THE DEBT WE FORGET | KAIROS GLOBAL | SEPTEMBER 2026

Author: Joseph Sebastian, PhD

Audio

Intro: Are we still collecting debts that ought to have been written away? Joseph Sebastian, PhD, invites us to reflect.

There are parables of Jesus that comfort us, and there are those that make us uncomfortable. The parable of the unforgiving servant belongs firmly in the second category.

It all begins with what seems like a generous question from Peter: ‘Lord, how often shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? As many as seven times? (Matthew 18:21).  

Seven times sounds impressive enough. Surely there must be a limit to forgiveness? Just remember the number of times we repeat the same sin in our confession. 

Jesus' response is startling: ‘…but seventy-seven times’ (Matthew 18:22). In other words, forgiveness was never meant to be kept on a scorecard but is all about mercy.

Jesus then tells a story that is impossible to miss.  A servant owes his king an unimaginable debt, one so large that repayment is simply impossible. Yet instead of punishment, he receives mercy. The debt is cancelled completely.

Moments later, that same servant encounters another man who owes him a comparatively small amount. Instead of extending the mercy he himself has just received, he demands payment, grabs him by the throat, and refuses to let go.

The contrast is deliberate and uncomfortable. The forgiven man becomes the unforgiving man. The debtor becomes the creditor, and more than that, one demanding his pound of flesh. The recipient of mercy becomes not merely stingy with mercy, but merciless at that.

The tragedy of the parable is not the abundance of mercy the servant received. It is that he forgot he was now called to show the same mercy to others.

The Great Christian Amnesia

Perhaps this is where the parable stops being a story and starts becoming a mirror. Somewhere along our Christian journey, many of us quietly forget who we are. We forget that we stand before God every single day as the servant with the impossible debt.

Our debt may not look dramatic from the outside. We may have lived respectable lives. We may have served faithfully in ministry, attended Mass regularly, prayed sincerely, and tried our best to follow Christ.

And yet Scripture reminds us: All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God (Romans 3:23).

Every one of us lives on borrowed mercy. The ground beneath our faith is not our goodness but God's grace. We stand each day beneath blessings we did not earn and graces we could never demand. Every confession that sent us home lighter than we arrived, every Eucharist received with empty hands, every fresh beginning after failure, every prayer answered despite our inconsistencies, every door that opened when we deserved none of it, all of it speaks of a God who has chosen mercy over judgment and compassion over condemnation. As the Psalmist reminds us, He does not deal with us according to our sins, nor repay us according to our iniquities (Psalm 103:10). We have been carried far more than we have walked, forgiven far more than we have understood, and loved far more than we have deserved. Perhaps that is why spiritual maturity should make us gentler rather than harsher, more compassionate rather than less, more patient rather than more demanding. For the longer we walk with God, the more clearly we should see that our lives are built not upon what we have earned, but upon what has been generously given.

Yet often the opposite happens. We develop surprisingly good memories when it comes to the wrong done to us. We remember the words, the slight, the betrayal, the missed opportunity, the unfair decision, sometimes long after we have forgotten the mercy shown to us. We become careful keepers of old accounts, quietly carrying forward balances that perhaps God Himself would have written off long ago.

The Debts We Continue to Collect

Some debts are painfully real: a betrayal that shattered trust, a humiliation that refuses to fade, an unfair decision that still feels unjust, a friendship that broke unexpectedly, a family wound that continues to ache decades later, a colleague who damaged our reputation, or a church member whose words cut far deeper than they realised. Jesus does not deny the reality of these wounds, nor does He ask us to pretend they did not happen. Forgiveness does not deny these realities. Jesus never calls evil good. Nor is forgiveness the absence of accountability and justice. 

But forgiveness does mean refusing to become the permanent debt collector of another human being.  And this is where the parable enters our homes, our workplaces, our churches and even our prayer lives.

How many names still tighten something inside us? Whose failures secretly satisfy us? Whose downfall would we quietly welcome? Whose debt are we still collecting with interest?

Sometimes we forgive publicly while continuing to prosecute privately. Sometimes we release people with our lips while keeping them imprisoned in our hearts. 

And if we just take a moment, we may realise that this is most often the case with the people with whom we are closest and are called to love the most. It is so easy to say sorry and mean it to a stranger, and never think about it again. But are we able to do that with our spouse, our children and parents, our siblings and relatives, our colleague, the person whom we regularly meet in church, or for that matter, our boss at work or the spiritual leader in our church?

Perhaps nowhere does this become sharper than in the prayer Jesus Himself taught us: Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us (Matthew 6:12). We say those words so often that we hardly notice what we are praying. We are effectively saying: ‘Lord, forgive me in the same way that I forgive others.’

That is a dangerous prayer. And Jesus immediately reinforces it: For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father also will forgive you; but if you do not forgive others, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses (Matthew 6:14-15).

These are difficult words.  But perhaps they are difficult because forgiveness sits at the very centre of the Gospel itself. Christianity begins with a forgiven debt.

The Mirror

Before asking: ‘Who hurt me?’ Perhaps Jesus invites us to ask: ‘Whose debt am I still collecting?’ Who came immediately to mind while reading this? A spouse? A sibling? A former friend? A colleague? A leader? A fellow parishioner? Perhaps even yourself? 

Because sometimes the debt we refuse to cancel is our own.  

What debt am I still demanding repayment for? What conversation am I still replaying?  What offence have I turned into part of another person's permanent identity? What would forgiveness look like if I stopped waiting for the other person to deserve it? Because if forgiveness depended upon merit, none of us would stand a chance before God.

Beyond Forgiveness 

Perhaps Jesus calls us even further. Not merely to stop collecting the debt. Not merely to stop replaying the injury.  But to actively desire good for the person who hurt us.  

To pray for their healing.  To pray for their family.  To pray for wisdom, blessing and grace upon them. To genuinely hope that they flourish in God.

This may be one of the clearest signs that forgiveness has begun to move from the head to the heart. Jesus did not merely forgive those who crucified Him.  He prayed for them: Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do (Luke 23:34).

That is not natural.  That is grace.  Perhaps that is where this parable finally leads us.  Not simply to forget the wrong done.  Not simply to cancel the debt owed.  But to become intercessors for those who wounded us. To ask God to bring goodness where there was once hurt. Blessing where there was once bitterness.  Mercy where there was once anger.

And perhaps that is the final question the parable leaves with us: Having received such mercy, what kind of creditor do we choose to remain?