"Forgiveness is the beating heart of the Church" Trinity 22 2025

16. November 2025
Trinity 22
Matthew 18:21–35

The servant therefore fell down before him, saying, ‘Master, have patience with me, and I will pay you all.’ Then the master of that servant was moved with compassion, released him, and forgave him the debt” (Mt 18:26–27).

This is the Word of the Lord that came to me, so that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing, you may have life in His + Name. AMEN.

Forgiveness is not a side issue in the Christian life. It is the Christian life. Take forgiveness away and you no longer have the Church, the Gospel, or Christ Himself. You’re left with a religious corpse—rules, rituals, and moral lectures, but no salvation. And your own daily life is no different. Where forgiveness is absent, everything rots: marriages, families, friendships, congregations, and the human heart.

Forgiveness. It's the air we breathe in the kingdom of God, yet the thing we most often choke on. Jesus does not treat forgiveness as an optional spiritual hobby. He binds it right into your prayer: “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” You pray this every day. And no—Jesus does not care whether you “feel” forgiving. He commands it.

Peter tries to domesticate forgiveness: “Lord, how often shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? Up to seven times?” Peter thinks he’s being generous. Seven is well beyond the tolerance of most Christians today, who hold grudges for decades over nonsense. But Peter’s number is still nothing but law. It sets limits. It seeks to manage the neighbor’s sin rather than drown it in mercy. Seven. It's a generous number—double the rabbinic tradition of three, with one to spare for good measure. Peter's proud of it, like he's cracking the code on grace.

Jesus answers with something that isn’t a number so much as a death sentence for your flesh: “Not seven times, but seventy times seven.” In other words, “Stop counting.” The point isn't the math. It's the madness. Forgiveness without a ledger. Without an end. If you are counting, you haven’t forgiven.

Then Jesus tells the parable. And He tells it because your flesh refuses to listen to anything else. You want fairness. You want payback. You want the pound of flesh you think you’re owed. So He takes you into the throne room of a King whose mercy is so violent, so extreme, so disproportionate that it exposes how pathetic your resentment is.

The servant owes ten thousand talents. That’s an impossible number. In today’s terms, multiple billions of dollars. The point is not accounting. The point is that your sin is not a “mistake,” a “flaw,” or a “moment of weakness.” Your sin is a debt that destroys worlds. One sin is damnation. Your whole life is filled with thousands. This is not something you “work off.” You cannot negotiate with the Law.

The servant collapses and begs, “Have patience with me!” He has no chance—no payment plan, no excuses. And here the Gospel detonates: “The master… was moved with compassion… released him… and forgave the debt.” The King does not restructure what is owed. The king doesn't laugh or haggle. He does not give more time. He's moved with compassion, releases him, and forgives the whole impossible sum, just like that. He wipes the entire register clean. One word from the King erases billions.

This is what God does for you in Christ. You bring nothing but debt. Jesus brings nothing but mercy. He takes the ledger that condemns you and drowns it in His blood. Not one line of accusation remains. You walk out free. Not because you are improving, but because Christ died.

Where does this happen? In the very places Christ promised: In Holy Absolution, when the pastor speaks and the King forgives. In Holy Baptism, where your old Adam is drowned and your sins are buried with Christ.  In the Holy Supper, where your debt is replaced with Christ’s body and blood. You are forgiven because Christ says so, and He has the authority to make it true.

But then the parable turns. The forgiven servant walks out—and throttles his fellow servant over a tiny debt, a few months’ wages. This fellow servant who owes him a hundred denarii—a few months' pay, a rounding error next to the king's mercy—and he grabs him by the throat. He demands payment. He refuses mercy. He rejects the very thing he just received.

And Jesus calls this wicked. Not foolish. Not “unhealthy.” Not “emotionally immature.” Wicked. Demonic. πονηρός—the same word Jesus uses for the Evil One in the Lord’s Prayer. Refusing to forgive the brother who repents is siding with Satan. Full stop.

This is where Jesus’s sermon hits you. This isn't a story about fairness. It's a mirror. That's you and me, staring back. Because you know there is someone whose name just crawled out of your memory: the sibling you haven’t spoken to in years, the spouse you keep punishing, the church member you avoid, the gossip you refuse to let go, the pastor who disappointed you, the friend you quietly resent. Your heart says, “But they don’t deserve forgiveness.” No kidding. You don’t either.

Forgiveness is not an endorsement of the sin, and it does not erase earthly consequences. But forgiveness is the end of your claim to vengeance. It shuts down your self-appointed courtroom. It takes the whip out of your hand. It silences your inner prosecutor. It says: “This debt is not mine to collect. Christ paid it.” You can’t hold the cross in one hand and a grudge in the other.

The King hears what the unforgiving servant has done, and He hands him over to the torturers. And Jesus says, “So My heavenly Father will do to you if each of you, from his heart, does not forgive his brother.” This is not a threat to motivate your behavior. It’s a warning about unbelief. If you refuse to forgive, it is because you have rejected God's forgiveness. You are living as if Christ’s death is irrelevant.

The problem is not your brother’s sin. The problem is that you have forgotten the size of your own debt. You have shrunk the Gospel to a manageable little doctrine instead of the absolute rescue that it is. You want to be the servant who receives mercy but refuses to show it. Jesus says that servant is not forgiven because he despises the forgiveness given.

So what’s the cure for your unforgiving heart? You’re not going to brute-force your way into kindness. You don’t need techniques. You don’t need “boundaries.” You don’t need self-help. You need to be crushed again by the reality of what Christ has done. You need to look at the ledger of your sin—billions in the red—and then see Christ tear it up. You need the Spirit to break your pride and resurrect a heart that actually believes the Gospel.

We beg, "Lord, be patient," knowing full well we can't square it. But He is patient. Moved with compassion, not for our promises, but for His Son. Jesus, who didn't grab us by the throat but let us nail Him to the cross. Who took our ten thousand talents and paid it with His blood, His holy precious blood, as of a Lamb without blemish. Not silver or gold, but innocent suffering and death. That's the forgiveness we receive—lavish, unearned, complete.

The world's on fire with grudges—social media feeding frenzies, families splintered over politics, churches fractured by who's right and who's wrong. We nod along, clutching our own resentments like badges. "They don't deserve it." Of course they don't. Neither do you. That's the point. Vengeance? "It is mine," says the Lord. Jesus could have called down fire on Pilate, on the crowd shouting "Crucify!" But He didn't. He prayed, "Father, forgive them."

This happens nowhere else but in the means of the Spirit. Forgiveness received produces forgiveness given. The more you hear and believe that Christ has forgiven you, the more your grip loosens around the throat of your neighbor. The more you kneel at the altar where Christ gives you His body and blood for the forgiveness of sins, the more the Holy Spirit pries open your clenched fist.

Forgiving your brother is not some heroic achievement. It is simply living in the baptismal reality God has placed you in. You drown the old Adam daily by confessing your sin—every bit of it—and letting Christ speak His absolution again and again. That absolution is not information. It is power. It is the Spirit creating a new heart. And a new heart forgives. Not because the neighbor deserves it. Not because it resolves everything. Not because it feels good. But because Christ has forgiven you—fully, freely, finally—and His forgiveness changes you.

Is the debt your brother owes you real? Yes. Does it hurt? Yes. Is it unfair? Definitely, but Christ has taken the ledger of your sin and obliterated it. That’s what matters. Everything else is chump change.

Forgiveness is the beating heart of the Church. It is the air the Christian breathes. It is the witness the world needs but rarely sees. The greatest scandal in the Church is not that Jesus forgives the wicked. It is that Christians refuse to forgive each other. But not you. Not today. Christ forgives you. All of it. Every debt. Every sin. Every thought you hope no one ever discovers. It is gone. You are free.

Everything begins and ends here: God's mercy on you, a sinner. Believe your sin as the Word declares it—chief of sinners, every one. Believe His mercy as the Word promises it—greater still. Then forgiving isn't a burden; it's breath. It's the most natural thing in the world for those drowned and raised in Christ.

This is the Word of the Lord that came to me, so that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing, you may have life in His + Name. AMEN.

Rev. Christopher R. Gillespie
St. John Ev. Lutheran Church & School - Sherman Center
Random Lake, Wisconsin