Stronger, not Sooner
To forgive or not to forgive?
That’s actually not the question.
Prompted through the knowledge of a relational betrayal of the most egregious kind, the question was asked: “Is forgiveness ever deserved?” This could be more philosophical than psychological, but it is certainly theological. And the answer is — no, it isn’t. But maybe not for the reasons we think.
When a husband has sexually joined himself to someone other than his wife, when a self-centered parent has left and forsaken a young child to grow up without them, when a member of a family murders another person within that same family… is forgiveness warranted? Conceivably. Is it deserved? Certainly not.
In this context, “warranted” points to justification or appropriateness. It asks: Is this the right or fitting response, given the situation?
“Deserved,” on the other hand, points to merit. It asks: Has this person earned this? Are they entitled to it based on what they’ve done?
So when applied to forgiveness:
“Forgiveness deserved” would mean someone has earned forgiveness through repentance, restitution, changed behavior.
“Forgiveness warranted” asks whether forgiveness is the right response, even if it hasn’t been earned.
Here’s the biblical connection. In Scripture, forgiveness is rarely, if ever, deserved. Because sin, by definition, disqualifies us from earning it. But forgiveness can still be warranted, not because of the offender’s merit, but because of:
God’s character (Ephesians 4:32)
The work of Christ (Colossians 3:13)
The condition of the forgiver’s heart (Mark 11:25)
So for a person who has failed horribly in a relationship (but has confronted that failure, repented, and begun doing the work), the question shifts.
It is no longer: “Why haven’t I been forgiven yet?”
It becomes: “Do I understand what I’ve done well enough to rebuild what I broke?”
Because from the offended party’s perspective, the previous version of “normal” is what preconditioned the betrayal in the first place. To want to return there can feel not only less than comforting, but threatening.
What must happen is a deeper kind of humility.
Not performative humility. Not strategic humility. But an honest recognition that the former version of the relationship — and the version of the self that existed within it — was structurally weak. Weak enough to carry secrecy. Weak enough to tolerate divided loyalties. Weak enough to allow intimacy to fracture.
That kind of damage is not quickly forgotten. And it is often even less quickly forgiven.
Psychologically, this makes sense. Research on betrayal trauma shows that trust violations disrupt a person’s sense of safety, identity, and reality, as opposed to affecting just their feelings (Janis Abrahms Spring, After the Affair). What is broken is not just affection. It is orientation.
So when the offending person asks, “Why am I still not trusted?”— the more honest answer is: because trust is not rebuilt by time alone, but by consistency under observation.
John Gottman’s work on relationships emphasizes that trust is rebuilt in “small moments” of reliability, truth-telling, and emotional attunement rather than grand gestures. It is formed slowly, and it is restored even more slowly.
And this is where many people falter. Because they begin to do the work, but expect the reward of the work to come quickly.
They repent, but still want relief.
They change, but still want comfort.
They rebuild, but still want recognition.
And when it doesn’t come, frustration sets in.
But that frustration often reveals what’s lurking beneath the surface: an unnamed belief that forgiveness is owed once effort begins.
It is not.
According to Everett Worthington’s research on forgiveness, the process involves empathy, humility, and sustained moral repair — not just behavior change. And Robert Enright’s work shows that forgiveness, when it comes, is often a gradual internal release by the offended party, not a transaction triggered by the offender’s improvement.
In other words, you cannot work your way into being forgiven on a timetable.
What you can do is become the kind of person who is safe to forgive.
And that takes time.
So instead of asking, “Why haven’t I been forgiven?”— a better sentiment is:
“I am grateful you are still here.”
“I am thankful for what you are willing to give today.”
“I will continue to become trustworthy, whether or not it is immediately recognized.”
Because rebuilding requires more than repair. It requires reinforcement.
A stronger foundation than the one that failed.
And that foundation must be built not for the sake of regaining what was lost, but for the sake of becoming someone who would never recreate the same conditions again.
Now this is only half the picture.
Because the offended party also faces a decision.
Not whether the offense was wrong. That is clear.
Not whether the pain is valid. It is.
Not whether trust should be immediate. It should not.
The question is: In what direction do I want this relationship to move?
Because while distrust, disconnection, and distance may feel protective — and at times are necessary — they cannot, by themselves, produce healing.
Desmond Tutu, in The Book of Forgiving, writes that forgiveness is not about excusing the wrong or forgetting the pain, but about choosing a future not defined by it. He frames forgiveness as a pathway, not to erase the past, but to prevent it from imprisoning both people.
And psychologically, this aligns with what we know.
Unresolved resentment tends to solidify into chronic distance.
Chronic distance tends to erode even repaired structures.
So while forgiveness is not deserved, it may still become warranted — not because the offender has earned it fully, but because the offended person chooses a path that leads toward restoration rather than permanent fracture.
This does not mean rushing.
It does not mean ignoring wisdom.
It does not mean bypassing boundaries.
It means asking a different question.
Not: “Do they deserve forgiveness?”
But: “What response moves this situation toward healing?”
Because forgiveness, when rightly understood, is not a reward for the offender; it is a release for the offended, a realignment of the heart, and a decision to not let the offense have the final word.
And when both people move — one in sustained humility, the other in wise, measured openness — the possibility of something new begins to form.
Not a return to what was.
But the formation of something stronger, clearer, and more honest than before.
So the question is not: To forgive or not to forgive?
The real question is: What is required from each of us to make healing possible?
Sources for Further Reflection
- Worthington, Everett L. Jr. Forgiveness and Reconciliation: Theory and Application. Routledge, 2006.
- Enright, Robert D., and Richard P. Fitzgibbons. Forgiveness Therapy. American Psychological Association, 2015.
- Gottman, John M. The Science of Trust. W.W. Norton, 2011.
- Spring, Janis Abrahms. After the Affair. HarperCollins, 2012.
- Tutu, Desmond M., and Mpho Tutu. The Book of Forgiving. HarperOne, 2014.
