Time Out! Devotions

I’ll forgive . . . but I’ll never forget. We hear that so much, it’s easy to shrug it off as “only natural.” That’s just the problem! It is the most natural response we can expect. Not supernatural. It can also have tragic consequences.

In his book Great Church Fights, Leslie Flynn tells of two unmarried sisters who lived together, but, because of an unresolved disagreement over an insignificant issue, they stopped speaking to each other (one of the inescapable results of refusing to forgive). Since they were either unable or unwilling to move out of their small house, they continued to use the same rooms, eat at the same table, use the same appliances, and sleep in the same room . . . all separately . . . without uttering one word. A chalk line divided the sleeping area into halves, separating doorways as well as the fireplace. Each would come and go, cook and eat, sew and read without ever stepping over into her sister’s territory. Through the black of night, each could hear the deep breathing of the other, but, because both were unwilling to take the first step toward forgiving and releasing whatever was the offense, they coexisted for years in grinding silence.

Refusing to forgive and cancel the debt leads to other tragedies, like monuments of spite. How many Christian organizations split (often over nitpicky issues), then spin off into another direction, fractured, splintered, and bitterly opinionated? How many families choose to hold on to memories of resentment, rather than create legacies of forgiveness? And churches can be the worst at this!

After I spoke at a summer Bible conference meeting one evening, a woman told me that she and her family had been camping across America. In their travels, they drove through a town, passing by a church with a name she said she would never forget—

THE ORIGINAL CHURCH OF GOD, NUMBER TWO.

Whether our dispute is a personal or a public matter, we quickly reveal whether we possess a servant’s heart in how we respond to those who have offended us. We always have a choice. Will we choose to hold on to the things that have hurt us until we’ve erected monuments of spite that divide our once harmonious relationships . . . or will we choose to create lasting legacies of forgiveness by forgiving those that hurt us and then releasing the offense . . . canceling the debt? Don’t miss those final words.

It isn’t enough simply to say, “Well, okay—you’re forgiven, but don’t expect me to release you!” That means we have constructed a monument of spite in our mind, which isn’t forgiveness at all.

Before I go on, let me say this: I don’t mean to imply that you forget what happened, or that you are able to erase the incident from your memory, or that you don’t hold someone responsible for abusive or criminal behavior or financial debts. We live in reality. It’s impossible for victims of rape to remove the unspeakable crime from their memory. Memories of childhood abuse cannot be wisped away like leaves falling from a tree. Scars, both physical and emotional, are lasting pictures of a terrible pain.

What I do mean is that we release people from the guilt and no longer hold the offense over their heads. When we choose to “cancel the debt,” we unshackle people from the dark emotions lurking in our hearts that say, Never. Never let this go. In fact, for those who have experienced life-altering offenses, choosing to forgive and release people can be an ongoing process. When Peter asked Jesus, “‘Lord, how often shall my brother sin against me and I forgive him? Up to seven times?’ Jesus said to him, ‘I do not say to you, up to seven times, but up to seventy times seven’ ” (Matthew 18:21-22).

Servants must be broad-shouldered people—big enough to go on, big enough to remember the right, and big enough to forgive the wrong by releasing the offender of any guilt, pain, or grudges.

Taken from Charles R. Swindoll, “Creating a Legacy of Forgiveness: Cancel the Debt,” Insights (May 2004): 1, 4. Copyright © 2004, Charles R. Swindoll, Inc.

(by Max Lucado from UpWords Ministry)

Water. All Noah can see is water. The evening sun sinks into it. The clouds are reflected in it. His boat is surrounded by it. Water. Water to the north. Water to the south. Water to the east. Water to the west. Water.

He sent a raven on a scouting mission; it never returned. He sent a dove. It came back shivering and spent, having found no place to roost. Then, just this morning, he tried again. With a prayer he let it go and watched until the bird was no bigger than a speck on a window.

All day he looked for the dove’s return.

Now the sun is setting, and the sky is darkening, and he has come to look one final time, but all he sees is water. Water to the north. Water to the south. Water to the east. Water to the …

You know the feeling. You have stood where Noah stood. You’ve known your share of floods. Flooded by sorrow at the cemetery, stress at the office, anger at the disability in your body or the inability of your spouse. You’ve seen the floodwater rise, and you’ve likely seen the sun set on your hopes as well. You’ve been on Noah’s boat.

And you’ve needed what Noah needed; you’ve needed some hope. You’re not asking for a helicopter rescue, but the sound of one would be nice. Hope doesn’t promise an instant solution but rather the possibility of an eventual one. Sometimes all we need is a little hope.

That’s all Noah needed. And that’s all Noah received.

Here is how the Bible describes the moment: “When the dove returned to him in the evening, there in its beak was a freshly plucked olive leaf!” (Gen. 8:11 NIV).

An olive leaf. Noah would have been happy to have the bird but to have the leaf! This leaf was more than foliage; this was promise. The bird brought more than a piece of a tree; it brought hope. For isn’t that what hope is? Hope is an olive leaf—evidence of dry land after a flood. Proof to the dreamer that dreaming is worth the risk.

Don’t we love the olive leaves of life?
“It appears the cancer may be in remission.”
“I can help you with those finances.”
“We’ll get through this together.”
What’s more, don’t we love the doves that bring them?
Perhaps that’s the reason so many loved Jesus.

To all the Noahs of the world, to all who search the horizon for a fleck of hope, he proclaims, “Yes!” And he comes. He comes as a dove. He comes bearing fruit from a distant land, from our future home. He comes with a leaf of hope.

Have you received yours? Don’t think your ark is too isolated. Don’t think your flood is too wide. Receive his hope, won’t you? Receive it because you need it. Receive it so you can share it.

Love always hopes. “Love … bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things” (1 Cor. 13:4–7 NKJV, emphasis mine).

From A Love Worth Giving
Copyright (Thomas Nelson, 2002) Max Lucado