By Christy Vines (Christian tradition), with contributions from Shaykh Ibad Wali (Muslim Tradition) and Rabbi Fred Reeves (Jewish Tradition)
Forgiveness was something I first encountered in the dark silence of a Catholic confessional as a child. I still remember the heavy wooden booth, the tiny grate that slid open with a reverberating scrape, and the sudden appearance of a priest’s face on the other side. Outside, I could hear my classmates, knelt in rows, murmuring Rosaries until their sins had been counted and cleansed. Inside, I whispered my own wrongs, waiting for penance to be assigned.
I am no longer a practicing Catholic, though I still hold reverence for Catholicism’s liturgical cadence and sacramental beauty. Those early experiences of confession, however, left me wrestling with forgiveness for many decades afterward. Only later did I begin to grasp forgiveness as something lived in the open, spoken between people, sought without shame, extended not only by God but through us to one another.
X
Even now, as a “born again” Christian, I confess I don’t have forgiveness figured out. I wrestle with it daily. Especially in a world where forgiveness is so often misunderstood. Where it is weaponized to silence victims, politicized into culture wars, or withheld in a climate that prizes condemnation over restoration. Too often, forgiveness seems either cheap and hollow or impossibly out of reach.
And yet I believe forgiveness still matters. It matters for our relationships, for our communities, for our faith, and for our future. And so I turn first to science and then to the three Abrahamic faiths, not to claim forgiveness is simple, but to show how their prayers, rituals, and practices can teach us to forgive in ways that are honest and courageous, liberating and transformative.
What forgiveness is—and what it is not
Too often, forgiveness is mistaken for forgetting, excusing, or minimizing harm. It is demanded of victims before they have even named their wounds. It is confused with weakness, or used as a shield to avoid the harder work of truth and justice. But forgiveness, rightly understood, is none of these things.
As psychologist Everett Worthington reminds us, “Forgiveness is distinct from condoning, excusing, or forgetting; it is a prosocial change in motivation toward a transgressor.” It is not about pretending the harm never happened. It is about choosing to respond differently to the harm that did.
Michael McCullough and his coauthors go further, describing forgiveness as “a set of motivational changes whereby one becomes decreasingly motivated to retaliate against an offending partner, decreasingly motivated to maintain estrangement from the offender, and increasingly motivated by conciliation and goodwill.” Forgiveness, then, is not amnesia. It is alchemy. The transformation of anger into something that no longer poisons the soul, releasing the grip of vengeance so that new life can grow in its place. Forgiveness does not minimize loss; it defies the logic of hatred.
The sacred languages echo this truth. In Hebrew, salach speaks of God’s mercy, a divine pardon that is not earned but given. In Greek, aphiēmi means “to let go,” as one might release a debtor from chains. In Latin, remissio refers to loosening, to slackening what once bound tightly. Each word suggests movement, not the erasure of harm, but the refusal to let harm dictate the future. Forgiveness does not rewrite the past; it rewrites our relationship to it.
The Hebrew Scriptures command, “You shall not hate your brother in your heart . . . but you shall love your neighbor as yourself” (Leviticus 19:17–18). The Qur’an promises, “The recompense for an injury is an injury equal thereto; but if a person forgives and makes reconciliation, his reward is due from Allah” (Qur’an 42:40). And in the Gospel of Luke, Christians are reminded to “Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven” (Luke 6:37).
These are not relics of a distant age. They are maps, drawn across centuries, showing us how to return to one another, how to resist the pull of vengeance, how to begin again.
Forgiveness as ritual and responsibility in Judaism
In Jewish life, forgiveness is not abstract. It is lived through ritual, prayer, and the hard work of repairing relationships. Nowhere is this clearer than on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, when Jews gather to seek renewal and reconciliation. Central to the day’s liturgy is Ashamnu, the communal confession, an alphabetic acrostic recited together: “We have trespassed, we have betrayed, we have stolen…” Spoken in the plural, the prayer reflects the Jewish belief that wrongdoing and forgiveness are not just individual but communal responsibilities.
Yet prayer alone is not enough. Jewish law insists that divine forgiveness atones only for sins against God—failures in ritual, broken promises, neglected commandments. For wrongs committed against other people, no prayer, however heartfelt, is sufficient. The Mishnah teaches: “For transgressions between a person and God, Yom Kippur atones; for transgressions between one person and another, Yom Kippur does not atone until one appeases the other.” In practice, this means that in the days leading up to Yom Kippur, Jews are expected to reach out directly to those they have harmed, acknowledging wrongdoing and seeking forgiveness.
This process is guided by the steps of teshuvah (repentance): recognizing the wrong, confessing it, making restitution when possible, and resolving not to repeat it. Tradition even teaches that if one sincerely asks three times and forgiveness is still refused, the responsibility shifts to the one withholding it. What matters most is the attempt—the courage to ask, the humility to admit fault, and the willingness to change.
In this way, Jewish practice binds ritual to real life. The prayers of Yom Kippur provide the language of confession, but they are not an end in themselves. They are meant to propel people outward, into face-to-face encounters where reconciliation can begin. Forgiveness, in Judaism, is never only between a person and God. It is lived in community, where honesty, humility, and action give the prayers their true meaning.
Forgiveness as prayer and petition in Islam
The concept of forgiveness (maghfira) occupies a central position in Islamic theology and ethics, serving as both a divine attribute and a human virtue that believers are called to embody. Perhaps no incident in Islamic history illustrates the transformative power of forgiveness more profoundly than the Prophet Muhammad’s (peace be upon him) journey to Taif in 619 CE. This pivotal event, preserved in Ibn Ishaq’s Sirat Rasul Allah and authenticated in the collections of Bukhari and Muslim, demonstrates how genuine forgiveness transcends personal vindication to become a catalyst for spiritual transformation and divine mercy.
The journey came during the Prophet’s “Year of Grief,” after the deaths of his wife Khadijah and his uncle Abu Talib. Seeking support, he traveled to the city of Taif, only to be rejected, mocked, and driven out with stones. Bloodied and exhausted, he sought refuge in a nearby orchard. There, the Angel of the Mountains offered to crush Taif in retribution. The Prophet refused, saying instead: “No. I hope that Allah will bring forth from their descendants people who will worship Allah alone.”
The Taif incident illuminates three dimensions of forgiveness in Islam: the vertical dimension of seeking divine mercy, the horizontal dimension of forgiving others, and the temporal dimension of hope beyond immediate pain. It also reveals forgiveness in Islam as a divine attribute that believers are called to embody, not through suppression of legitimate grievances, but through the transcendence of personal ego in service of universal mercy.
The Taif story continues to shape Muslim ethics: Forgiveness is not weakness or naïve acceptance, but a principled choice to break cycles of vengeance. It is mercy rooted in strength, extending outward with hope for generations yet to come.
Forgiveness as practice and presence in Christianity
In Christianity, forgiveness is prayed, spoken, and enacted. It rings in the Lord’s Prayer, so familiar we can say it on autopilot. Yet it remains as disruptive today as when Jesus first taught it: “Forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors” (Matthew 6:12). In that single line, forgiveness received and forgiveness extended are bound together.
The church has embodied this teaching in its worship. In Catholic and Orthodox traditions, confession offers a sacred space where sins are named aloud and words of absolution free the penitent from guilt: “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9). In many Protestant communities, the communion table carries a similar weight. Paul urges believers, “Everyone ought to examine themselves before they eat of the bread and drink from the cup” (1 Corinthians 11:28). Forgiveness, in other words, is not an afterthought but the condition for belonging.
The stories of Scripture illustrate forgiveness as lived reality. Joseph, betrayed and sold into slavery by his brothers, meets them again in famine and chooses provision over payback: “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good” (Genesis 50:20). In Luke 15:11–32, traditionally known as the Parable of the Prodigal Son, a father does not wait for apology or proof of repentance. Seeing his son still “a long way off,” he runs to meet him, embraces him, and declares, “This son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.” His forgiveness arrives before the confession, a grace that precedes remorse. And on the cross, Jesus mirrors that same divine impulse, interceding not after repentance but in the very midst of cruelty: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). Both moments reveal forgiveness not as reaction but as initiation. Love choosing mercy before it is even deserved.
These stories reveal the heart of Christian forgiveness: It does not erase wounds or cancel justice, but it refuses to let injury write the final chapter. Forgiveness is deliberate, often costly, and deeply transformative. It asks Christians not only to receive God’s grace but to extend it outward, in families, workplaces, and communities fractured by resentment.
Yet the challenge for Christians today is to let forgiveness leave the sanctuary and enter our homes, our workplaces, our communities, and even our digital life; to ask for it when we have done harm; to offer it when bitterness calcifies; and to build communities where truth is spoken, lest bitterness become the final word.
Practicing forgiveness in daily life
The practices of forgiveness in Judaism, Islam, and Christianity are not only theological treasures. They are lifelines. And scientific research offers evidence for what these traditions have long proclaimed: Forgiveness reduces depression and anxiety, improves physical health, and strengthens relationships. It can fortify marriages, restore friendships, and help rebuild communities. Peace researcher Yaacov Auerbach has even found in his research that forgiveness in conflict zones can help rebuild trust and make peace possible where politics cannot.
In a polarized United States, forgiveness can break cycles of contempt. In international conflicts, it creates space for coexistence when negotiations collapse. Its applications are as wide as human failure itself.
But if forgiveness is to shape our future, it must move beyond holy days into ordinary time, available to the devout and the doubtful alike.
From Judaism, you can borrow the rhythm of the High Holy Days. Consider creating “seasons” of reconciliation, once a year or once a month, to reflect on harm done, seek those you have hurt, and ask forgiveness directly. It might be in a letter, a text, a phone call, or a conversation over coffee. It’s possible to adapt communal confession to your setting: families or teams occasionally saying aloud, We overlooked. We failed to listen. We hurt each other.
From Islam, you could receive the daily cadence of istighfar, the continual seeking of forgiveness from God and others. Consider building micro-practices of reflection: Pause at lunch or before bed to ask, Where did I cause harm today? Where must I forgive? Let Ramadan’s emphasis on purification remind us that cleansing the heart of resentment is as vital as abstaining from food. To fast, in this sense, is to be released—from anger, pride, the need for retribution, so that forgiveness can take root and reconciliation can follow.
From Christianity, embrace simple habits that travel well. The Lord’s Prayer, “Forgive us . . . as we forgive,” is a daily challenge. Confession can look like journaling, therapy, or trusted conversations where we speak truth about our failings and meet compassion. Consider letting communion’s logic inspire tables where hard things are said and forgiveness is extended across a meal.
Forgiveness is not perfection. It is practice—ordinary, repeated acts of release that anyone can attempt.
The call is simple, though never easy: Take one step. Reach out to the one you have avoided. Speak the harm you have carried. Release what weighs you down. Begin again. For forgiveness is not only a path to personal peace, but one of the most powerful tools we have for renewing the world. And in this fractured moment, there may be no greater work for us to do.
Shaykh Ibad Wali is the executive director and resident scholar of Hillside Islamic Center, specializing in the Islamic Law of Inheritance. He is also the senior Muslim advisor for The One America Movement.
Rabbi Frederick Reeves is the senior clergy of KAM Isaiah Israel Congregation in Chicago, Illinois, and the director of Jewish Programs at the One America Movement.
