Entering Great Lent through the Gate of Forgiveness

Here's something I wrote back in 2000...

One Sunday morning in mid-March, Christians in the Eastern Orthodox tradition around the world commemorated Adam’s expulsion from Paradise and prepared to enter Great Lent. Listening to the hymns that day, one is struck by Adam’s physical, psychological, and spiritual pain upon getting himself cast from the Garden of Eden, and by his insistent pleas to be brought back to God, that God would open the Gates to Paradise for him. As I listened to these beautiful but tragic hymns, I recalled the literal definition of sin. Sin (in Greek, harmartia) is a term from archery, literally meaning to miss the mark. Some Christians may be accustomed to thinking of that mark as God’s law or moral behavior. But in essence, sin is a break in relationship with God: the mark is none other than God Himself. Sin is a broken relationship with God and by extension, broken relationships with others.

Adam cried for the gates to be opened, and for Orthodox Christians, the gate which leads into the Lenten time of repentance is forgiveness of and from one another. On that Sunday night when Great Lent began, we gathered to serve forgiveness vespers. As I walked into our cathedral, the large, free-standing icon of Christ on the cross dominated my attention. Usually located in the southeast corner of the church, it had been moved to the center, and before it was a smaller icon of the crucifixion. As people came into the church, they approached these two icons of the Crucified Christ; those who were able made two full prostrations before the icons, venerated the smaller one with a kiss, and then made one final prostration. How appropriate to enter our time of Lenten repentance with a reminder of our Savior's sacrifice--our ultimate model of love manifest through self-renunciation (a Lenten goal)--and to be reminded of the self-crucifixion inherent in offering forgiveness to and receiving forgiveness from others.

On any given Sunday, there are not many chairs in our parish, as Orthodox Christians traditionally stand during all services. The few chairs that are usually available had been stacked up and pushed to the side, so the entire nave was open, the icons of Christ’s passion standing in the center. The vespers service commenced, and after the chanting of a penitential psalm part-way through the service, our bishop, priests, and deacons exchanged their festive gold vestments for more somber purple ones, marking the transition into Great Lent. Several parishioners removed the gold icon-stand covers to reveal purple ones below, and gold vigil lamps were replaced with purple. A sober quiet blanketed the parish.

As vespers ended, our bishop, himself an icon of Christ as Suffering Servant, stood in the center of the church. He recounted how he relied on his subdeacons to vest him at the beginning of hierarchical services; it was impossible for him to undertake alone this simple task of dressing for a service. This, he said, pointed to a basic truth of life, even the episcopal life: without us, he is nothing. His identity as a hierarch--indeed, as a Christian--is defined in relationship to God and to his flock. He explained that sin is not just between an individual and God. Since we are the Body of Christ, sin becomes social, interpersonal. And then he said something that really struck me: “When I sin against God, I sin against you.” Upon hearing this, it occurred to me that we usually hear the opposite: when we sin against another, we sin against God, presumably because we have broken some commandment in hurting that other person. But do we realize that when we sin against God--when we separate ourselves from Him to any degree, even only in our heart--we sin against others? Christian relationships are sacramental: each person bears the image and likeness of God and has Christ and the Holy Spirit dwelling within them, and so in the relational triangle of God-self-other, one person's offense against another by necessity involves the remaining third party. To the extent that we are not fully united with God in perfect love, we stand in need of forgiveness from Him and others.

Ending his short homily, Vladyka (a diminutive and affectionate Russian word, used to address Orthodox hierarchs) asked our forgiveness and made a full prostration before us all. We answered with the traditional response, “God forgives.” And then one by one--beginning with the other clergy--we again venerated the icon of the crucified Christ and prostrated before and asked forgiveness from our archpastor. The first person to approach the bishop then stood to his side, and the next person, after approaching Vladyka, was then able to prostrate before this person, and ask for and offer forgiveness to him. And so it continued, until we made a huge circle around the church, each person prostrating before every other person individually, asking and offering forgiveness. “Forgive me and pray for me.” “God forgives...forgive me, too, and pray for me, a sinner.” “God forgives. May God grant you a blessed Lent.”

Resurrection was foreshadowed not only interpersonally, as we took the first steps toward restored relationships, but also liturgically, as the choir chanted Paschal hymns at the ending of the service.

As a student of forgiveness for 10 years, at first I was bothered that people usually responded, “God forgives,” rather than, “God forgives, and I forgive you, too.” It seemed like a cop-out, like an easy way to get around the hard work of personally forgiving another. But slowly, I have come to understand this traditional response. As Orthodox Christians, our goal is theosis: union with God that fulfills the image and likeness of God within us. If God forgives, then I will, too. Note the use of future tense: I will forgive. It may not happen instantaneously, it may involve a long struggle on my part. In such cases, forgiveness vespers is the “wedding”--the vow--before the “marriage,” the struggle to fully forgive. But even this is the understanding of the neophyte. I suspect there are people so humble and loving, so united with God, that interpersonal forgiveness almost becomes a non-issue. If I am so taken up into the life of God, if my will is so conformed to His will, then if God forgives, de facto I also forgive (present tense).

Furthermore, Orthodox Christians see humility as the foundation of holiness, the foundation of demonstrating a perfect, Godly love to others. This follows St. Paul, who considered himself the worst of sinners and directed us to consider others as better than ourselves. By typically not employing the words “I forgive you” at forgiveness vespers, we avoid a potential source of pride. God forgives: this is the alpha and omega of our own forgiveness of others.

Anastasia, our choir director’s five-year-old daughter, often stands with me during services; forgiveness vespers was no exception. As our turn to begin this forgiveness ritual approached, I tried to describe to her what would happen as we progressed through the line. Her response betrayed her exposure to traditional teaching about forgiveness: “Why do I have to ask forgiveness? I didn’t do anything wrong!” After 11 years of formal education in child development, it seemed I ought to be able to explain this to her. I thought for a moment, and instead of trying to summarize deep theology at a preschooler’s level, I simply explained that sometimes we do things to hurt other people and we don’t even know it. So we ask forgiveness of everyone just to make sure that our relationships with them are positive. (Fortunately, I was able to use a relevant situation from the morning service as an example.) A less-than-desirable explanation, but one that seemed to work. Anastasia bravely approached the bishop and the others (whether or not she actually asked forgiveness, I don’t know) and ultimately seemed to appreciate the ritual. It’s always wonderful to watch the amazement on children’s faces when adults bow down before them and ask their forgiveness and prayers. These are the seeds that one day will hopefully bloom into a more mature understanding of forgiveness, humility, and Christian love.

The experience of asking forgiveness from and offering it to each person varied, depending on before whom I was standing. From my close friends there was always something for which to ask forgiveness: a harsh word, a secret betrayed. From our bishop and other clergy, I needed forgiveness for not being as supportive as I should, especially for not praying for them as much as I should. From those I hardly know, I asked forgiveness for the times I was less than hospitable at church or for the uninformed, judgmental thought I had about them. And from the occasional stranger, I asked forgiveness for the bad example I set as a Christian. Forgiveness in all these contexts is not the same, but it is needed nonetheless. And there is a common denominator: as one priest said, since each person is made in the image and likeness of God, in a sense we ask forgiveness of God as we ask forgiveness of others.

St. Thaddeus, an Orthodox bishop martyred by the Communists in 1937, wrote, “The fast [Lent] is removing ourselves from all evil, and because the essence of Christ’s law is contained in love, then what kind of evil is greater than anger and hatred toward another? And therefore, doesn’t a true fast first of all include eliminating anger at others? Should not the fast begin with forgiving the offenses of others...?” (1998, p. 187). Indeed, for the Orthodox Christian, it is only through Spirit-sustained self-sacrifice (embodied most perfectly in Great Lent) that we are resurrected with Christ at Easter, and our initial steps toward this rebirth are those of seeking forgiveness from God and one another.

Reference
St. Thaddeus (Uspensky). (1998). Radujtes! [Rejoice!]. Moscow: Eleon.