14 August 2025 – Memorial of St. Maximilian Kolbe
Readings: Psalm 114; Matthew 18:21–19:1
First Reading – Psalm 114 (NRSV Anglicized)
When Israel went out from Egypt, the house of Jacob from a people of strange language,
Judah became God’s sanctuary, Israel his dominion.
The sea looked and fled; Jordan turned back.
The mountains skipped like rams, the hills like lambs.
Why is it, O sea, that you flee? O Jordan, that you turn back?
O mountains, that you skip like rams? O hills, like lambs?
Tremble, O earth, at the presence of the Lord, at the presence of the God of Jacob,
who turns the rock into a pool of water, the flint into a spring of water.
Gospel Reading – Matthew 18:21–19:1 (NRSV Anglicized)
Peter came and said to Jesus, ‘Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?’
Jesus said to him, ‘Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times.
‘For this reason the kingdom of heaven may be compared to a king who wished to settle accounts with his slaves.
When he began the reckoning, one who owed him ten thousand talents was brought to him;
and, as he could not pay, his lord ordered him to be sold, together with his wife and children and all his possessions, and payment to be made.
So the slave fell on his knees before him, saying, “Have patience with me, and I will pay you everything.”
And out of pity for him, the lord of that slave released him and forgave him the debt.
But that same slave, as he went out, came upon one of his fellow-slaves who owed him a hundred denarii; and seizing him by the throat, he said, “Pay what you owe.”
Then his fellow-slave fell down and pleaded with him, “Have patience with me, and I will pay you.”
But he refused; then he went and threw him into prison until he would pay the debt.
When his fellow-slaves saw what had happened, they were greatly distressed, and they went and reported to their lord all that had taken place.
Then his lord summoned him and said to him, “You wicked slave! I forgave you all that debt because you pleaded with me.
Should you not have had mercy on your fellow-slave, as I had mercy on you?”
And in anger his lord handed him over to be tortured until he would pay his entire debt.
So my heavenly Father will also do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother or sister from your heart.’
When Jesus had finished saying these things, he left Galilee and went to the region of Judea beyond the Jordan.
Sermon
Psalm 114 sings of a God whose presence shakes the earth, splits the sea, and causes mountains to skip like rams. It is a hymn to the God who intervenes in history, who turns the course of events in ways that seem impossible. Matthew’s Gospel today offers an equally seismic vision—but this time not of earth‑shattering physical events, but of soul‑shattering moral ones. Peter asks Jesus how often he should forgive—up to seven times? Jesus replies, “Not seven times, but seventy‑seven times.” In biblical idiom, this is not a number to be ticked off in a notebook. It is the language of infinity. Jesus is saying that forgiveness is not an occasional duty but the very air his disciples are meant to breathe.
It’s one of those sayings of Jesus that sounds inspiring in the abstract but feels impossible in practice. It is one thing to forgive a neighbour for an unkind word, or a friend for letting us down. But to imagine that radical forgiveness might be the key to resolving wars and long‑running national hostilities—this feels like fantasy. And yet, the tensions between Israel and the Palestinians, Russia and Ukraine, Pakistan and India, or the warring factions of Sudan and countless other places, are all proof that without forgiveness, humanity remains stuck. We can trade bombs and barbs for decades, but until we find the courage to stop the cycle, there is no end.
Peace treaties can be signed, borders redrawn, power shared for a while—but if the bitterness remains, the violence returns. The world tends to think of peace in terms of balance‑sheets—reparations paid, territory exchanged, the right leaders installed. Jesus thinks of peace in terms of hearts transformed. Forgiveness is not a political afterthought; it is the essential soil in which lasting peace can grow. Psalm 114’s imagery of the Red Sea parting reminds us that God can make a way where there is no way, even between enemies who seem locked in eternal enmity. But God often works this miracle through people willing to absorb the cost of forgiveness.
Maximilian Kolbe was one of those people. In 1941 at Auschwitz, a fellow prisoner escaped. In retaliation, ten men were chosen to die by starvation. One of them cried out for his family. Kolbe stepped forward and offered to take his place. For two weeks, in a bare cell, he led men in prayer and song until he was the last alive and finally killed by lethal injection. Kolbe had done nothing to earn the Nazis’ hatred. Yet in that moment, he met hatred with self‑giving love. His death was not merely an act of generosity—it was a declaration that evil does not get the final word. The poison of hatred would not infect his soul.
In international conflicts, we often hear of “justice” as a precondition for peace. But in Jesus’ vision, forgiveness and justice are not rivals. Forgiveness is the only force capable of breaking the endless chain of retribution. The difficulty, of course, is that forgiveness feels like letting someone off the hook. And when the offence is large—mass graves, demolished cities—this feels unbearable. Yet forgiveness does not mean pretending that evil is not evil. It means choosing not to let the wrong done to you define your life or dictate your future.
That’s why it’s often said that failing to forgive another person is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. Unforgiveness corrodes us from the inside. The one who wronged us may have moved on—or even be dead—but the anger remains lodged in us like shrapnel. Forgiveness, then, is less about the other person and more about freeing ourselves.
Radical forgiveness must begin on a small scale if it is ever to work on a large one. Nations are made of individuals, and public mind‑sets are shaped by private habits. If I cannot forgive my neighbour for blocking my drive, or my friend for forgetting a call, I am unlikely to believe that Israelis and Palestinians can forgive each other for generational bloodshed. But when we cultivate forgiveness in everyday life—in slights, misunderstandings, forgiveness becomes our default posture. It becomes a practice, a discipline, a way of life.
Notice that Jesus’ teaching in Matthew 18 comes in the context of community life. He addresses people who will live, work, disagree, and sometimes hurt each other. The Church is meant to be a laboratory for forgiveness—a place where we learn and practice it so that we can carry it into the world. Sadly, the Church often scores faults better than forgives seventy‑seven times. But when we get it right—when we forgive and reconcile—we become a living sign of God’s kingdom, a testimony that there is another way to be human.
Kolbe’s story continues to speak—not because most of us will ever face such a choice—but because it shows what’s possible when love, not vengeance, guides us. His forgiveness was costly—it cost him his life—but it bore witness to the life that cannot be taken away. The challenge for us is to carry that same spirit into our own lives: our families, workplaces, churches, communities—and yes, into our politics.
The God of Psalm 114 is still the God who makes a way when there is no way. The Christ of Matthew 18 still calls us to forgive without limit. The Spirit that sustained Kolbe in his cell is still at work in us. If we dare to forgive—not as a one‑off, but as a habit—a way of life—we may yet see the mountains of bitterness skip away, the rivers of resentment dry up, and the ground beneath our feet become holy.
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