Some things are very difficult to forgive. A word that was spoken and cannot be unsaid. A betrayal. A relationship that was broken. Something done to us that changed the way we see another person.
And sometimes the hardest part is that the person who hurt us seems to have moved on. They seem fine. And somewhere inside us there can be a quiet voice saying: That isn’t fair.
Today’s readings don’t ask us to pretend that it is.
9/11 and Rosh Hashanah
This weekend carries another kind of remembering. Twenty-five years ago, on 11 September 2001, thousands of people were killed in acts of terrorism, and many more lives were changed forever. This anniversary asks us to remember – not simply the events themselves, but the people who died, the people who survived, those who ran towards danger to help others, and the consequences that have continued across the years.
And at the same time, Jewish communities around the world are marking Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year – a time of remembering, of taking stock, of repentance and of beginning again.
Those two things belong together more than we might first imagine. Because remembering is not the same as being trapped in the past.
Rosh Hashanah asks people to look honestly at what has been, to acknowledge what needs to change, and to turn towards a new beginning. And that is close to the heart of today’s readings.
The past doesn’t have the final word
In Genesis, Joseph’s brothers are frightened because their father has died. They remember what they did to Joseph. Years earlier, they sold their own brother into slavery. Now they’re afraid that Joseph will take revenge.
But Joseph says: “Even though you intended to do me harm, God intended it for good.”
That needs to be handled carefully. Joseph isn’t saying that what happened was good. He isn’t saying God wanted his brothers to betray him. He’s saying something more difficult: the evil that was done to me does not get to determine the meaning of my life. His brothers intended one thing. God has brought something else from it.
Perhaps that’s one of the deepest forms of hope in Scripture. We cannot always undo what has happened. We cannot rewrite the past. And it can hurt deeply. As Martin Luther said: “Each betrayal begins with trust.” But the past does not necessarily have the final word.
Psalm 103 gives us another picture of God’s mercy: “He does not treat us according to our sins, nor repay us according to our wickedness.”
The Psalm doesn’t say that sin doesn’t matter. It says that God refuses to let our failures be the only thing that defines us. God’s response to human brokenness is not simply calculation. It is compassion.
Seventy seven
And then Jesus makes things considerably harder. Peter asks: “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive?” Peter thinks he’s being generous when he suggests seven times. Jesus answers: “Not seven times, but … seventy-seven times.”
Hilary Clinton once referred to this passage, probably in relation to her husband Bill Clinton, telling everyone that she was keeping count…
But Jesus isn’t simply giving Peter a bigger number. He’s challenging the whole idea that forgiveness can be reduced to arithmetic. How many times do I have to forgive? How much mercy is enough? When have I finally done my bit?
Jesus says: That isn’t how grace works. The servant in Jesus’ parable has received an enormous debt cancellation, but then refuses to extend mercy to someone who owes him far less. He has received mercy, but he has not allowed mercy to change him.
Need to pause
But here we need to pause, because there are many for whom the language of forgiveness can be painful. If someone has been abused, betrayed or seriously harmed, telling them that they must simply forgive can become another form of harm.
The Church of England’s safeguarding guidance is very clear that survivors should not be told to “forgive and forget” or pressured to move on from what has happened. Forgiveness is not the same as saying that what happened was acceptable. It’s not the same as reconciliation. It’s not the same as restoring trust. And it’s never a command to remain in a relationship where someone is unsafe.
Sometimes forgiveness begins simply with saying: What happened to me was wrong. And then perhaps, much later: But I will not allow what happened to me to become the thing that determines who I am.
There may be circumstances in which forgiveness is a long way off, or understood very differently, and that too must be respected. Reconciliation, where it is possible and appropriate, requires truth, repentance and safety. It cannot simply be demanded of the person who has been hurt.
Remember because people matter
Sometimes the most faithful thing a Christian can do is to tell the truth about harm, seek justice, establish boundaries and protect the vulnerable. That’s not a failure of love. It can itself be an expression of love. And perhaps that matters especially when we think about an anniversary like 9/11.
Remembering is not the same as refusing to move forward. But neither is moving forward the same as forgetting. We remember because people matter. We remember because the dead deserve to be named. We remember because history matters. And we remember so that what happened might teach us how to live differently.
That’s one of the things I find powerful about Rosh Hashanah. The Jewish tradition does not begin a new year by pretending the old year never happened. It begins by remembering, examining, repenting and turning again towards God.
There is something profoundly Christian in that too. Grace does not require us to forget the truth. Grace gives us the possibility of facing the truth without being destroyed by it.
Challenge the powerful
That’s where Joseph’s story becomes so telling. He doesn’t deny what his brothers did. “You intended to do harm to me.” But then: “God intended it for good.” The betrayal doesn’t get the final word.
And notice something else. Joseph is now in a position of power over those who once harmed him. He chooses not to use that power for revenge. That’s very different from telling someone who has been harmed that they must return to the person who harmed them. Joseph’s story can challenge the powerful about what they do with power just as much as it can challenge the wounded about forgiveness.
Don’t see the whole story
Paul, in Romans 14, addresses Christians who are judging one another over food and religious observance. His response is: Stop judging one another. Why? Because: “We will all stand before the judgement seat of God.”
In other words: We are not the judge. We don’t see the whole story. We don’t know the whole heart. And we don’t know what God might yet do.
Paul is not telling us to ignore wrongdoing. He is reminding us that ultimate judgement belongs to God, while our responsibility remains to love, to act justly, and to care for one another.
Perhaps that is what it means to trust that love has the final word. It doesn’t mean pretending that justice doesn’t matter. It means refusing to let anger, hurt, shame or betrayal have the final word. The final word does not belong to our anger. It does not belong to our failures. It does not belong to the person who wounded us. And it does not belong to the wound itself. It belongs to God.
And the God revealed in Jesus Christ is a God whose mercy is deeper than our failures and whose grace keeps writing beyond the place where we thought the story had ended.
Hold them for us
So, perhaps today we can hold one simple prayer.
For the things we cannot forgive yet: Lord, hold them for us.
For the people we cannot understand: Lord, hold them for us.
For the hurts we cannot yet release: Lord, hold them for us.
And for ourselves, when we have failed: Lord, hold us too.
Because the gospel, the good news, is not that everything will be made easy. It’s that whatever happens, however complicated the story becomes, love will have the final word. Not because love ignores justice. Not because love denies suffering. But because God’s love is strong enough to tell the truth about what has happened, to protect those who are vulnerable, to seek what is just, and still to refuse to let hatred and revenge write the ending.
So, may we trust the God who does not treat us according to our sins. May we learn the difficult freedom of forgiveness where forgiveness can be freely given. May we have the courage to name wrong as wrong, to seek justice where justice is needed, and to make safe the places and relationships entrusted to our care.
And when we cannot yet forgive, may we place our anger, our hurt and our longing for justice into God’s hands. Until we discover that the final word was never ours to speak. It belongs to God. And God’s final word is love.
For those trusting that love has the final word
Blessed are you
whose story
has known hurt,
disappointment,
or betrayal,
yet who still
dare to believe
that grace
has not finished
its work.
May you be given
the courage
to release
what you were
never meant
to carry alone;
not because the wound
was small,
but because
God’s mercy
is greater still.
When old memories
return,
and forgiveness
feels distant
may Christ
walk beside you,
reminding you
that love
is stronger
than resentment
and hope deeper
than despair.
May you discover,
that not every sorrow
can be explained,
nor every wound
undone –
but no darkness
is greater
than the patient love
of God,
who is still writing
your story.
Amen
‘Trusting that love has the final word’ was delivered by Ian Banks at St Margaret’s, Heywood on Sunday 13th September 2026. It was based on Genesis 50:15–21; Psalm 103:1–13; Romans 14:1–12; and Matthew 18:21–35.