Luke 15:11-32 (link)
Oops!
There’s something about revenge that captures the human imagination. It fuels movies, novels, and late-night fantasies where we finally get even. There’s a reason Captain Ahab is one of the most unforgettable characters in American literature—because we understand him. A whale took his leg, took his power, and left him incomplete. And he wasn’t about to let that go.
But here’s the thing about revenge: it doesn’t stop with the person we hate. It spreads. Ahab’s hatred didn’t just destroy him; it doomed his crew. The Pequod, a ship meant to explore and provide, became a floating coffin because one man refused to let go of his grudge.
We might not be chasing whales, but let’s be honest—some of us are chasing something. Some of us are holding on to a wound, refusing to let it heal because we think justice means never forgetting, never releasing, never forgiving. We tell ourselves, If I forgive, I lose. If I let go, they get away with it.
But what if the thing we refuse to release is the very thing that is sinking us?
Ugh!
See, the real tragedy of Ahab wasn’t just that he wanted revenge—it’s why he wanted it. It wasn’t about the whale. It was about his identity. He couldn’t see himself as anything but a victim, a man wronged, a man who needed justice to be whole again. And that, right there, is why unforgiveness is so dangerous.
We like to think unforgiveness is about justice, but it’s really about control. If I hold on to my anger, I hold on to power. If I refuse to forgive, I don’t have to face my own pain—I can keep the blame on them. But the longer we grip it, the more it grips us.
Unforgiveness doesn’t just destroy relationships—it reshapes us. It turns us into people we never meant to be. It twists love into resentment, peace into obsession, and hope into despair. Ahab didn’t just die chasing a whale. He died chasing the version of himself he refused to let go of.
And if we’re not careful, we might do the same.
Aha!
But there is another way.
Where Ahab was consumed by vengeance, Jesus gives us a story of a father who was consumed by grace. The Prodigal Son had done the unforgivable—he demanded his inheritance while his father was still alive, essentially saying, You are dead to me. Then he wasted it all, shaming his family name and leaving nothing but disgrace in his wake.
In that culture, a dishonored father would have every right to reject a son like that. He could have refused to see him, let the community shame him, or at the very least, made him earn his way back. But what does Jesus say?
While he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him, and kissed him. (Luke 15:20)
The father ran.
He ran through the streets, through the whispers, through the judgmental glares of his neighbors who would have said, That boy doesn’t deserve forgiveness. But the father sacrificed his pride, his dignity, and his honor to embrace a son who had done nothing to deserve it.
Because forgiveness always costs something. It is never cheap.
Forgiveness is a kind of death—a death to our pride, a death to our desire for justice on our terms. The father could have clung to his grievance, but instead, he let it die, so that his son might live.
Whee!
And this is exactly what God has done for us.
We are the prodigal. We have wronged Him, betrayed Him, walked away and wasted the gifts He has given us. Justice demands that we be cut off, that we be left to suffer the consequences of our actions. And yet, God runs to us.
But forgiveness, real forgiveness, requires sacrifice. Just as the father in the parable bore the cost of his son’s return, so too does our Heavenly Father bear the cost of ours.
This is the Cross.
God’s forgiveness isn’t just a kind word—it is a sacrifice. Jesus endured dishonor, humiliation, and suffering so that we could be reconciled. He gave up His life so that we could return home. The cross is where justice and mercy meet—not by ignoring sin, but by paying its price Himself.
We don’t have to be like Ahab. We don’t have to be ruled by our wounds. In Christ, we are given a different way—a way that requires sacrifice, yes, but also frees us.
Yeah!
And so, the question is this:
Who do you need to forgive?
What grudge, what anger, what hurt have you been carrying? And what would it cost to let it go? Would it cost your pride? Your sense of justice? Would it mean giving up the identity of being the one who was wronged?
That is the sacrifice forgiveness demands. But the greater question is this: What happens if we don’t?
Will we become Ahab, clinging so tightly to our wounds that they drag us down? Will we let unforgiveness reshape us into something we never intended to be?
Or will we follow the way of the Father—the way of the Cross?
Jesus has already shown us what forgiveness looks like. He has already borne the cost. And He invites us to do the same.
So will you?
Will you let go? Will you come home? Will you forgive, as you have been forgiven?
Because that choice—the choice between holding on and letting go—may just be the difference between destruction and redemption.
Amen!