Christmas is a festival when people spend and drink a great deal regardless of the misery of others, as seems to have happened last year in No 10 Downing Street. Yet, as a carol reminds us, love came down at Christmas. Of course, as one contributor to social media put it with no hint of irony, nowadays we must avoid dragging religion into Christmas. But even if the story, as celebrated in 1,000 primary school nativity plays, is no more than a great story, it has a deep appeal. One aspect of its appeal is its stress on forgiveness. But what is forgiveness? At the risk of spoiling the seasonal jollity – clipping an Angel's wings, as Keats would have it – I'll offer a philosophical perspective on the concept.
If A forgives B, then A must have been injured by B. This seems a logically necessary condition for forgiveness. It is not necessary for B to be aware of what he/she has done – people may be forgiven although they 'know not what they do' – but only for what a reasonable person would regard as an injury to have been inflicted.
It is, however, necessary that A should think that he has been injured. In other words, it is strictly speaking A's belief that he has been injured that constitutes the necessary condition of his forgiving B. Of course, some people are liable to feel injured ('offended' would be the current term) at the breeze ruffling their hair. Someone I once knew put the worst possible construction on anything I said or did and immediately forgave me. I found that very irritating. For the sake of brevity, I'll assume that the belief that one has oneself been injured is well-founded and regard that as a logically necessary condition for forgiveness.
In the second place, I shall also assume that in general terms the adoption of a forgiving spirit is a morally good thing, and an inability to forgive is a moral defect. Note, however, that some philosophers, such as Nietzsche, would regard a forgiving spirit as one aspect of what they would regard as 'slave morality'; those who forgive, they would say, do so because they have no other option. I'm not going to deal with that approach in this piece.
There are two apparent counter-examples to my first necessary condition, that A must have been injured by B before he can be said to forgive B. The counter example is that A can be said to be unable to forgive what B did to C. For example, A might be said to be unable to forgive what the Nazis did to the Jews although A is not a Jew and was not injured by the Nazis. One reply to this objection would be to say that what is involved in this counter-example is a stretched sense of forgiveness. It might be argued that A is identifying himself with the injured parties and feels himself injured as a member of the human race.
The trouble with that reply, however, is that it is ruled out by my second assumption, stated above – that the adoption of a forgiving spirit is a morally good thing. We would raise more than a moral eyebrow if A said that after all he was willing to forgive what the Nazis did to the Jews. Before suggesting another approach to the objection, I shall look at a second objection to my first assumption – that A must have been injured by B.
The second counter-example is the common usage: I cannot forgive myself. If A says this, he will not mainly be thinking that he has injured himself; he will be thinking of the injury he has inflicted on someone else. Once again, the second assumption – that readiness to forgive is a virtue – prevents this being a stretched sense of forgiveness. Imagine someone who says to his friend/wife: Last week I could not forgive myself for what I did to you, but on reflection I can now forgive myself. I don't think that would go down well.
The answer to the two objections is that they involve a totally different concept masquerading in the guise of forgiveness. As an approach to exposing this counterfeit, I shall develop my second initial assumption – that the adoption of a forgiving spirit is a morally good thing. How do we analyse the forgiving spirit?
The forgiving spirit might at first be described as excusing, overlooking, treating indulgently or, in a word, as condoning. 'Forget it', we say, 'it was nothing'. But that will not do. First, to minimise an injury when it has been severe is less than honest – to say 'it doesn't matter' when it does may give rise to a sense of grievance which is the antithesis of the forgiving spirit. Second, we may come to understand that the person who injured us was suffering from some addiction – alcoholism, say – and to condone may be morally wrong and certainly imprudent. What the situation may require is stern treatment of the person, investigation of the weakness, and so on. If condoning may sometimes be morally inappropriate, it cannot be the forgiving spirit, as I have assumed that the forgiving spirit is a virtue.
It is now possible to see that condoning is the concept which masquerades as forgiveness in the two counter-examples discussed above. When A says he cannot forgive what the Nazis did to the Jews, he means he cannot condone their behaviour. And when A says he cannot forgive himself for some bad action, he means he cannot condone what he did, he cannot find any reasonable excuse for his own bad behaviour.
It is not difficult to see how the concepts of forgiveness and condonation come to be confused. If the injury is trivial, then the attitude of forgiveness may not inappropriately be that of treating indulgently or overlooking. Indeed, the
Shorter Oxford Dictionary gives as one entry under 'forgive', 'to make excuse for, regard indulgently'. Note, however, that the OED goes on to point out that this usage occurs mainly when we say such things as: 'Forgive me for interrupting your meal'.
There is a second reason for the confusion between forgiving and condoning: condoning is frequently used as a morally inferior substitute for forgiving. In many cases, it is easier to play down the extent of the injury and ignore the moral offence than it is to face up to the injury and make the effort to forgive. If to forgive is not to condone, how is it to be further analysed?
It is not satisfactory to say the mere uttering of the words 'I forgive you' constitutes forgiveness. There is an interesting comparison here with the concept of pardoning. If the words, 'I pardon you' are uttered by the official person, a Home Secretary or the like, the person is in fact pardoned. In the case of pardon, some normative system must be involved, such as the law of the land, and some officially constituted role such as Home Secretary must also be involved. If these conditions are met then, for good reason such as a wrongful conviction, a Home Secretary may issue a pardon. Personal attitudes just don't come into it. To utter the words or sign the document constitutes the pardon. In short, officials pardon in public roles or institutions, but we forgive as persons.
If it is as persons (rather than officials) that we forgive, the clue to the nature of the forgiving spirit is to be found by analysing the mode of behaviour appropriate for the relationships of persons as such. And the mode of behaviour which is appropriate among persons as such has often been described as a loving concern for the dignity of others conceived (in Kant's language) as ends in themselves. An injury involves the severing of that relationship and forgiveness is its restoration.
At times where the injury is trivial, this may involve condoning or letting off lightly. If we think someone is making an undue fuss, we might say: Just let it go. But at other times, this is not consistent with a dignified relationship between people. To respect another person is to treat that person not just as a creature of sentience but also as someone who is rational and can pursue moral values as can the forgiver.
The forgiving spirit requires preventing any barrier remaining permanently between him/her and the forgivee. It is the exhibition of this spirit in action, together with a belief that an injury has been sustained that constitutes forgiveness. And that is one aspect of the love which came down at Christmas, even if there wasn't much of it around in last year's party in Downing Street.
Robin Downie is Emeritus Professor of Moral Philosophy at the University of Glasgow
