I recently watched Manchester by the Sea. It’s a powerful film about grief and one man’s inability to forgive himself for his past actions. I loved every minute of it. It’s viscerally raw and deeply human in a way that resonates with anyone who’s struggled with feelings of guilt and loss before.
Since watching it, one question has been lingering in my mind: how should we live with ourselves after making a horrible mistake?
Mistake might not be the right word here. A mistake is an action retroactively deemed wrong. When the drunk Lee Chandler leaves his sleeping wife and kids at home as he goes out to purchase more beer, the burning fireplace left unattended, he doesn’t yet realize that he’s made a mistake. It isn’t until the consequences—his home reduced to ashes, his 3 beloved children taken with it, newly-bought beer in hand—that he is forced to face the weight of his actions.
I wonder what thoughts ran through his mind as he stood there, watching his home and 3 children burn. It was his decision to have too many beers, his decision to start the fire, his decision to leave the house with the fireplace running. He can’t turn back time. He must now continue living with the knowledge that his 3 children are dead because of his negligence.
I think that I’ve always viewed penance—voluntary acts of self-punishment and shows of remorse—as the mandatory first step toward atonement. An eye for an eye. If I’ve hurt someone, I should suffer until enough has been done to compensate for the hurt that I’ve caused. In the past, I’ve told myself, Think about how they’d feel if they saw me, the perpetrator, happy—laughing, smiling, in love—while they’re in pain because of my actions. Where’s the justice in that? In their eyes, I’m probably better off dead, or worse, miserable for all my days. Remember: You’re not allowed to be happy. Not until you’ve been forgiven by the ones you hurt.
But as I watched Lee deny every invitation for warmth, for human connection, choosing instead to self-isolate and wallow in guilt; as I watched the memories of his 3 dead children torment him in his dreams; as I watched a chance encounter with his now ex-wife unfold as she wept, apologizing and begging for him to move on and forgive himself as he helplessly repeats I can’t…
I desperately wanted Lee to know and feel and notice that he is deeply loved despite his mistakes. That he doesn’t have to make his life a living hell. Watching him, I began to understand why grace and forgiveness are both so necessary yet so radical in our world.
It’s a privilege, not a right, to receive forgiveness from the people we’ve hurt. Some things in this world feel too evil to be forgiven—especially when there’s no remorse. But what do we do with our guilt? Especially when forgiveness never comes? Lee’s children can never come back from the dead to tell him that they forgive him, or that they want to see him happy despite what happened.
As someone who was raised Christian, my mind can’t help but wander back to the love of God. My faith has always waxed and waned, and I often fail to grasp the concepts and stories in the Bible. I’m guilty of intellectualizing my emotions and trying time and time again to save myself. But in watching this film, I felt reminded of the power and necessity of freely accepting a love that goes beyond human comprehension.
In a recent sermon at my church, I heard a quote that stuck with me: Where sin increased, grace abounded. God’s mercy is, has been, and always will be greater than the extent of our depravity. When Jesus paid the price on the cross, God’s love for His one and only son was extended to us. Our guilt, our shame, the weight of our transgressions are lifted, not because of anything we’ve done or earned but because His grace meets us where we are.
I think that what I wanted for Lee all along was for him to believe that he can still love and be loved despite everything. He might never forgive himself, and maybe that’s okay. Personally speaking, the hurt that I’ve caused others has continued to stay with me. It’s a powerful reminder of what I’m capable of. But I think I’m learning that accepting grace doesn’t mean forgetting the hurt that I’ve caused. Maybe it looks like holding it tight, living on, loving others, and letting myself be loved despite it all. And maybe that’s where healing begins—not in forgetting, but in allowing love to meet us exactly where we are.
marginalia 