Could You Forgive Someone Who Seeks to Cause You Unimaginable Pain, Even Your Death?

That question presses on us more deeply in an hour like this because when violence rises around public leaders, we are forced to look beyond headlines and ask what is happening in the human heart. We may want quick conclusions, quick blame, and quick certainty. But if I am going to think as a Christian, I have to begin at a deeper level. I have to begin with sin, hatred, fear, power, and the sobering reality that when a nation is deeply divided, those things do not stay hidden for long. 

What we are watching in our country, “again,” and in the world is not merely a political disagreement. It is a collision of visions, loyalties, and moral commitments. President Trump is not viewed as a neutral political figure. To many of his supporters, he represents an attempt to restore order, national identity, public restraint, religious liberty, and a more openly conservative moral framework. To many of his opponents, he represents a threat to the postwar progressive settlement in government, culture, education, and foreign policy. That makes him more than a politician in the public mind. It makes him symbolic. And symbolic leaders draw both intense devotion and intense hatred. 

That is why assassination attempts and violent threats should never be treated lightly or reduced to a passing spectacle. History shows that such acts often arise in moments when a leader is perceived as threatening entrenched interests, destabilizing accepted norms, or standing in the way of powerful ideological currents. In ancient Israel, violent changes in leadership were rarely about a single person. They reflected broader convulsions in the nation. The same pattern has appeared throughout world history. Sometimes personal instability plays a role. But many attempts on leaders emerge in times of political and spiritual fracture, where deeper tensions are already alive beneath the surface. 

That is also why I do not think we can understand what is happening in America apart from the wider world. Washington is not isolated from Tehran, Jerusalem, Hormuz, London, Moscow, or Beijing. The United States is already strained by political polarization, war in the Middle East, anxiety over global order, and fears of economic disruption. Israel and Iran remain at the center of a dangerous regional struggle. The Strait of Hormuz remains one of the world’s most sensitive energy chokepoints. Great powers are watching, calculating, and preparing. We are living in a time when domestic instability and international conflict can feed each other very quickly. 

That does not mean we should rush into sensationalism. It does mean we should be sober. Great upheavals rarely begin with one single event. They build through pressure, grievance, ideology, strategic interests, and repeated acts of brinkmanship. One attack does not cause a world war on its own. But it can reveal how unstable the atmosphere has become. 

As a Christian, though, I cannot stop with political analysis. I have to ask the harder question: what does God require of us when hatred becomes this open and this intense? Jesus said, “Love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who spitefully use you and persecute you” (Matthew 5:44, NKJV). That is not sentimental language. That is a different kind of warfare. It is Christ calling us to refuse the spirit of vengeance even when the world around us is feeding on it. 

That is where the question of forgiveness becomes central. Could I forgive someone who sought to cause me unimaginable pain, even my death? In my flesh, I know how hard that question is. But as a believer, I also know I cannot ignore it. Stephen prayed, “Lord, do not charge them with this sin” as he was being murdered (Acts 7:60, NKJV). Jesus prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they do” from the cross (Luke 23:34, NKJV). Forgiveness does not mean evil is excused. It does not mean justice no longer matters. It means I refuse to let hatred become my master. 

That matters in public life too. When a leader accepts the risk of office in a divided and angry age, he is stepping into a place where hatred can become deadly. Whether one agrees with Trump on every matter or not, the willingness to remain in such a role under real threat helps explain why many of his supporters see his motives as more serious than mere ambition. But even there, our response as Christians must be governed by Scripture, not only by political loyalty. We are called to pray for kings and all who are in authority (1 Timothy 2:1–2, NKJV), not because every ruler is righteous, but because God cares about peace, order, and the conditions under which truth may still be spoken. 

So how close are we to global upheaval? Close enough to be vigilant, prayerful, and morally awake. Close enough to recognize that the world is under pressure on many fronts at once: political violence, religious hostility, war in the Middle East, economic strain, and growing civilizational conflict. But not close enough for any of us to speak with false certainty about the timetable of world war or the return of Christ. Scripture calls us to discern the times, but it also warns us against prideful certainty where God has not spoken plainly. 

I do believe many Christians understandably see in these events an end-times atmosphere. Israel, Iran, war, oil, global tension, and the moral unraveling of nations all press us in that direction. But the clearest biblical call in such an hour is not panic. It is readiness. It is repentance. It is courage. It is prayer. It refuses both naïveté and hysteria. 

So I come back to the opening question. Could I forgive someone who sought my pain or death? By nature, no. Not truly. But in Christ, I must be willing to move in that direction, because forgiveness is not weakness. It is a testimony that evil will not get the final word in me. At the same time, forgiveness does not cancel vigilance. We still tell the truth. We still oppose evil. We still pray for justice. We still ask God to restrain wickedness and protect those in authority. 

What is happening today matters because it reveals something deeper than politics. It reveals the human heart's condition and the volatility of a world under judgment, strain, and spiritual confusion. That should not drive us to despair. It should drive us to Christ. In a time of hatred, we need holy clarity. In a time of violence, we need moral courage. In a time of upheaval, we need to be found watchful, faithful, and ready. 

“Therefore, you also be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an hour you do not expect” (Matthew 24:44, NKJV). 

Why Do Some People Find The Silence Of God Terrifying, While Others See It As A Sign Of Spiritual Growth Or Maturity?

When we talk about “the silence of God,” we have to start by admitting what the Bible itself admits: silence can feel terrifying. That fear is not imaginary, and it is not automatically a sign that we are fake or weak. The Scriptures give us permission to say what we actually feel. David asked, “How long… will You hide Your face?” (Ps 13:1–2). Another psalm cries, “My God… why have You forsaken me?” (Ps 22:1–2). Habakkuk asked why God seemed to tolerate evil and not answer (Hab 1:2–4). Even our Lord Jesus quoted Psalm 22 from the cross, expressing the anguish of abandonment (Matt 27:46). So when God feels silent, we are not the first ones to tremble. We are walking a path God’s people have walked before us. 

 

So why do some of us experience that silence as terror, while others later look back and call it maturity? A lot of it comes down to what we believe silence means. 

 

For some of us, silence feels like abandonment. If our faith is still learning God’s character, we may interpret quiet as rejection. That’s why the psalmist pleads, “Do not be silent to me, lest… I become like those who go down to the pit” (Ps 28:1). If we are already carrying fear, shame, or trauma, silence can press on that old wound and whisper, “God is done with you.” And when we are in pain, our minds do what minds often do: they look for the fastest explanation that matches our emotions. We start assuming God’s hiddenness means God’s absence. 

 

But Scripture repeatedly teaches that God’s hiddenness does not equal God’s absence. There are times when God “hides Himself” (Isa 45:15), and there are seasons when He is teaching us to trust what we cannot see. That is why faith is defined as “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen” (Heb 11:1). There is a kind of spiritual infancy where we need constant reassurance, and God often gives it. But there is also a kind of spiritual maturity in which God trains our trust so that it is anchored in His character and His Word, not only in what we feel in the moment. 

Job is a strong example of that. Job speaks honestly about not being able to find God’s felt presence; “I go forward, but He is not there… I cannot perceive Him” (Job 23:8–9). Yet in the same breath, he says, “He knows the way that I take; when He has tested me, I shall come forth as gold” (Job 23:10). That is the shift from terror to maturity: we stop living only by what we can perceive, and we learn to rest in what God knows. Job even says something that sounds impossible until we have suffered a while: “Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him” (Job 13:15). That isn’t denial. That is faith refusing to let silence rewrite who God is. 

 

When we grow, we begin to see that God’s silence can function in more than one way. Sometimes it is discipline when we refuse to repent and keep turning to other gods, sometimes literally, sometimes in the form of our idols (Deut 31:17–18; Isa 64:7). Sometimes it is God letting us feel the emptiness of self-rule until we seek His face again (Hos 5:15). Sometimes it is not punishment at all, but a purposeful delay, like when Jesus heard Lazarus was sick and “stayed two more days” (John 11:6). That delay was not indifference. It was providence. 

 

And sometimes, silence is the training ground of endurance. Scripture says hope that is seen isn’t hope; hope matures when we wait for what we do not see “with perseverance” (Rom 8:24–25). Lamentations even says there is a kind of quiet waiting that is “good,” not because pain is good, but because God is good to those who wait for Him (Lam 3:25–28). The psalms tell us to “rest in the Lord” and “wait patiently” (Ps 37:7), and to “be still” and know He is God (Ps 46:10). That is not the language of abandonment. That is the language of formation. 

We also see this in Jesus Himself. Hebrews says He offered up prayers “with vehement cries and tears,” and that He “learned obedience by the things which He suffered” (Heb 5:7–8). If the sinless Son learned obedience through suffering, then we should not be surprised when God uses suffering, and even silence, to deepen our obedience and our trust. 

 

That’s why some of us, after years of walking with Christ, can say that silence grew our faith. Not because it felt good, but because it forced us to stop living on spiritual adrenaline and start living on God’s promises. We begin to understand that the Christian life is not built on constant emotional clarity. It is built on a faithful God and a persevering faith. That is why Scripture keeps saying, “Wait… be of good courage… He shall strengthen your heart” (Ps 27:13–14). Strength comes through waiting. 

 

Now, I also want to speak to the other side of this, because it’s where many of us actually live day to day. Sometimes the silence of God scares us because we are painfully aware of our own sin and inconsistency. We know what it is to love Christ and still struggle with the flesh. We can look at our failures and start interpreting God’s quiet as God’s disgust. That’s a real fear, especially for those of us who have walked with Him for decades and still feel the sting of falling short. 

 

Here is where I have to anchor our hearts in what the Bible actually says about God. Silence is not God canceling us. Silence is not God abandoning His children. Silence is not proof that our salvation is false. The psalms are full of God’s people saying, “Why?” and yet still calling Him “my Rock” (Ps 42:9–11). Job complains, but he complains to God, not away from Him (Job 30:20). The people of God cry out, sometimes for a long time, and Scripture tells us that we “ought to pray and not lose heart” (Luke 18:1–8). God is not threatened by our questions. What He is doing is often deeper than what we can see. 

 

So, how do we reconcile it in our hearts, minds, and souls? We reconcile it the same way the Bible models it: we keep bringing our raw reality into God’s presence, and we keep choosing trust as an act of worship. We pour out our hearts before Him because He is a refuge (Ps 62:5–8). We accept that His ways are sometimes hidden but never random. We refuse to let shame interpret God for us. We let Scripture interpret God for us. 

And when we do that over time, something changes. The silence does not automatically stop being painful, but it stops being ultimate. It becomes a place where our faith is tested like gold (1 Pet 1:6–7). It becomes a place where perseverance produces character and hope, and hope does not disappoint (Rom 5:3–5). It becomes a place where God’s grace proves sufficient in our weakness (2 Cor 12:7–10). It becomes a place where we learn that our life is being renewed day by day, even when the outward part of us is weary (2 Cor 4:16–18). 

 

So, why do some of us fear God’s silence while others see maturity in it? Because silence exposes what we are standing on. If we are standing on feelings, silence feels like a collapse. If we are standing on God’s Word and God’s character, silence becomes a hard classroom where trust becomes real. Either way, God is still God. He is not silent because He is absent. He is sometimes quiet because He is working in ways we cannot yet name. 

And if we need a single sentence to hold onto when we are scared, it is this: even when we cannot perceive Him, He still knows the way that we take, and He does not waste what He tests (Job 23:10). 

How Can You Forgive A Parent Who Didn’t Protect You From Family Abuse While Understanding Their Own Traumatic Background?

Forgiving a parent who didn’t protect us from family abuse is one of the hardest kinds of forgiveness, because it isn’t just about something that was said or done once. It is about what should have happened and didn’t. It is about a role that was violated. A parent was supposed to cover us, and we were left exposed. Even if we can understand that our parents had their own traumatic background, that understanding doesn’t erase what happened to us. It can explain some of it, but it cannot excuse it. So we have to learn how to hold two truths at the same time: our parents were wounded, and we were wounded by them. 

Scripture helps us because it doesn’t pretend this is easy. The Bible calls us to forgiveness, but it also calls us to honesty, wisdom, and healing. We can’t rush forgiveness as if it were a single emotional moment. Jesus told Peter that forgiveness isn’t a neat number, but an ongoing posture, “seventy times seven” (Matt 18:21–22). That tells us forgiveness is often a process. We forgive in layers. We forgive again when the memories come back. We forgive again when grief surprises us. We forgive again when we realize how much that childhood wound shaped our adult habits. 

Forgiveness also doesn’t start with pretending we’re fine. It starts with naming what is actually in our hearts and bringing it to God. When we are hurt, angry, confused, and exhausted, we are invited to cast that burden on the Lord because He cares for us (1 Pet 5:7; Ps 55:22). If we don’t do that, bitterness can take root and defile us from the inside out (Heb 12:14–15). That is one reason forgiveness matters so much: not because the abuser “deserves it,” but because we need to be free. 

At the same time, forgiveness is not the same thing as pretending it wasn’t abuse, or that it didn’t matter, or that we should just “move on.” Scripture commands us to put away bitterness and malice, but it also calls us to tenderness and truth (Eph 4:31–32). The goal is not denial. The goal is release. God is not asking us to call evil “good.” God is asking us to stop letting evil own us. 

One key that helps us forgive a non-protective parent is recognizing what God has forgiven in us. We are not forgiven because we were righteous; we are forgiven because of Christ’s mercy. “All have sinned,” and we are “justified freely by His grace” (Rom 3:23–24). God does not deal with us according to our sins, but removes them far away in mercy (Ps 103:8–12). When we see how God forgave us in Christ, we begin to understand why Scripture says we forgive “even as God in Christ forgave” us (Eph 4:32; Col 3:12–13). That becomes the foundation. Forgiveness becomes a response to grace, not a performance to earn it. 

This is also where understanding our parents’ traumatic background can be useful, but only if we use it properly. Understanding can soften our desire to condemn, because Jesus told us not to live in condemnation but to forgive (Luke 6:37). It can help us see that our parents may not have had the internal strength, wisdom, or courage to protect us as they should have. And sometimes the tragic truth is that people cannot give what they do not have. They were formed in dysfunction, and they passed it on. But even when we understand that, we still have to say clearly: they were wrong. They failed. They sinned. Compassion does not require us to minimize reality. 

Forgiveness also does not always mean reconciliation. The Bible teaches forgiveness, but it also teaches wisdom and boundaries. We can forgive and still refuse to live in an unsafe relationship. We can forgive and still limit access. We can forgive and still require honesty and accountability. Jesus teaches us a process for dealing with sin, including confrontation and escalation when someone refuses to hear (Matt 18:15–17). That shows us something important: love does not mean enabling. Love can be truthful and firm. We can forgive from the heart and still take heed to ourselves in how we relate (Luke 17:3–4). Forgiveness is the release of vengeance to God; reconciliation is the rebuilding of trust, and trust is not automatic. 

Scripture gives us models for this kind of forgiveness that does not deny evil. Joseph looked at real betrayal and said, “You meant evil… but God meant it for good” (Gen 50:19–21). That wasn’t Joseph pretending his brothers didn’t harm him. That was Joseph refusing to sit in God’s place as judge. He handed ultimate justice to the Lord and chose to comfort rather than destroy. Jesus, in the deepest injustice imaginable, prayed, “Father, forgive them” (Luke 23:34). Stephen, while being murdered, said, “Do not charge them with this sin” (Acts 7:60). Those examples don’t make pain smaller; they make grace bigger. 

If we are asking, “How can we forgive a parent who didn’t protect us?” part of the answer is that we may need to grieve first. Grief is not unforgiveness. Grief is the honest recognition of what we lost: innocence, safety, trust, a normal childhood, and a parent who covered us. God heals the brokenhearted and binds up wounds (Ps 147:3). He comforts us in tribulation so that we can later comfort others (2 Cor 1:3–4). That is not quick work. It is deep work. And it often happens through prayer, truth-telling, and support from wise, godly people. 

When forgiveness begins to grow, it often looks like this: we stop rehearsing revenge, we stop wishing harm, and we begin to pray for God to do what is right. Romans tells us not to repay evil for evil, not to avenge ourselves, and to leave vengeance to God (Rom 12:14–21). That is one of the most freeing lines in Scripture for someone who has been abused: God is a better judge than we are. We don’t have to carry the courtroom in our hearts anymore. We can say, “Lord, You see. You know. You judge rightly.” Then we can start taking steps toward peace as much as it depends on us, without pretending the other person is safe or trustworthy (Rom 12:18). 

Forgiveness is challenging because it feels like letting someone “get away with it.” But biblical forgiveness is not letting someone get away with it. It is letting God handle it. It is releasing the person from our grip and placing them into God’s hands. And at the same time, it is choosing not to be overcome by evil, but to overcome evil with good (Rom 12:21). Sometimes “good” looks like prayer. Sometimes it looks like distance. Sometimes it looks like a hard conversation. Sometimes it looks like silence and healing. But it always looks like refusing to let bitterness become our identity. 

If we are still struggling, we should remember this: forgiveness is not a feeling we manufacture. It is an obedience we practice. Love “thinks no evil” and “bears all things” (1 Cor 13:4–7), which means love refuses to keep sharpening the knife in our mind. It doesn’t mean we forget. It means we stop feeding the poison. Forgiveness may begin as a trembling prayer: “Lord, I am willing. Help me.” And God honors that kind of prayer, because He cares for us (1 Pet 5:7), and He is committed to healing what people broke.