The Limits of Repayment, Revenge, Bitterness, and Resentment

When the injury is so painful, who can avoid asking, Why should I forgive? What's the point? Why shouldn't the person who has wronged me be made to pay for his or her sins? Why shouldn't he be punished? Why shouldn't she suffer?

If any conviction about such things comes naturally, it's the deep-seated belief that "somebody's got to pay." Forgiveness seems too easy. There should be blood for blood. Eye for eye.

If it's a tooth in question, one can require tooth for tooth in retaliation. But what repayment can anyone demand from the man who has broken your home or betrayed your daughter? What can you ask from the woman who has ruined your reputation? So few sins can be paid for, and so seldom does the victim possess the power or the advantage to demand payment. In most cases, "making things right" is beyond possibility. How can you get back what another has taken from you emotionally, socially, relationally?

Repayment is impossible! (Although at first flush, it is desirable.)

What then of revenge? If you cannot get equal payment or restitution from the offender, at least you can get vengeance. If the one who wronged you cannot repay you, perhaps you can pay him back in kind, tit for tat. Serve the same sauce. Now "an eye for an eye" takes on new meaning.

But here, too, there is an intrinsic and insurmountable problem-as you try to get even, you actually become even with your enemy. You bring yourself to the same level, and below. There is a saying that goes, "Doing an injury puts you below your enemy; revenging an injury makes you but even; only forgiving sets you above."

Revenge not only lowers you to your enemy's lowest level; what's worse, it boomerangs; it continues the injury within you. Revenge is not its own reward; it is its own punishment. In effect, it aims the weapon of revenge at oneself in hope of jutting the enemy with the kick of the gun's recoil. Then it shoots the self in the foot-you have no moral leg to stand on-and it reloads and shoots the other foot in cyclical resentment. It spites the self in sustaining spiteful feelings toward the other. Revenge is a worthless weapon. It corrupts the avenger while continuing the enemy's wrongdoing. It initiates an endless flight down the bottomless stairway of rancor, reprisals, and ruthless retaliation. It accepts the foe's terms, tactics, and treachery and blindly repeats it.

Just as repayment is impossible, revenge is impotent! (Although it wears the mask of power.)

No repayment? No revenge? But what of the soul-satisfaction of resentment? In its raw form, resentment takes the soul hostage, holds itself captive to the offender, binds the bitter heart to the oppressor. Nursing a grudge until it grows into a full-blown hate—hoofs, horns, tail, and all—offers a sort of stubborn self-comfort, but when hatred is harbored, it grows, spreads, and contaminates all other emotions. Ultimately, hatred is the costliest of companions. The warmth it provides fuels deeper fires that sear the soul on both conscious and unconscious levels.

Hidden hatred turns trust into suspicion, compassion into caustic criticism, and faith in others into cold cynicism. Incubated hatred can elevate blood pressure, ulcerate a stomach, accelerate stress, or invite a coronary.

Hatred-the wish for another's destruction-is self-destructive. It is more prudent to pardon than to resent. The exorbitant cost of anger, the extravagant expense of hatred, and the unreasonable interest we pay on grudges make resentment a questionable pleasure at the least and a costly compulsion at the best, or worst. It is wisest to deal with hatred before the sting swells, before a molehill mushrooms into a mountain, before a spark kindles conflagration.

What a strange thing bitterness is! It boils up within us when we need it least, when we're down and in desperate need of all our freedom, ability, and energy to get back up. And what strange things bitterness can do to us. Like a permanent plaster cast, it slowly sets, perhaps protecting us from further pain but ultimately holding us rigid in frozen animation or rigor mortis. Feelings turn to stone; responses become concrete. Bitterness is paralysis. Parts of the personality no longer respond to signals from the soul.

A young man falsely accused and penalized by his high school principal turns sullen, angry, and bitter. His faith in justice and authority dies. He may wait years to begin to thaw.

A girl betrayed by a guy she trusted is forced, becomes pregnant, then turns bitter and withdrawn. Her faith in humanity ends. She may need a lifetime to come to terms with the evil done.

A woman deserted by her husband and left to be both mother and father to their sons turns angry at life-at the whole universe. Her faith in God and everything good has ended. She cannot live long enough to let the fire burn out on its own.

Bitterness is such a potent paralyzer of mind, soul, and spirit that it can freeze reason and emotion. Our attitudes turn cynical, uncaring, critical, and caustic. Where we once ventured to place faith in others, now we trust no one. Turtle-like, we withdraw inside protective shells of distrust, burned once, twice shy.

Letting bitterness seal us in can be an excuse for acting irresponsibly. Being responsible in any painful situation usually calls for us to accept our part of the blame for the way things are. But being bitter about it can save us all that. We can scapegoat others. We may feel fully justified in blaming God for our troubles and difficulties.

Bitterness is a cyclical, repetitive, tightly closed circle of self-centered pain. It carries us around and around a senseless arc—around and around ourselves. Like a child learning to ride a bicycle, knowing how to ride but not how to stop, we pedal on and on, afraid to quit, yet wishing for someone to grab the bars, stop our circling, and let us off. Bitterness is useless. Repayment is impossible. Revenge is impotent. Resentment is impractical.

David Augsburger
Excerpted from The New Freedom of Forgiveness by David Augsburger © 2000 Moody Press. All rights reserved. Used by permission. To order your own copy of this book, call 800-999-3534 or email .