When I look at my life, what keeps me from joy, from hope, from God is my inability to forgive God. Regardless of its theological correctness, I've experienced it as true. I've tried to create the right theological formula to avoid the inevitable, but eventually, all my theodicies have failed to register deep within my soul, in the places of pain. That question—why a good, all-loving, all-powerful God allows such profound evil and suffering in the world—plagues many religions and has inspired a variety of explanations. Perhaps God is limited. Perhaps our free will limits God. Perhaps suffering really is an ages-old punishment for humanity's sinfulness in some imaginary garden. Perhaps it all the evil of the world is payback for our sins. Perhaps evil has only to do with humanity and nothing to do with God, that it's a problem we created and so it's a problem that is also ours to repair.

But there's another option, a more difficult option: to forgive God.

Now, comparatively, it's easy to forgive humans. We're so deeply flawed that the only response is compassion. If I'm wronged, all I have to do is take a small, brief trip in my memory to find a moment when I wrought the same sin, or at least, wanted to. Unconditional forgiveness is the most basic form of humanity because it is the attitude most foundationally based on our human experiences. 

But God is supposed to be perfect. God isn't supposed to be forgiven. That's what our religious institutions have told us for eons. 

We often think of God as sacrificing God's own son for the forgiveness of the sins of humanity. But there's equal power in seeing God as coming down to live among us and dying for the forgiveness of God as well. My God, my God, why have you forsaken us? How many times have we uttered that phrase in our pain and suffering? When Jesus utters these words, there is no answer. We are left to imagine it. But what would you say if your lover cried out to you, regardless of its factual accuracy, My Beloved, my Beloved, why have you forsaken me? I do not know why, the lover replies. I am so sorry. Forgive me. Do not forsake me as well.

Can we imagine God, the Beloved, replying in such compassion to our experience of suffering? Or do we imagine God, coming out the whirlwind, to berate us like God did to Job?

All relationships need forgiveness. And in a relationship, all need to forgive, whether the wrongs are real or whether the wrongs are imagined, and all need to be forgiven for the same reasons. Perhaps there is some explanation too great for mortals to understand as we are told in Job, but God's answer to Job's pained question of My God, my God, why have you forsaken me always struck me as less than convincing. Perhaps our finity cannot match an understanding of infinity, but regardless, such an understanding doesn't change much when deep suffering strikes. 

Sometimes I imagine that when we all finally get to heaven, we'll find God weeping into a bowl of dirty water, washing the feet of humanity, asking for forgiveness for all God has done and left undone in creation, and giving thanks that we decided to come home anyway.

O God, we forgive you for the suffering in the world, for the horror that masquerades as life, for the hunger, the thirst, the loneliness, the absolute silence of your voice. We forgive you of your trespasses against humanity as you forgive ours against you. And in doing so, may we understand that when our hands reach out in evil, your hands do too, that when our hearts reach out in compassion, your heart follows. Amen.