That Time I Did Not Forgive My Brother from My Heart
24th Sunday of the Year
I’m going to tell you a story.
Quilotoa Lake sits at an altitude of 11,484 feet in the Andes mountains of Ecuador, about a 3-hour drive south of the national capital of Quito. The lake is stunning and beautiful, almost 2 miles wide, its water a deep and vibrant blue filling the basin of a collapsed volcano. Some say it is the most stunning crater lake in the world. A trail runs along the rim of the volcano about 1,000 feet above the lake, and from the volcano rim you can see the snow-capped peaks of taller mountains towering over the lake. The beauty of the place is undeniable.
About six years ago now, I was living in Bogota, Colombia and wanted to go on some kind of an adventure before returning home to Baltimore. I spent hours researching my options before deciding that a trip to Ecuador made the most sense. The plan would be to fly to Quito and then take buses until I reached the town of Sighchos. From Sigchos, I would spend 4 days hiking through the Andes mountains, from small town to small town, before climbing to the summit of the Quilotoa Volcano on the fifth day, seeing the lake, and making my way back to Quito by bus.
The journey was hard, and maybe a little dangerous. The first day, I got lost. There are no markings or signs on the dirt roads and trails that get you from one town to another. You need to use a map and a little guidebook to find your way, and I realized on the first day that some of the features of these roads and trails had changed over time—the map and descriptions were not very accurate any longer. I panicked for a while before finally finding the trail I needed and got back on route. Later that day, I met some other hikers on the same journey, but these didn’t seem like good people to me. I was immediately afraid of getting robbed or harassed in some other way. I kept my distance until I could get away from them completely. On the second day, a rainstorm came, a torrential downpour, that made me worry for my safety, but nothing bad happened to me. On the third day, the combination of high altitude and exposure to the sun gave me a searing headache, and I started to wonder if I could keep going with the hike. But I took some medicine, drank some water, the pain subsided, and I got back on the road.
What I realized during those days of hiking was that God was taking care of me. I remember getting this insight into the ways of divine providence on the trail, that even if I didn’t know how things would work out, there was no cause for fear because God was taking care of me. I didn’t need to worry. All I needed to do was trust.
But on the final day of the trip, I forgot everything I learned about God and divine providence. I had reached the rim of the Quilotoa Volcano, spent plenty of time gazing upon the deep blue waters of the lake and soaking in the beauty of the landscape, before deciding to finish the hike and get to the small town of Quilotoa for food and a bus ride home. The trail that runs along the rim of the crater receives enough foot traffic that there are signs that direct you along the way. At one point, the trail ran into a rock wall, and the trail split in two, moving along either side of the cliff. The trail to the right of the cliff looked more defined and more well-used. But a sign hanging on the rock pointed to the left, toward the trail that looked fainter, less defined, less frequently used. I decided to trust the sign.
Before long, I was lost again. The trail became thinner and thinner until I was completely disoriented by the terrain. The underbrush swallowed up everything. I realized that I was losing altitude, dropping down from the crater rim toward the lake, and I started to panic again. It was late in the day, and I did not want to get caught out on the mountain at night. I tried to slow down, think clearly, make a good decision about how to get myself out of the situation, but I was tired, dehydrated, hungry, and experiencing the frustration that comes from knowing you made the wrong choice and there was nothing you can do about it. I just wasn’t thinking well.
Suddenly, a young man appeared in front of me, with a hiking staff. I could not believe my good fortune. How did he even find me in the underbrush? He asked if I was lost, and then told me that he knew the way and could get me home. I thanked him and we went on our way, following the slightest trails you can imagine back toward the rim of the volcano, and maybe after an hour of hard climbing, I was back to where I was supposed to be. I was safe again.
The young man then held out his hand and asked for money. I realized in an instant that the whole episode was a shake down. He had put the sign up that directed me to take the less-defined trail, let me get lost, and then came to my rescue just to force me to pay him money. I became enraged. I did not want to pay him. I was also afraid because I was low on cash and didn’t know how long it would be before finding another ATM. But what could I do? I imagined he had friends or family nearby, watching, and that if I didn’t pay him, I might be beaten and robbed. So, I paid him. Ecuador uses the U.S. dollar, so I first offered $20. He shook his head. I offered $40. He shook his head again. Finally, I offered $60, he smiled, took the money, and walked off.
I made my way to town but was seething with rage. What bothered me the most was that the young man had taken away my trust—of my own ability to make good decisions, and of the people of Ecuador. He took away my confidence, and I did not know how to get it back. Now I was filled with doubt, suspicious, and I did not want to feel that way. So, I let myself get angry and stay that way. I thought about it, if only for my own good, but then made the decision that I could not forgive the young man. I knew I should, but I couldn’t. Mercy would have to wait.
The time came, some days later when I did forgive him, and for two reasons. First, I imagined his own poverty and desperation. Maybe he had a family. He needed the money more than me; I was almost certain. What would I do, how would I live, if those were my circumstances? Those thoughts hit me hard, but what hit me harder was remembering the whole journey—the getting lost and finding my way, the rainstorm, the altitude sickness, the dangerous company on the road, the many ways that God had taken care of me, the working of providence—and coming to terms with the fact that there but for the grace of God go I.
My problem was with my memory: I had forgotten everything that God had done for me on the journey to that point, let myself get caught up in the drama of the present moment, and allowed my heart to fill with anger and resentment and a total absence of forgiveness and mercy. More than that: I had forgotten, as I haggled with a peasant farmer over sixty U.S. dollars, everything that God had done for me up to that point in my life, the gifts, the mercies, the myriad acts of forgiveness. I had forgotten the context, the narrative, the deepest truths of my life: I don’t need to be here at all, my life is a gift, I’ve sinned, I’ve done wrong, and yet God has forgiven me any way, loved me, kept me safe—that is the real story of my life and I’ve forgotten it all for the sake of my pride and now I’m consumed by anger toward a man who probably cannot feed his children. How is that any way to live?
Our problem is forgetting, and that is the point that Christ makes in the Gospel today. The wicked servant forgets. He lets go of the memory of the mercy of the king and he becomes a monster. He lets go of the context, the narrative, the deepest truths of his life and gets caught up in the moment. He judges. He condemns. He has a man locked in prison. He sins. All because he forgets.
The violence we do to the story of our lives really does astound me sometimes. We become proficient in the art of forgetting, believing that we exist without God, on our own terms, and then we use the false narrative of our own independence to judge and to condemn and to lock others within the prison of our anger, place them behind the bars of our resentment. We sin.
Imagine what your life might look like if the most persistent, abiding, enduring reality in your mind and heart was gratitude to God, the active memory of how God gave you the gift of a life you are not owed, bestowed graces on you that you do not deserve, offered mercies and forgiveness that you do not merit. What would your life look like if the memory of Christ on the cross dying for your salvation stayed with you from moment to moment, setting the terms of engagement for every relationship in your life? Imagine what that kind of life might look like and go live it.
Homily preached at the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary on September 17th, 2023
"We become proficient in the art of forgetting, believing that we exist without God, on our own terms, and then we use the false narrative of our own independence to judge and to condemn "
So true. I appreciate your sharing this story.
What an excellent homily, Father. You have hit the nail on the head, and it happens to me too often. I have finally gotten to the point though that when I start to get angry or frightened or suspicious that I think of Jesus' prescription - "remove the beam from your eye". It is an almost miraculous help to my understanding of the situation so that I can address it properly and let go of things that disturb my peace and find a way to forgive without becoming a repeat victim. I have only just discovered the latter, and that essentially follows the rubric "Don't throw the baby out with the bathwater" (Don't overgeneralize.)