The Debt You Cannot Collect
God never tires of forgiving us. Can we have the same disposition towards others?
Dear friends —
Letters from Leo is publishing daily Lenten reflections through Easter, available exclusively to paid subscribers.
Each meditation will explore what it means to follow Jesus more faithfully in the midst of American civic and political life — not as partisans first, but as Christians whose consciences are shaped by the Cross.
Lent is a season of repentance, renewal, and resolve.
It is a time to confront our idols, strip away our illusions, and allow the light of God’s redeeming love to search and purify our hearts.
I hope you will walk this forty-day road with me — as your brother and fellow sinner — embracing prayer, sacrifice, and deeper conversion, and allowing the God of liberation to claim every corner of our lives and our public witness in an age of creeping authoritarianism.
“Lord, if my brother sins against me, how often must I forgive? As many as seven times?” Jesus answered, “I say to you, not seven times but seventy-seven times.” (Matthew 18:21–22)
We keep score. Credit scores, performance reviews, follower counts, grudge lists — all maintained with a precision that would impress any accountant. We remember every slight, cataloging betrayals in mental ledgers that never close.
Peter does what any good scorekeeper would do. He approaches Jesus with a reasonable question: “Lord, if my brother sins against me, how often must I forgive? As many as seven times?” Seven was generous. Peter probably expected praise.
Jesus answers: “I say to you, not seven times but seventy-seven times.”
The number isn’t a target. Jesus is telling Peter — telling us — to stop counting altogether.
The parable that follows is designed to make us squirm. A king forgives a servant’s debt of ten thousand talents — roughly 200,000 years’ wages.
The debt is unpayable, and the mercy that cancels it, incomprehensible. That same servant walks out and throttles a fellow servant who owes him a hundred denarii. A few months’ wages. Pocket change compared to what he’d just been forgiven.
We know this servant. I certainly do.
I have been forgiven more than I can calculate — by God, by people I’ve wounded, by a Church that holds me despite my failures. And yet my ledger stays open. I keep track of who owes me an apology, who didn’t show up when it mattered, who said the wrong thing at the worst moment.
My memory for grievances is sharper than my memory for grace. I suspect yours is too.
