When I was a teen growing up in rural Oklahoma where my father pastored a small church, one of my favorite songs was a tune called “How Many Times (Seventy Time Seven)” by the band White Heart. The song, of course, is built around that great conversation in Matthew 18 when Peter asked Jesus a simple question. “Lord,” he said, and I paraphrase here, “when one of your crew—you know, my ‘brothers’—royally ticks me off, how many times do I have to forgive him?” Not only does Peter ask the question, but he also makes a suggestion…as if he was afraid Jesus might say something ridiculous which, of course, He does. “Seven times?” Peter offered. And the One who knew no sin said, “No, Pete. Not seven. Multiply that by seventy or so all you’ll just be getting warmed up.”
The point, of course, was not that Peter or any of his brothers should grab an abacus and get busy on the multiplication, but that Peter should continue to forgive long past the point of his own willingness. Forgiveness—real forgiveness—comes from an eternal well. It’s the forgiveness that Christ reminded His father about from the cross. “They know not what they do,” He said, and they didn’t know. Just like we don’t know all the times we’ve nailed Him up there ourselves. There is forgiveness because there is grace. And grace, so freely given to us in our own weakness and depravity, is freely given to everyone else that will accept it.
I came back, to both the song and the verse, after a recent “falling out” with a very dear friend of mine. For over twenty years, this man has been as close a friend as any I have had the pleasure to know, a brother born not of blood but of sacrifice, compassion and loyalty. Like most “brothers,” he and I were privy to details of each other’s lives…and we, time and time again, stood up and supported each other through hardship and sorrow. When I lost my parents and, then, my younger brother, he came running and (along with my beautiful family and other dear friends) provided strength in a time I didn’t possess any. If that is not being an instrument of God’s grace, I don’t know what is.
Not long ago, after many years of watching a pattern of behavior develop consequences that, if left unchecked, might eventually cost him respect or even relationships that mean a great deal to him, I felt the burden to share with him what I was seeing. Knowing the matter would be difficult to discuss, I spent several weeks praying about the matter and seeking a way to ensure my words would be as gracious as they could be. But, in the end, no amount of grace—no amount of humility regarding my own failures, no amount of assuring him that the issue I brought before him in no way tarnished my view of him as an amazing man and terrific friend, no amount of explaining that this was not a “sin” issue but merely a series of choices that I worried might ultimately rob him of joy—nothing deadened the blow for him. He felt sucker punched, I guess, and no one enjoys that feeling. All attempts to the contrary, I wounded him.
I’ve been wounded. We all have. And sometimes, sadly, it’s the people who love us most that, albeit unintentionally, wound us the worst. Though my intention was nothing but grace, my friend imagined our conversation was born of something else. Spite? Jealousy? Superiority? I can’t really say what he thinks. Why not? Because twenty years of friendship—of laughter and tears, of having each other’s backs when the storms rolled in—apparently doesn’t mean much in the chaos of his anger and hurt. The pain in his heart seems to add more weight to the scales than nearly a quarter of a century of the truest friendship. Why? Because he’s human. It’s that simple. No human story is without villains because—guess what?—WE’RE ALL VILLAINS! We are all fallen. We are all broken. On our very best days, our own righteousness is nothing but filthy rags in contrast to the righteousness of Christ. I can easily imagine a situation where I, too, might have been wounded in spite of someone else’s best efforts to graciously bring an issue before me…because we don’t always want to change. Seeing weakness in ourselves can be disheartening. I find my own weaknesses nearly unbearable and, though I’m all too aware of them, they still get the better of me more than I would care to admit.
I guess that particular verse in Matthew came back to me because my old friend, though a good man who loves God, doesn’t seem to be very quick to forgive me. And if eventually he does forgive me, it seems far from certain that he will welcome me back into his life. And, I have trouble seeing that as forgiveness. Perhaps it’s because I’ve experienced so much grace from others, but true forgiveness and grace isn’t about walking away. It’s walking toward the ones that hurt us. It’s opening our arms to the worst offenders in our lives the way Christ would. It’s knowing that, whatever hurt or frustration that individual caused you in the past, or may continue to cause you in the future, it is nothing compared to your own transgressions against Christ. Knowing that, at your very worst, Christ loved you, walked with you and offered you his limitless grace, you forgive and give grace to your brothers and sisters in the same way.
The world, of course, would disagree. Our flesh doesn’t really acknowledge unconditional love or the grace we are offered through Christ’s sacrifice on the cross. Instead, it offers us self-help suggestions about “weeding out” all the people in our lives that don’t contribute to our happiness. See, ultimately, the message of the world is “I get what I want, or I’m out of here.” It’s “I’ll love you and respect you as long as I get something out of it.” It’s “I’ll be a great friend so long as you never disappoint me.”
As Christians, we are called to a higher law, because we know that, without unmerited favor…without a love as unconditional as it is deep…without being shown grace we could never deserve, we’d still be lost. “Everyone to whom much was given, 
of him much will be required, and from him to whom they entrusted much, they will demand the more.” (Luke 12:48) If the Christ-like response to transgression or even betrayal was to walk away from that person, Judas and Peter would never have made the cut. If the Christ-like response to someone saying or doing something stupid or offensive was to shut them out of your life, Martha would never have been able to see Jesus raise her brother from the dead and most of the disciples wouldn’t have lasted a week in ministry.
So, in Christ, even if I had willfully committed a sin against one of my dearest friends…if, out of anger and not concern, I had lashed out to wound him instead of seeking to serve him as a brother…even if I didn’t have over twenty years of loving and serving him as a brother in faith to weigh against that one moment that wounded him…the call of God is to forgive and embrace. The call of God is to extend grace after grace from a supply that will never run out. To offer the mercy made new every day.
I don’t think I’ve needed forgiveness from my brother seven times in the past twenty years. Maybe I have. Maybe I’ve needed it seventy times that. Whatever the case, Jesus is clear. The forgiveness needs to continue. Love and grace must always win out over our need to be “right” or our need to “win” an argument. We must forgive as we have been forgiven. How many times? You know the answer.
