I had a conversation with a parishioner years ago that still bothers me. At one point some years prior, this woman, Barbara, and her husband had opposed me on my stance of full inclusion of LGBTQ+ people in the life and ministry of the church. A wealthy and influential couple, they were convinced that I was leading the flock down the road to perdition. I was a young pastor, still wet behind the ears at the time, just out of seminary, so their opposition proved particularly worrisome from a vocational standpoint.

But, after a great deal of work, we mended fences—at least in the sense that they stopped trying to get me fired. Unfortunately, we never really addressed their concerns or the hurt I’d experienced… face to face.

A few years after the controversy, I sat with Barbara in my office. We were speaking candidly with one another—about what I don’t remember. But I do remember feeling like we’d reached some significant stage in our struggling friendship, a stage in which it was important for me to say something out loud about the kerfuffle we’d had. So, apropos of nothing we happened to be discussing at the moment, I said, “Barbara, you know that whole big thing we had a few years back, when we had that falling out?”

I saw her eyes widen. She nodded her head, perhaps more as a warning gesture than an affirmation.

“Yes,” she said.

Barbara was a true southern woman, one who didn’t like to engage in direct interpersonal dust-ups. She was the kind of person who preferred never to attack a problem head-on. Instead, like a hypnotic mongoose, she opted to circle it for a while, sneak up on it, then strike passing blows—hoping, I think, to wear it down and force it to surrender.

I, on the other hand, grew up in the North thinking that speaking directly is a virtue. No hidden messages. No clever mind games. Say what you mean, and mean what you say.

Two different ways of communicating. This is a conflict between communication styles still trips me up.

“Well,” I said, apparently not picking up on the social cues of a particular form of Southern interaction, “I felt hurt by you and Kevin in that whole thing. You didn’t even come to me to talk about it.”

I’m not sure what I was expecting. I guess I hoped she would say, “I know, Derek, and we’re so sorry about that. I hope you’ll forgive us.” Or, “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. I wish that had never happened.” Or, I mean, maybe even, “Mistakes were made.”

Something.

Instead, what she said was, “That’s behind us now. We don’t need to talk about it.”

I wanted to object: “No. It’s really not behind us. Otherwise, I wouldn’t bring it up.”

What I said instead, however, was… well, not much of anything. I was stunned by her response. It’s difficult to forgive someone who doesn’t particularly feel like she’s done anything that might require forgiveness.

This Gospel passage has me thinking about forgiveness. I mean, there are things in my life I need to forgive, things for which I need to be forgiven. But what exactly does that mean?

That’s what Peter wants to know.

“How many times do I have to forgive? A couple of times sounds pretty generous.”

Jesus says, “Try seventy-seven times.”

“What does forgiveness even look like if you have to keep on doing it, seemingly, forever?”

The whole thing strikes me as odd, if not impossible.