautious at first, then smiling gratefully as I bent over him. He showed me how to adjust his leg and I gripped the false limb with both hands, suppressing an involuntary shudder as it felt strange and lifeless through the cloth of his trousers. An impulse to yank and twist and hear him scream flashed through my mind, but gently, careful not to inflict any more pain, I slowly turned the wooden projection into the proper position and heard him sigh deeply with relief.
I turned to walk away, but his hook tugged at my sleeve. His voice was strained. ‘Please —sit and speak with me.’
I heard myself answer, ‘Yes, yes of course,’ and we both smiled and displayed cigarettes at the same time.
‘Please, I insist.’ He mouthed each English word carefully.
‘Oh, no, have one of mine.’ We looked at each other and laughed, then compromised by accepting each other’s offer. I held my pack to his mouth so he could grasp the cigarette with his lips. We smoked in silence. Then he spoke:
‘You have been in Germany long, no?’
‘About eight months,’ I answered, and told him where I was stationed.
‘What do you think of Deutschland?’
‘It is very beautiful,’ I replied, sensing even as I spoke a love welling up within me for its culture and history, its antiquated formality, its language and spirit, and yes, its tragedy and shame. Even the texture of its soil—all had reached out and captured my soul. I studied the face opposite me carefully, looking for signs of cruelty and barbarism. There were none. He was merely a man’s face. Suddenly the unspeakable pity of it all nearly overwhelmed me. We were two atoms brought together in a moment of time, two humans caught up in an inhuman century. In that instant the truth dawned: Katz, except for the accident of birth, the caprice of time and place, you might have been born a German Aryan. It could have been you stoking people into the ovens. I shuddered and looked long into his blue eyes.
‘I have been to Dachau,’ I said quietly.
‘Ach!’ The cold metal of his hook reached out and touched the back of my hand, trying in a fingerless way to express the inexpressible. His blue eyes scanned my Jewish features.
‘Der Krieg. Der Krieg.’ (‘Never again. Never!’)
I saw moisture gathering in his eyes as he stammered, seeking a word.
‘My friend!’
If you hold any grudges in your life, why not release them today and experience the freedom which Jesus longs to embrace you with, look you in the eyes and speak gently the words:
‘My friend!’
