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My parents were married in the wave of weddings that followed World War II. Dad came home from military operations in Europe to start a new life on the farm, and Mom became his partner in the enterprise. There was only one problem -- Dad had an older brother who was destined to take over the family agricultural enterprise, and there was not enough work or income to support two families.

So Dad began to look for other opportunities. For a while he drove a cattle truck, bringing fattened animals to the sales stockyards in south Saint Paul. But then a farming assistant job became available in the neighborhood. There was an older couple with a large farm, and none of their children had decided to stay on to work it. Dad and Mom became the hired help, looking after the animals and the fields, and beginning a family of their own.

In time they became indispensable to the older couple. When senior years caught up with them and they decided to move to a small house in town, Dad and Mom were asked to take up residence in the "big house," and manage the farm as if it was their own. For many years, our family grew up on an agricultural expanse known as "The Evergreen Lane Farm" because of the trees that lined its drive and the sign posted over its entry at the rural gravel road that ran past.

On that farm we learned to play and work and live. We pulled weeds, raised pigs, hauled water, built tree houses, and slathered gallons of red paint on barns and sheds. We settled in there as if we owned the place. But we didn't. Dad and Mom knew all too well that we were sharecroppers. Three-fifths of each harvest belonged to us, but two-fifths went every year to the family that still owned the place. We were never to forget that we only stayed there by their good graces.

By the time I had graduated from high school, changes abounded. Dad had purchased other land, so he now had farming investments of his own. Moreover, my grandparents had retired, and Dad and Mom bought their land as well. And when they moved to the old Brouwer homestead, the land that they had sharecropped for so many years remained under their care as rental property. After all, no one could be trusted more with its well-being than Dad and Mom, who had invested their toil and sweat and family into it for decades. The old sharecropper arrangement was turned into a self-renewing rental contract. If neither the landlord nor my parents said anything by August 1 each summer, the rental arrangement continued for another year.

Even in rural areas, however, things can sometimes change rapidly. Sugar beets as a cash crop were aggressively spreading in the neighborhood, and land prices shot up astronomically. On August 6, one year, the landlord came by to demand more rent. Others would pay it, he said. But Dad rightly pointed out that the rental contract was legally renewed for another year. Perhaps the next spring they should talk about it.

That was the start of six weeks from hell. The landlord demanded more money, but my father remained adamant. Then the landlord started calling at all hours of the day or night, saying nasty things and making strange demands. Since the man was a friend and a neighbor and even an elder in the same rural church of which both families were members, Dad relented and agreed to split the difference with him. It wasn't necessary on Dad's part, since he had a legally binding agreement that would stand up in any court. But good relations were more important to my parents than money, so they thought they would make a concession.

It didn't work. The landlord refused the offer. He had an even higher price in mind, and nothing short of that would be acceptable. He became more and more obnoxious in his demands and dealings. Sometimes he would wait until Dad had gone out into the fields before he would come in his pickup truck and park on the middle of the yard, blowing his horn until Mom went out to talk. Then he would berate her until she was in tears.

That was the limit for Dad. Although he had every right to keep farming that land for another year, and at the rental price prescribed by the contract, he gave it all up. "Go rent your land to someone else," he told the landlord. And the man did.

My parents said very little about it all after the deed was done. They never spoke harshly of the family that had so crassly abused and misused them. It was almost by chance that I later found out that months after the final incident my father went to the landlord's place and asked to talk with him. Dad made the trip to ask forgiveness. Dad told the man that he (my father) had been harboring vengeful thoughts and ill-wishes in his heart, and he requested that the landlord forgive him for wronging him in that way.

Playing the Game
I don't know the outcome of their conversations. All I know is that something inside of me changed when I heard what my father had done. It wasn't even about him or about the deeply emotional respect I had for him. It was more about what life is supposed to be like and how it had glimmered more brightly in that moment. To wrestle anger and bitterness and revenge to the ground and defuse it with grace and mercy and an all-encompassing desire for restored relationships was as strange as it was redemptive.

I thought, of course, of Peter's words to Jesus, "Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother when he sins against me?"

Peter must have felt pretty good about his request. After all, he went on to suggest extravagant limits: "Up to seven times?"

The wisdom of the day said that forgiveness was a three-times matter. If someone did you a misdeed, it was your obligation before God to forgive him or her. If they were so stupid as to repeat their wrongdoing, you should forgive them again, said the rabbis. After all, it was the God-like thing to do. Even a third expression of magnanimous graciousness was encouraged, because it increased your public esteem and your religious long-suffering character. But there had to be limits on mercy, for justice required its day. Therefore three times forgiving was the general rule for the truly devout.

So Peter must have felt very good about his inquisitive request, and quite confident that Jesus would commend him for it. Along with the other disciples Peter was well aware of Jesus' less-than-complimentary views about the practices of the religious leaders of the day. If they thought three times of forgiving were enough, Peter doubled it and added one for good measure. This, surely, will resonate with Jesus' high hopes for his followers. A word of praise was certainly about to come.

Needless to say, Peter and those with him were more than taken aback by Jesus' response. "I tell you not seven times, but seventy times seven."

Beyond Numbers
Jesus steps outside of the numbers game and creates a new playing field which is so large that no scores can be kept. In effect, the message Jesus sends is not "You must try harder to learn the discipline of forgiving!" but rather "You must continually remember who you are!" This is what Jesus affirms in the powerful story he next tells.

A man owes an insurmountable debt, says Jesus. His creditor decides to close the books on the account and prosecutes him for failure to pay. At the court hearing the man begs for mercy. Moved by the tragedy of it all, the creditor cancels the debt and gives up his legal actions.

Hardly out of court (and jail) this same man bumps into another fellow who owes him a minor sum. In great belligerence the forgiven man pummels the other into submission. This debtor speaks the same words that his own creditor used a short while before to plead his case in the larger debt settlement: "Be patient with me and I will pay back everything!"

But the newly released debtor feels power surge through his veins. "Not a chance, fellow! You are going to prison until your family can come up with the dough!" And so it happens.

But people are watching. And those who saw what had occurred earlier, when this little bully was treated kindly by his own creditor, report the matter to the one who showed great mercy. He, of course, becomes mightily angry and resumes his legal (and now vindictive) action against the one who refused to show mercy.

Jesus ends his parable with a moral of great force: "This is how my heavenly Father will treat each of you unless you forgive your brother from the heart."

Personal Pain
Several themes emerge from Jesus' story. First, it becomes obvious that forgiveness is always personal because pain is personal. Peter asks about what he should do when his "brother" sins against him. That makes sense to us, even if we don't want to admit it. It is far easier to pretend to deal with people and matters that are at a distance. We can choose to hate terrorists and then choose to talk with politically correct understanding about them because few of us have ever actually been terrorized firsthand. But if a murder has happened in our family, or if a drunk driver has destroyed our property or our health or the life of a loved one, things become highly personal and our glib forgiving spirit runs away.

When Eric Lomax was posted to Singapore in 1941, he knew nothing of the horror that lay ahead of him. With hundreds of other soldiers he was taken captive, and then declared a spy by the Japanese victors. They broke both his arms, smashed several ribs, and left him barely alive. Yet, somehow he survived the death camps and returned home, albeit a damaged man. For fifty years, his seething bitterness poisoned his relationships, first with his father and then with his wife. The former died and the latter divorced him.

In 1985, Lomax received a letter from a former Army chaplain who had made contact with Nagase Takashi, the man who had served as interpreter at Lomax's cruel interrogation. Nagase was deeply offended by his nation's treatment of war prisoners and had devoted the rest of his life to whatever restitution or recompense could be made. He even built a Buddhist temple near the place where Lomax and others had been severely beaten or killed.

Lomax felt the anger of boiling vengeance swell through him. He shared his frustrations with Patti, his second wife. She was indignant that Nagase could write about feeling forgiven and at peace, when she knew the troubles that had dogged her husband for decades. In irritation, she wrote to Nagase about Eric's ongoing emotional pain.

To her surprise, she received a letter of response from Nagase. At first she was almost afraid to open it, but with trembling curiosity she finally relented. What spilled into her lap was "an extraordinarily beautiful letter," as she put it. Even Lomax found himself moved deeply by its compassion and desire for reconciliation.

A year later, Eric and Patti Lomax met Nagase at the location of the famous River Kwai Bridge. In halting English, Nagase repeated, over and over, "I am very, very sorry."

Lomax, in tears, took him by the arm and said, "That's very kind of you to say so."

They met for hours, and Lomax gave Nagase a short letter. In it he said that he could not forget what happened in 1943, but that he had chosen to offer Nagase "total forgiveness." Nagase wept with emotion.

When interviewed later, Lomax said simply, "Sometime the hating has to stop."

There is no end to the hostilities that can erupt between good friends or neighbors or relatives when a slight is incurred or a tragedy can be laid to someone's blame. No end, that is, until someone chooses to say, "Sometime the hating has to stop." That is the very personal moment of forgiveness. It does not come easy. But if we live under the umbrella of God's mercy, it can come.

One-Way Street
A second thing Jesus teaches us in his parable is that forgiveness is essentially one-sided. While we hope for reconciliation -- a two-sided outcome -- in matters of hurt and broken relationships, forgiveness is not the same thing. Forgiveness is initiated by one party, and is often rebuffed or rejected by the other. That does not undo forgiveness, but it does remind us that forgiveness is essentially one-sided. Forgiveness is what I do or he does or she does. If it leads to mutual restoration, only then does the one-sided forgiveness become two-sided reconciliation.

Jesus emphasizes this in his teaching by showing that when the rich creditor chose to cancel the initial debt, it was neither required nor expected. It happened only because of the choice made by the king. The outcome of the debt cancellation was two-sided, to be sure, but it was initiated as a one-sided movement on the part of the king.

This is a very important point to remember. If we can't have our way in some matter, we often want to make sure that at least the other person can't have her way either. If I hurt, he has to hurt. If I have been wronged, at minimum the other person should be required to make a public show of sorrow. Tit for tat. We want the scales to be balanced somehow, even if it is by way of some kind of mutual expressions that hurt has been caused.

But Jesus is not asking us to be fair people. He is asking that we become excessively unfair in mercy, in the same way that our Father in heaven is merciful with us. It begins as a one-sided initiative.

In February of 1982, Max Lindeman and Harold Wells were sentenced to modest prison terms by a New York judge. Police had booked the pair on rape and assault charges in a highly publicized case. Four months earlier, they had entered a convent in New York City and had brutally victimized a thirty-year-old nun. Not only had they repeatedly raped her, they had also beaten her and then used a nail file to carve 27 crosses into her body. It was a crime which brought even the insensitive to tears.

But when it came time to press charges, the nun refused. She was fully aware that these were the men who attacked her. She did not deny that something evil had happened to her at their hands. Yet, when it came time to overtly accuse the men of their crimes, she chose instead to tell the police and the reporters that, after the model of Jesus, she forgave them. She hoped, she said, that they would learn something from this act of one-sided forgiveness and change their ways.

The police were almost livid. Here were two rotten scoundrels who needed to be punished, yet the nun had tied their hands. Social outrage mounted as the two were tried on lesser charges and jailed for significantly shorter sentences than their basest crimes really demanded.

Did it work? Did the nun's forgiving spirit soften the hearts of Lindeman and Wells? Did they change?

The nun believes that is the wrong question to ask. In her heart, forgiveness works. She is more like Christ, and lives in greater harmony with the Spirit of God than if she had followed through on the requests to press charges.

We cannot know, of course, whether the nun's actions are better or worse for the men or for society generally. We probably could not endure a world where no justice was meted, and where the fabric of social responsibility became a mockery through expectations of convenient, unilateral forgiveness.

Nevertheless, the wisdom of Jesus' words is found precisely in their unusual instruction. Jesus himself would die upon a cross that he did not deserve, and while hanging there would breathe words of divine forgiveness. It is the very contrary nature of forgiveness that requires of us respect. To forgive is an unusual way of life that cuts across our otherwise jaded senses and renegotiates the character of power in our world.

Michael Christopher probed it well in his play The Black Angel. He told of Hermann Engel, a German general who was sentenced to thirty years in prison by the Nuremberg court for war crimes. Nearly forgotten by the time he was released, Engel escaped from society and built a small mountain cabin near Alsace to live out his final years in obscurity.

But a journalist named Morrieaux would not let the story die so easily. After all, it had been his village and his family that were destroyed by Engel's brutality. Working carefully by spreading rumors and stirring up old feelings of bitterness, Morrieaux fomented a plot to burn the man's house down around him, and sear him painfully to death.

Even this, though, was not enough. Morrieaux had a thirst for revenge. He wanted to hear a confession from Engel. Then he wanted Engel to understand what was about to happen to him. Morrieaux desired to watch the horror invade Engel's eyes at the moment when his destruction was assured.

So Morrieaux sneaked ahead of the mob he had stirred up, and connived to enter the general's cottage on pretense. But the person he met there was not at all what he expected. There was no gruesomeness about him; he held no monster-like qualities. This was just a feeble old man. In fact, as Morrieaux tried to draw out from him the awful details of his war experiences and crimes, Engel was halting and confused. He could not fully remember all that took place. Dates had blurred and incidents were lost or rewoven.

Morrieaux began to realize that his vengeance would not be sweet, and that the plot he had instigated against the old man was a terrible act of murder. In desperation, he revealed himself and his intentions to Engel, begging that the general escape quickly with him. Even as they spoke there were distant sounds of the mob climbing to do the nasty deed.

Engel finally understood what was going on. But before he would leave with Morrieaux, he required one condition. "What is it?" asked Morrieaux.

"Forgive me," replied Engel.

The journalist was frozen. What should he do?

As the lights come down Morrieaux slipped out of the cottage alone. The mob did its work and the horrible war criminal died. But the journalist remained forever locked in his own prison of unforgiveness.

Forgiveness is a choice, and a unilateral one at that. It cannot go on the bargaining block or it becomes something other than its essential character. Forgiveness is not fair. It is mercy offered, and that act alone sets aside certain demands of justice. It does not negate justice, but it says that a higher power will be entered to trump the ordinary scheme of things for extraordinary purposes.

Growing In Grace
There is a third element of meaning to note in Jesus' teaching parable, and that is that forgiveness is not merely a one-time event, but rather a growing disposition of graciousness. Matthew makes this clear by placing the parable in the middle section of his gospel. Those events leading up to the Transfiguration in chapter 17 show Jesus focusing most of his attention on the crowds who gather around, and emphasizing the character of the kingdom of heaven. Later, following the entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday (ch. 21), most of Jesus' teachings will anticipate his death and resurrection and the Messianic Age that these usher in. But here, in between, Jesus spends most of his time with his disciples and tries to help them understand the character of a committed spiritual lifestyle. We call it discipleship.

Jesus makes it clear in his story to Peter that there are others looking on as they practice their piety. It is a group of otherwise undescribed folks who notice how the forgiven debtor treats the man who owes him a little. These people also report the man's actions to the king who had originally laid aside the huge obligation that could never have been paid.

In telling this part of the story, Jesus reminds his disciples and us that the goal of any spiritual formation in our lives is not merely to make us feel good, or to give us a sense of accomplishment. This is quite important, since it was Peter's question that sparked the teaching in the first place. Peter had come asking what it would take for him to know that he had done enough, that he was good enough, that he had arrived as some new level of spiritual graduation.

But accomplishments that become self-serving and occasions for self-congratulations are not the goal of discipleship. Jesus, in fact, had said earlier, in the Sermon on the Mount, that those who pray in public and make a big show of giving to the poor have their immediate gratification, but it holds no heavenly value. The goal of spiritual growth is transformation, not arrival. We are to be engaged in a process whereby we become different people, and through which our world begins to look more and more like the kingdom God intended it to be.

So forgiveness is not merely an act that is repeated on occasion to make us feel good in our accomplishments. Rather, it is a growing disposition of graciousness that is an unfolding process of discipleship identity and lifestyle. Peter ought not to think about how many times he forgives one person or a hundred. Instead, the question is whether his character is continually evolving to become more reflective of God.

Lewis Smedes imported a powerful parable from the Netherlands to illustrate that point. Fouke was the baker in a small Frisian town named Faken. He was a very righteous man. In fact, it seemed often that when he spat out his few words, they sprayed righteousness from his thin lips. He walked with upright dignity, and no one could find a fault in him. Except, maybe, that few found him warm or tender. But then, one does not become as righteous at Fouke by blurring the edges of rigorous spirituality through relational compromises.

Fouke was married to Hilda, and they lived a rigid life of regular hours and faithful church attendance. Fouke carried his Bible prominently in his arm as they strolled with purpose to and from worship services each Sunday, and all could see that this book was well used in between. Fouke was a righteous man, and expected others to be as well.

So it was shatteringly shocking when he came home from the bakery one day to find Hilda in bed with another man. How could she do such a thing? How could she violate their bed? More importantly, how could she tarnish the righteousness of their home, or Fouke's reputation in the community?

Word spread quickly in the small town of Faken, and soon everyone knew that Fouke was about to send away his wife in disgrace. So all were surprised when that didn't happen. Fouke chose, instead, to forgive Hilda and to keep her on as his wife. Fouke made it very clear that he was choosing to forgive Hilda, like the good book said. Everyone knew it, and they commended the baker for his fine show of spiritual depth and mercy.

But Fouke's forgiveness was something he wore like a badge of prideful humility, and never did it actually penetrate his heart of hearts. Not a day went by, but Fouke reminded Hilda of his gracious mercy toward her and how undeserving she was of it. She was a tramp, a hussy, a damaged woman with a weak and willful conscience, and she should be glad that a man of his righteous stature did not get rid of her or hold her to public ridicule.

Every day, Fouke's righteousness and forgiveness sparkled like a cheap bauble that weighed them down like costume jewelry. But in heaven, Fouke's fakery didn't sit well. Every night an angel was sent down to Faken to drop a small pebble into Fouke's heart. In the morning, when he exercised again his righteous vindictiveness, a sharp pain slashed through his body.

Day after day the tiny pebbles accumulated, and the hurting in his chest increased. Before long, tall and upright Fouke began to walk with a bit of a bend, and stoop more when he was working. And his boundless energy seemed sapped by the changes taking place in his body. Within several months Fouke trudged down the street nearly doubled over, and his face wore a constant grimace of pain. In desperation he cried out to God. Surely he did not deserve this! What was happening to him? How could he find relief and release from the awful torment?

That night, an angel was sent to Fouke in Faken. Very patiently the angel told Fouke of the observations that had been made, and the decision to drop a pebble into his heart at every expression of righteous bitterness toward Hilda. By this time, Fouke was in too much pain to protest, or to sputter a declaration of his righteousness over against Hilda's gross waywardness in this sordid matter. All he could do is plead for some way to be healed.

The pebbles could be stopped, he was told, and the pain lessened, if he gained the miracle of Magic Eyes. What might these be, he asked, these Magic Eyes?

The Magic Eyes would allow him to see Hilda as she was before the adultery, Fouke was told. "But you can't change what happened," he protested.

That is true, came the angel's reply. No one, not even God, can change the past. But sometimes the future can be changed. Sometimes hurts can be healed. This is why Fouke needed the Magic Eyes.

"Where do I get them?" he pleaded.

You only need to ask with genuine desire, he was told.

But Fouke was too proud to ask for the Magic Eyes. After all, he was righteous. And besides, Hilda was a guilty woman; why should he look at her in any other way? She was the one who nearly destroyed their marriage. If it were not for righteous Fouke, it could never have been saved.

Yet, day-by-day Fouke's debilitating pain increased, as angels continued to drop pebbles into his heart. By the time he finally relented, he was almost walking on his head, and there was no longer any way to hold himself high and rigid with pride. So, in the dark of night, as a lightening bolt of agony ripped through him, he cried out, "O God, save me!"

The relief didn't happen at once. At least Fouke could not notice any difference for several days. But then life became nuance in little ways. First, through sideways glances from near the floor, Fouke thought that Hilda was looking more pretty. She seemed to have a new glow of beauty emerging from within at times. He couldn't believe it, of course, for the adultery had made her very ugly to him. Yet there it was, and he found himself looking at her more and more often.

Then the critical edge of his chest pains began to subside. After several weeks, he found he could walk with less bend and stand with less stoop. His work at the bakery was easier, of course, but so was his time at home with Hilda. Another month or two went by, and Fouke was walking the streets upright, with a lighthearted step. More importantly, the citizens of Faken noticed that Fouke often took Hilda by the arm, and that there was a genuine warmth between them. Some thought, too, that Fouke's lips were less thin than they used to be, and all were certain that the spray of righteousness had subsided.

No one thought Fouke had become less godly in the process, though. In fact, there was a new aura about him that made people sidle up to him in a way they had never desired before.

Hilda was never sure what had happened to her husband. He never told her about the Magic Eyes. But the way things were turning for them, she didn't need to know.

It makes me wonder though, whether I need those Magic Eyes. How about you? Amen.