Seriously, forgiveness.
But on a lighter note, Facebook.
Almost a year ago, I got a message on Facebook that someone was deleting me from her friends list for the level of lewdness my profile picture showed. (As we all know, friend status removal is one of the biggest Faceslaps one can suffer on Facebook. Though, in her defense, the picture was taken at a Halloween party, and although going into great detail about it isn't necessary, it is my firm belief that Halloween costumes should be cheap and tasteless, and I follow this belief religiously.) It was a minor offense, but, as will happen with minor offenses, simple, unashamed laughter over her audacity took root and grew into a sharp resentment over her audacity, and what she did became something permanent to keep in the back of my mind.
At the beginning of this school year, she went in a direction for which I wasn't prepared: She messaged me again, telling me she'd been wrong, and she re-requested my Facebook friendship.
Which brings me to my main question today: What do you do when the person you've been angry with for a year comes to you for forgiveness? Say no and be a monument to the wrong someone has done you, or say yes, and lose the right to be right?
When conflicts result in a split between two people, those on the periphery of that conflict often spout out the worn-out axiom "Be the bigger person," as though forgiveness is a means of restoring power. "To the one who forgives go the spoils," they say. "Show her who's boss and forgive!" But this reflects a mistaken twist of the notion that forgiveness is a means of putting things back to the way they were. Think about it. Can anything originating from the bid to "be the bigger person" really put you on equal footing with someone else? Furthermore, have you ever, in your anger, wanted anything else than to just be angry?
Bitterness establishes a world view of polarities. "Us vs. Them." "Right vs. Wrong." "Me vs. You." In my case, it endowed me with the responsibility to look around, waving my hands wildly and shouting, "You see? You see about the human race?! I told you! They're awful!" reminding me of the times when I've been awful too. Forgiveness abolishes that; it levels the playing field, saying, "You're not good because of what you did, but neither am I."
There's that Alanis Morissette song "Thank U," where she lists a bunch of ideas beginning with the words "How about." (Stop your tittering. You know which song I'm talking about, and I bet you like it a whole lot too.) "How about me not blaming you for everything/ How about me enjoying the moment for once," the song goes. And the next line reads, "How about how good it feels to finally forgive you."
But has forgiveness ever really felt that good? No. In fact, there has never been anything about the desire to be equal in all respects to the people who wrong us that feels good. There's nothing natural about giving up control of someone through a list of their grievances, but there's also no other option. Though it would be nice, no one is so high and mighty as to actually be the standard by which mankind may be judged for his actions. There's another aspect of forgiveness: It makes us see ourselves for the imperfect people we are.
I ended up adding that friend again on Facebook. I didn't want to, and I'm not much happier for doing it. But that's okay, because none of that is the goal. If nothing else, forgiveness pushes us toward that positive version of the status quo we've denied ourselves for far too long.
Write to Joel at jtmiller@bsu.edu
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