Most everyone loves a good forgiveness story. They give us hope for a world with a little less darkness and a little more light, where broken hearts are mended, shattered relationships are restored, and redemption triumphs over resentment. They can offer faith in humanity’s fundamental goodness and a dose of inspiration when we’ve been hurt by another. That’s why, seventeen years ago, so many were enthralled by the Amish response to a brutal mass murder that devastated their community. But at the time I didn’t count myself as an admirer. I was more suspicious than I was inspired.
A lone gunman, Charles Roberts, had shot ten Old Order Amish girls he’d tied up in their one-room schoolhouse. Five of them died before Roberts turned his gun on himself. The country was shocked by this senseless violence toward defenseless children. But just as shocking was how the Amish community- including the victims’ parents- immediately and publicly forgave the killer. They reached out to his family with sympathy, attended his funeral, and diverted donations they received from around the world to his widow instead.
The Amish were hailed as saints and celebrated as supreme exemplars of compassion and mercy. Their forgiveness of a gruesome, premeditated crime was heralded as a model for all to imitate. From pulpits and across the media, awestruck pundits and preachers lauded this community of professed pacifists. Their story was the focus of numerous articles, essays, and books, and was adapted into a play, a movie, and even an off-Broadway musical- Nickel Mines– named for the Pennsylvania town where they lived.
In anticipation of the tragedy’s tenth anniversary, I was invited to contribute to an e-book celebrating the community’s forgiveness. I was honored to have been asked, as I’d written a book about forgiveness a few years before. But I was hesitant to contribute to this one. To begin with, I didn’t want to idealize the Amish or appropriate their culture. That had already been done by the evangelical women who wrote the so-called “Bonnet Ripper” romance novels, which the Amish themselves find both puzzling and amusing.
I was also concerned that holding up this community’s act as the gold standard of forgiveness would create unrealistic or impossible expectations, adding discouragement and guilt to the burdens of hurting people struggling to process trauma and pain. Those who felt paralyzed with grief or overwhelmed by anger might understandably resent immediate forgiveness being expected or even demanded from them. It’s for good reason that forgiveness experts in the psychological world warn that forgiveness should never be rushed or compelled.
I felt conflicted. On one hand, I didn’t want to challenge the sincerity of what the Amish did. Forgiveness and nonviolence are cherished Amish principles, and how they publicly responded to Charles Roberts’ crime was characteristic of who they are and what they believe. On the other hand, I was concerned that not all of their community’s forgiveness practices were benign, let alone admirable. I recalled reading somewhere that Amish men would demand apologies from women they’d raped for having tempted them to sexual sin. If true, such abusive victim-shaming would be a grotesque symptom of an unhealthily patriarchal and religiously twisted culture.
Part of me wondered whether their forgiveness of Charles Roberts was “real,” or simply a performative act from a group for which submitting to cultural expectations is non-negotiable, and religious conformity the norm. I feared that some concluded they had no choice but to express forgiveness, whether they wanted to or not. Refusal might risk their being ostracized or even expelled from their tightly-knit, insular world. Those who separate themselves from the Amish community are not generally allowed back in. And nonconformists can be demanded to leave.
I also wondered about their feelings. Days after their children were killed, victims’ mothers were at the murderer’s funeral, hugging and consoling his widow and their three children. Were they genuinely expressing solidarity with a fellow sufferer? Were they extending love to another whose life, like theirs, had been irrevocably shattered? Were they secretly seething with hatred and rage? Was their public display of forgiveness merely a show to placate a demanding deity, who they resented for having allowed such evil to happen? Were they barely able to face the world that day? Was it all of the above?
Later I would learn what the Amish felt, and that their choice to forgive didn’t negate their grief. They shared their experience in media interviews years after the tragedy, which was uncharacteristic for a people resistant to pull back the curtain to the outside world. Survivors spoke of deep depression and a fear that made them hypervigilant. They exhibited signs of posttraumatic stress. There was profound anger and overwhelming sorrow. All of which was normal- and indeed to be expected- in light of the circumstances.
It’s as if they wanted to reassure everyone that they were human. That their forgiveness story which enamored so many was not all sunshine and rainbows. That pain lingered and festered long after the wound was inflicted. That their hearts weren’t immediately filled with peace and joy or gratitude for the privilege of witnessing to their faith. That assumptions about God were shaken to their foundations. That their public act of forgiveness was not the end of the story. That it was, in many ways, just the beginning.
I hope that the admirers initially enraptured by the Amish at Nickel Mines continued to follow their story after it faded from the public’s eye. But I suspect many didn’t, leaving them with a truncated view of forgiveness as a single heroic act that can look impossibly superhuman when facing circumstances for which an “eye for an eye” seems like a more natural response. And that’s a shame. Because, with the perspective of time, the collective Amish experience is a sobering reminder that while forgiveness is a decision, it’s also a process – a process in which feelings have to be felt, pain must be faced, and the decision to forgive might need to be made over and over again.
That’s certainly been my experience of forgiveness. Maybe that’s why I didn’t immediately join the legion of Amish admirers. I needed to hear about their depression, fear, and pain in order to connect their forgiveness story with my own. I had to empathize before I could eulogize. No one I loved had been murdered, I’m grateful to say, but I had been dealt a massive betrayal that turned my life upside down and smashed my heart to pieces. As the author of a book about forgiveness and a self-proclaimed “expert” on the subject, I was challenged to live my own words in a way I’d never done before. I was consumed by anger. I was immobilized by pain. I was devastated by humiliation. I shook my fist at God. I nursed plenty of revenge fantasies. And I felt like a complete hypocrite.
Both the Amish and I were anguished over the wounds we’d been dealt. In that way, we were alike. Yet in another way, our circumstances were quite different. For them, the one who needed forgiveness was dead, and could cause no further harm. They had no opportunity to pursue justice, because the perpetrator had served justice upon himself. But the one I needed to forgive lived and flourished and, by necessity, continued to intersect with my life. I wanted justice, and none seemed forthcoming. At least not as I wanted it dealt out. And that filled me with anger.
I came to appreciate, however, that anger and forgiveness can coexist – at least for a while. If the ultimate goals of forgiveness include replacing resentment with peace and extending good will to our offender, what’s required are perseverance, patience, and time while difficult emotions are processed. One step forward can be followed by two steps back – especially if the source of one’s pain is unrepentant and causes additional hurt, ripping off scabs and rubbing salt in unhealed wounds – as I felt happened to me. I wanted to forgive. I wanted to experience peace. Yet my anger remained, and its source was frequently renewed. But was I not offering forgiveness to my offender? Only if I understood forgiveness in terms of its end, not its beginning.
A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. And the first step in the journey of forgiveness is deciding not to retaliate, and committing to do no harm in repayment of a harm received. That’s a step anyone can take – even when their anger is white hot. Anglican Archbishop Desmond Tutu, a Nobel Peace Prize Laureate for his resistance to apartheid, confirms this in a book he wrote with the Dalai Lama called No Future Without Forgiveness. In it, Tutu assures his readers that contending with anger is a normal part of the forgiveness process. Then he adds: “You should never hate yourself for hating others who do terrible things.”
Initially I was taken aback by Tutu’s words. Like me, he is a Christian. And aren’t Christians commanded to love their enemies? Aren’t they supposed to hate the sin, while loving the sinner? Yes, and yes. But when our vision is clouded by pain, it’s hard to separate sin from sinner. When we’re hurting, we might see little to love in those who’ve hurt us, because they seem so unlovable. At times like this, love and hate can live side-by-side in our heart, like weeds and wheat in a field. These feelings of hate can’t be denied or ignored. But they shouldn’t delude us into thinking that we’re failures at forgiving. Because while hate is a feeling, forgiveness is a choice. And we can always choose to forgive, regardless of how we feel.
Perhaps Tutu was saying that we should be gentle with ourselves as we contend with powerful emotions, after having been broken by people who are broken themselves. If that’s what he meant, I agree. Such a perspective can serve as an antidote to fears that any response to an offense, short of what was witnessed at Nickel Mines, is inadequate or less than Christian. It’s true that, in the wake of unspeakable tragedy, the Amish embraced Jesus’ call to “do good to those who hate you.” They gave a powerful witness. But for others, as we stumble through our pain, sometimes the most good we can do, at first, is simply not to do something bad.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s more appropriate to say, “I’m forgiving you” than it is to say “I forgive you.” It may sound odd, given what we’re used to hearing, but it speaks to forgiveness as a process that begins with a single decision – a decision that might involve a heroic act, or a bitter struggle with restraint. Either is okay, and both can make the beginning of a good forgiveness story. Like that of the Amish at Nickel Mines.
I ended up contributing to that e-book about Nickel Mines, and I’m glad I did. Not just because their story speaks to the power and promise of forgiveness. But also because it helped me appreciate that no forgiveness story should end with its first chapter. The whole tale must be told. Otherwise, we’ll never know that what we thought was the journey’s destination, was just the first step on the road.