Many people have sat with me and whispered this question quietly, because hatred is not something we choose lightly. It often grows from real wounds—betrayal, injustice, words that cut deep. When hatred takes root, it promises protection, as if holding onto anger might keep us from being hurt again. Yet over time, we begin to notice that the one most imprisoned by hatred is not the offender, but our own heart.
Forgiveness breaks the power of hatred by interrupting this inner captivity. Hatred feeds on memory and resentment; it keeps the wound open so it can continue to justify itself. Forgiveness, by contrast, does not deny the pain or excuse the wrong. Instead, it places the wound into God’s hands. When we forgive, we say—sometimes through tears—“This pain will no longer rule me.” In that moment, hatred loses its grip because it can no longer define who we are.
In the Gospel, we see this most clearly in the words of Jesus Christ on the Cross: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” These words are not spoken from a place of comfort, but from unimaginable suffering. Here we discover that forgiveness is not weakness—it is divine strength. Hatred expects retaliation; forgiveness introduces mercy. And mercy confuses hatred, disarms it, and ultimately renders it powerless.
The Church teaches us that forgiveness is an act of the will before it is a feeling. This is important, because many people say, “I can’t forgive—I don’t feel ready.” That honesty is part of the journey. Forgiveness often begins as a decision repeated daily, even hourly: “Lord, I choose not to hate.” Over time, grace follows the choice. As Saint Paul reminds us, evil is not overcome by more evil, but by good. Forgiveness is that quiet good that slowly dissolves what hatred tries to harden.
What this means for daily life is very practical. When we forgive, we reclaim our inner freedom. We stop rehearsing the offense in our minds. We stop letting another person’s sin dictate our mood, our peace, our future. Forgiveness does not mean forgetting, and it does not always mean reconciliation. Sometimes it simply means entrusting justice to God and refusing to let bitterness write the story of our lives.
I have seen, again and again, how forgiveness changes people. Faces soften. Prayer becomes possible again. Sleep returns. Hatred isolates us; forgiveness reconnects us—to God, to others, and to our own true self. The soul was not created to carry resentment forever. It was created for love, and forgiveness clears the space where love can breathe again.
In the end, forgiveness breaks the power of hatred because hatred needs our consent to survive. When we withdraw that consent—when we choose mercy instead—the cycle is broken. Christ’s Cross stands as a living reminder that love has already won, even when hatred seemed strongest. Each time we forgive, we step into that victory and allow it to reshape our hearts from the inside out.
A Quiet Reflection
If there is a name or a memory that stirs anger within you today, place it gently before the Lord. Ask not for feelings, but for grace. And trust that even the smallest act of forgiveness invites light into places where darkness once felt absolute.
— Fr. John Matthew, for Christian Way
