I'm Sorry If You Were Offended . . .

After a lifetime of offering apologies for my sins, screw-ups, stupidity, and missteps, one would think that I would have mastered the art. Even if I only counted the times I have needed to ask my wife for forgiveness, I would still be one of the most practiced penitents on the planet.

Remarkably, I find myself relearning repentance every time I need to do it. The natural tendency is to cast blame, to excuse, to express all the reasons why my actions are justified or, at the very least, aren't as bad as they seem. If the one I wronged also wronged me at some point, do I have to apologize? If my offense was unintentional must I ask forgiveness? Is repentance necessary if expressing regret will suffice? Can I downgrade it to a mistake, a misunderstanding, or an error of judgment?

But when I am pushed, when I find no alternative to an apology, when I realize that I have to say those two dreaded words, I still look to lessen my liability and minimize my misbehavior by adding a few words to my "heartfelt and sincere" apology: if you were offended. In one phrase I can doubly diminish my humiliation by making my offense merely possible and shifting the blame in case of its reality. I relieve myself of the real burden and place it squarely on the shoulders of the person who felt the offense. Cloaked in my confession is an agent of accusation. The real problem isn't mine at all. "If you weren't so sensitive," my words suggest, "there wouldn't be a problem."

Perhaps the most embarrassing fact of all is that in my decades of copping this pseudo-plea, it has never worked. The person to whom I make this unconfession inevitably catches my emotional sleight of hand and realizes that I have attempted to deftly lay it all on him or her (usually a particular "her").

Repentance, on the other hand, knows nothing of shifting blame, making excuses, or diminishing damage. True repentance is a brokenness that shatters pride into thousands of shards that cannot be pieced back together.

Jesus gave a beautiful picture of this kind of repentance in the parable of the Prodigal Son. When at his spiritual nadir, the son realizes in the pig sty that he has done a sinful and stupid thing. He even goes so far as to rehearse his apology: "I will arise and go to my father, and I will say to him, 'Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Treat me as one of your hired servants.'"

Every time I read that I am struck by the simplicity and the beauty of the son's statement. He does not say, "Father, I made a mistake," or "I regret leaving." He certainly doesn't say, "Dad, I'm sorry if my actions offended you." He doesn't say, "Well, though it's true that I did that, I am sorry if my actions caused you pain and I promise I will not do it again."

In all my sinfulness, I have learned the marks of true repentance. Here is what I have found.

A truly penitent person doesn't depend on forgiveness. His apology is not a negotiation; it's begging. Beggars don't get to dictate terms.

A broken person understands that he doesn't get to choose other people's reaction to his sin. They may forgive him or not. He put them in that position, after all. They may hold it against him if they choose. His apology is independent of their response.

A broken person understands that forgiveness is a gift given, not a debt owed.

A broken person asks for no apology in return, even if the other person has done wrong, too.

A broken person realizes and freely admits that he does not deserve forgiveness.

A broken person accepts that it takes much longer to reestablish trust than to destroy it, and he cannot insist on a timetable.

A broken person understands that the power of the words "I'm sorry" diminish greatly when conditioned by an "if."