We are now at five years since the “two weeks to flatten the curve” in early 2020 that opened the floodgates of lockdowns, mask mandates, and general social upheaval that came about from how our society chose to deal with COVID-19.
In hindsight, it is easy to see that mistakes were made, while perhaps forgetting the fear and uncertainty that drove people to make them. It can also be easy to recall the many wounds and wrongs we inflicted on one another. Whether it was masks, vaccines, social distancing etc., we had countless opportunities for conflict and serious disagreement, and we did not always handle it well. No matter what “side” you fell on, you probably were wounded by other people’s sin, and you probably wounded other people with your sin. Neighbors, families, and even parishes turned against each other.
It is not something we can or should forget, but if we take Our Lord’s example on Good Friday and the words of the Our Father seriously, then we must look these offenses straight in the face and, like him, truly be willing to forgive them.
Plenty has been written critiquing how our leaders in government, business, and health care responded to “The Pandemic,” and that is important. But in a “smaller,” and actually in a more important way, we need to face—and forgive—how we were wounded by our friends, coworkers, neighbors, parents, children, and even the Church. Whether you were a “double-masker” or an “anti-vaxxer” (or somewhere in between), you were probably yelled at, ostracized, maligned, or otherwise attacked for your position at some point—and often by people you know. In the most extreme cases, you may have been fired.
Usually, the damage was in your family or parish, and it might still be raw. You may still get riled up about how so-and-so refused to wear a mask near you even when you explicitly asked him to. You might still be cut to the heart remembering how your grandkids were withheld from you because you didn’t want to get an experimental vaccine. We can dwell on these wounds and let them fester in our souls if we wish. Or we can choose, especially in this season of Lent, to follow the footsteps of Our Lord, who forgave those who crucified him.
Now, forgiveness does not mean that you forget that you were wounded, nor that you do not seek justice if needed. It also does not mean that you are conceding that the person to whom you are extending forgiveness was right or justified. Furthermore, forgiveness cannot truly be complete if the offending party never apologizes or repents. (Tim Staples points out in “Must I Forgive and Forget?” The souls in Hell are the ultimate and most tragic example of this.)
But others’ choices are irrelevant when it comes to your soul. As Jimmy Akin notes,
at some point we need to let our feeling of anger fade, not for [the offender’s] sake but for ours. It isn’t good for us to stay angry, and it poses temptations to sin. Ultimately, we have to let go of the feeling of anger and move on with life. Frequently we have to do so even when a person has not repented.
Most of the offenses committed against us through COVID were not on the level of attempted murder or some other crime that requires us permanently to cut those who sinned against us out of our lives. These relationships with our families, friends, coworkers, and fellow parishioners are much too important for us to be unwilling to go above and beyond and proactively look to forgive and heal. As Jimmy points out:
If humans didn’t practice forgiveness—if we stayed angry over each past offense and determined to exact retribution for each one—society would fall apart. People wouldn’t be able to work together. Society depends on a substantial amount of forgiveness, of “letting things slide” in order to function.
Beyond the pragmatic, if we as disciples of Christ want to be like our all-merciful God, then we should act like the Father in the parable of the Prodigal Son. The Father does not run after the son and physically drag him back from his life of dissolution, but neither does he wait behind a locked door for the son to beg. Instead, the Father is out where he can see his son from “a long way off.” When he does catch sight of him, he runs to his son, embraces him, and kisses him (Luke 15:20). If we want to be like God, we need to be out and looking for the chance to forgive, even when the one who has trespassed against us has really trespassed against us. (Remember that the younger son asking for his inheritance more or less equated to “I wish you were dead,” so the offense was very real.)
It is easy to look back at our experience of “The Pandemic” and see how a good number of the measures we took, fears we had, and conclusions we drew at the time was based on incomplete information. It may also be easy to point out what our government and society should and should not do if this sort of thing happens again. And it is important that we do that.
What may be harder is picking up the broken or strained relationships with our parents, siblings, and neighbors, and even some of our pastors and bishops, who perhaps owe us an apology for how they chose to handle this difficult time. A good place to start would be to offer any apologies you owe, without demanding reciprocity. If you did something wrong (or even just imperfectly), you can ask for forgiveness. Whether or not someone else seeks forgiveness from you is on his soul at the Judgement—you need to worry about yours.
We all are sinners who owe God unfathomable debts. If we must hold our fellow servants accountable, let us do so with charity and kindness, so that Our Father may “forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”