The times are not merely turbulent — they’re drenched in hostility. Yes, politically, this is obvious. But it even permeates the most mundane human interactions, where civility often feels like a lost art.

I was waiting for my food at an airport café the other day. A woman, her frustration palpable, glanced at me and muttered, “I’ve been waiting a long time.” Unsure how to respond, I offered a light chuckle. When someone else claimed their order, she shot me a glare and snapped, “I swear. If you get your order before I do, I’m gonna…” Her words dissolved into a grumble. Sure enough, my sandwich arrived first. Without hesitation, she stormed to the counter, berating the service worker. Me? I promptly took my baggie and headed to my gate — her scolding faded away as the distance grew between us.

This small encounter reflects a broader pattern in how we interact. Road rage flares because we see a car — an obstacle — rather than a person with their own struggles. We fidget impatiently in lines, fixated on our inconvenience, rarely considering the pressure on workers juggling countless demands in mere minutes. When someone disagrees with us, the reflex is often, “They hate me!” In an instant, the slow driver, the barista, or the person across the table — all image bearers — becomes an enemy.

This mindset fuels the venom of cancel culture, which thrives on silencing, harassing, and mocking those deemed “wrong.” Differences of opinion are no longer tolerated. “If you disagree with me,” many cry, “you’re dead to me. Better yet, you’re dead to the world.” Pastor and author Cliffe Knechtle captures this dynamic perfectly. Cancel culture, he said, “means ‘You rub me the wrong way and I cancel you.’ Well, guess what? Everybody’s going to rub me the wrong way at some point.” It’s this mindset, this cancel culture, Knechtle argued, that leads to having “so many lonely people in our society today.”

He continued: “[I]f I’m just going to go around canceling people, I’m going to be a very lonely, isolated person. If I don’t learn to forgive, I will be alone. Intimacy is based on the ability to forgive and to accept people who are different and have hurt you.” Do you see what Knechtle is getting at? In a world quick to vilify and discard those who harm, inconvenience, or challenge us, our call, specifically as believers, is countercultural: to forgive. Only through forgiveness can we bridge the divides that leave us isolated, fostering connection in a fractured world.

We saw a powerful example of this on Sunday, didn’t we? Mrs. Erika Kirk, still reeling from the profound loss of her husband — her children’s father, her best friend — stood before tens of thousands, with millions more watching virtually. Her speech was a fountain of encouragement, but one moment struck a universal chord. Addressing her husband’s assassin through tears, she said, “Father, forgive them for they not know what they do. That man… That young man. I forgive him.”

It wasn’t just Mrs. Kirk who wept. In that crowded stadium, tears glistened in countless eyes, and those watching online shared their own emotional outpouring. Why did this single sentence pierce so many hearts? Because it defies the world’s default. The world isn’t accustomed to forgiveness in the face of betrayal or pain. No, the world seeks revenge, smears reputations, and cancels. Forgiveness feels foreign, almost revolutionary. Yet, in a society brimming with anger, fear, depression, and brokenness, our fractured hearts desperately need the mending that forgiveness brings. Christ Himself, the ultimate exemplar of forgiveness, makes us whole through the grace and forgiveness He extends over our sins to those who repent and believe.

Even on the cross, battered, mocked, and afflicted by an angry mob, Jesus prayed, “Forgive them, Father, they know not what they do” — a model of mercy that Mrs. Kirk echoed in her own suffering. Her example challenges us. I’ve already seen it smattered across social media, people posting something to the effect of, “Wow. If Erika can forgive her husband’s killer, who am I not to forgive those who wrong me?” As the author C.S. Lewis once said, “To be a Christian means to forgive the inexcusable because God has forgiven the inexcusable in you.”

Forgiveness requires us to see others as image bearers. It requires us to genuinely desire to bridge the divides that threaten to unravel us. And yet, in doing so, we reflect the heart of Christ, offering hope to a world in desperate need of it. So, we must understand forgiveness as healing and life-giving when tied to our salvation, and a radiant beam in a dark world. But it also serves us in another profound way.

Some say we have no obligation to forgive those who do not ask for it, to which I would refer back to Jesus’s words at Calvary, where He offered forgiveness as an example for us. He forgave in His own heart and left the results to God, even as they were actively killing Him. Consider the words of the late Holocaust survivor, Corrie Ten Boom: “To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you.” As she also wrote in her book, “Tramp for the Lord,” “Forgiveness is the key that unlocks the door of resentment and the handcuffs of hatred.” Forgiving others, even when they don’t ask for it, frees us.

Several years back, I read a book by Simon Wiesenthal called “The Sunflower,” and I still think about it to this day. Wiesenthal, also a Holocaust survivor, explores this topic of forgiveness. In the first part of the book, he recalls a time, back when he was still suffering under the Nazi regime in a concentration camp, when he was dragged into the hospital room of a dying SS officer. That officer told his story, and he asked Wiesenthal for forgiveness. Unsure of what to do, he left the room, never offering that forgiveness.

The entire second part of the book is dedicated to Wiesenthal collecting different responses to the question of whether he should have or even could have forgiven that officer — we’re talking different religions and philosophies, from fellow Jews who suffered alongside Wiesenthal, and more. The book never reaches a definitive conclusion on forgiveness. Wiesenthal leaves the question open-ended, inviting readers to wrestle with it themselves, but offers no single answer.

Some Christians debate forgiveness, but Scripture provides some clarity. Jesus said in Luke 6:27-28, “But I say to you who hear, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.” Paul echoes this in Colossians 3:13: “As the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive.” And, ultimately, as Deuteronomy 32:35 and Romans 12:19 remind us, vengeance belongs to the Lord.

Forgiveness is an explicit command in that we are commanded to forgive the repentant. And by giving it to the Lord, it’s also an implicit command concerning the unrepentant. We forgive the offense in our hearts and give it over to God, which releases healing power for the forgiver, a reflection of Christ’s love, and a beacon of hope to a world drowning in hostility. I do not shame Wiesenthal or any other unbeliever for not offering forgiveness. Why would I? Nor am I surprised by the political activists who mock forgiveness. Why would I be? We live in a world that trains us to be stingy with our forgiveness. But Christians? We’re called to be gracious, just as our Lord and Savior is gracious. Can you imagine if Jesus, because we sin and rebel against Him daily, canceled us, His flock? Perish the thought!

Beloved, here’s the truth: We serve a God who has not only forgiven those who repent and believe but deeply loves and cherishes us as His own. Our tender Shepherd reveals to us what love and forgiveness look like through nail-scarred hands. Now, we’re called to extend the same to those around us — to the lonely, the hostile, the broken, and the lost.