In Christian spaces, we speak often—and rightly—of forgiveness. It’s the heartbeat of our faith. A Savior who forgives us, who bore the weight of sin on a cross so we might walk in freedom and grace.

But somewhere along the way, this holy truth has been distorted—flattened into something transactional. Survivors of abuse are too often met with pressure to forgive and forget, to move on, to release and reconcile. And when they can’t—or won’t—just yet, they’re met with spiritual side-eyes or silence.

Let’s be clear: cheap forgiveness is not the way of Jesus.

Cheap forgiveness is what Dietrich Bonhoeffer might call “grace without discipleship, grace without the cross.” It demands something deep and sacred be handed over quickly, without lament, without justice, without truth-telling. It’s forgiveness stripped of its context—of its cost.

And for those who’ve been abused, especially by someone they trusted, forgiveness cannot be forced. It is not owed to anyone. It is not a litmus test for spiritual maturity. It is not something that can be commanded by outsiders looking in.

Forgiveness is a journey. A sacred one. And God is patient with the process.

In Scripture, we see over and over how God makes space for grief and anger. The psalms are filled with cries for justice. Lamentations is literally a book of sorrow. Jesus Himself wept at the tomb of a friend, overturned tables at injustice, and endured betrayal with a heart fully aware of its sting.

If Jesus was not quick to rush the pain, why should we be?

Survivors carry wounds that run deep—into the nervous system, the memory, the soul. Healing takes time. Forgiveness, when it comes, must be real and freely given, not demanded. Not used as a way to silence the truth. Not used as a shortcut to avoid discomfort in a family or a church pew.

True forgiveness is not passive. It is not denial. It is not minimizing harm.
True forgiveness can coexist with boundaries.
It can mean I choose to release vengeance to God, while still saying I will not allow this person access to my life or spirit again.
It can mean I am not ready, and that’s okay.
It can mean I don’t know if I’ll ever get there, and God is still with me.

Because forgiveness is not the first step.
Safety is.
Truth is.
Grief is.
And God honors those.

So if you are walking this road as a survivor, know this: you do not owe cheap forgiveness to anyone.
Your story matters. Your voice matters. Your timing matters.
And if one day, forgiveness becomes part of your healing, let it be because you chose it, not because someone demanded it.

Jesus is not in a hurry with your heart. He knows the cost of wounds, and He walks beside you—not ahead of you, pulling. But beside you, steady and kind.

Forgiveness is sacred ground.
Take off your shoes. Take your time.
Jesus isn’t going anywhere.

They say blood is thicker than water, but what do we do when the very blood that runs through our veins carries the memory of betrayal?

For many survivors of abuse, the pain didn’t come from a stranger. It came from someone within the family—someone who should have been safe. And sometimes, the deepest cut isn’t only the abuse itself. It’s what came afterward: the silence, the denial, the insistence to “forgive and forget,” to “keep the peace,” to “move on” for the sake of the family.

But what if that peace costs a survivor their voice? Their safety? Their healing?

As Christians, we often talk about forgiveness—and rightly so. Jesus calls us to forgive, just as we have been forgiven (Ephesians 4:32). But forgiveness is not the same as forgetting. And it’s certainly not the same as reconciling with someone who remains unsafe or unrepentant.

Forgiveness is an internal act between our soul and God—a releasing of bitterness, a handing over of justice into divine hands. But too often, survivors are told that forgiveness must look like restored relationship. That to “really let it go,” they must pretend the abuse never happened. This is not only unbiblical—it’s deeply harmful.

Scripture never asks us to ignore evil. It doesn’t command us to minimize harm to keep family bonds intact. In fact, Jesus said that following Him might bring division even among families (Luke 12:51-53)—not because He desires conflict, but because truth often threatens systems that are built on silence.

To the survivor who feels torn between your healing and your family’s comfort, hear this: you are not required to shrink your pain to protect someone else’s denial.

You can forgive without forgetting.

You can release bitterness without allowing abuse to continue.

You can honor God without re-entering unsafe relationships.

And if your family doesn’t understand—if they accuse you of being unforgiving, dramatic, or divisive—remember that Jesus sees the whole story. He knows what happened in the dark. He knows the tears you’ve cried alone. And He calls you beloved still.

Healing from family-based trauma is often a long, layered process. It can feel lonely at times, especially in faith communities that haven’t yet learned how to hold both justice and mercy, both grace and truth. But you are not alone. There are others walking this path with you. And more importantly, God walks with you—not demanding silence, but inviting honesty… not requiring performance, but offering presence.

So may you take the time you need.

May you listen to the wisdom of your body and the discernment of the Spirit.

May you let go of bitterness—but not boundaries.

And may you find, in Christ, the One who never demands your silence and never minimizes your pain.

You are not too much. You are not unforgiving. You are healing. And heaven is cheering you on.

Good Friday is the day love broke open.

It is the day blood and mercy mingled. The day silence hung heavy in the air as the Son of God breathed His last. And the day that, paradoxically, the greatest victory the world has ever known was won through what looked like utter defeat.

We remember the Cross today—not just as a symbol of suffering, but as the greatest expression of love the world has ever known.

“It is finished.”

Three words spoken not in despair, but in triumph. Not in resignation, but in radiant completion. Jesus’ cry from the Cross was not a whisper of defeat, but a roar of redemption. It was a declaration that the debt had been paid, the veil torn, and the chasm between us and God bridged once and for all.

He gave up His life willingly. Not taken, but given. Not demanded, but offered.

In that moment, love was no longer theoretical or conditional. It became flesh and bone, pierced and poured out. It looked like forgiveness for those who mocked Him. It looked like hope offered to the criminal beside Him. It looked like the Lamb, spotless and surrendered, taking on the weight of all our sin and shame.

And in the shadow of that Cross, in the radiance of that love, I ask myself: How then shall I live?

What kind of life rises from such love?

It cannot be a life of self-preservation. It cannot be a life of bitterness or revenge. It cannot be a life lived for comfort alone. Love like that—love that suffers, that forgives, that lays itself down—calls me to more.

It calls me to open my hands when I want to cling. To forgive when I’d rather fold my arms. To listen when I’m tempted to turn away. To see the dignity in every human soul—because Christ died for them too.

It calls me to live not from scarcity, but from the fullness of grace that has been lavished on me.

The Cross redefines love—not as sentiment, but as sacrifice. Not as a feeling, but as a fierce, unrelenting choice. And in the light of that, I am invited to live a cruciform life. One shaped by His love. One poured out in response.

This is not easy love. But it is holy love. It is the love that interrupts cycles of hate. The love that shows up in the grief, in the mess, in the margins. The love that says, “Not my will, but Yours.”

And so, on this Good Friday, I do not look away from the suffering. I do not rush ahead to Sunday. I sit at the foot of the Cross and let that victorious cry echo through every part of me.

It is finished.

So let the striving cease. Let the shame fall away. Let the walls we’ve built crumble. And let love remake us—again and again.

May I live today, and every day, as one who has been loved like that.