Forgiveness and Restorative Justice: Perspectives from Christian Theology 303075281X, 9783030752811

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Forgiveness and Restorative Justice Perspectives from Christian Theology Myra N. Blyth Matthew J. Mills Michael H. Taylor

Forgiveness and Restorative Justice

Myra N. Blyth • Matthew J. Mills Michael H. Taylor

Forgiveness and Restorative Justice Perspectives from Christian Theology

Myra N. Blyth Regent’s Park College University of Oxford Oxford, UK

Matthew J. Mills Regent’s Park College University of Oxford Oxford, UK

Michael H. Taylor Regent’s Park College University of Oxford Oxford, UK

ISBN 978-3-030-75281-1    ISBN 978-3-030-75282-8 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75282-8 © The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover pattern © Melisa Hasan This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

To friendship

Preface

This book is the latest output from a research project within the University of Oxford (UK), initiated by Myra Blyth, which began in 2014 with an interdisciplinary symposium exploring ‘The Place of Forgiveness in Restorative Justice Theory, Policy and Practice’. The keynote address, ‘What place for the “F” word?’, was given by John Braithwaite and contributors included a range of specialists in theology, philosophy and the social sciences, from the UK and overseas: Pamela Sue Anderson, Nigel Biggar, Anthony Bottoms, Alice Chapman, Tim Chapman, Antje du Bois-Pedain, Don Ferencz, Paul Fiddes, Ali Gohar, Greg Johnson, Beverley Jones, Daniel Philpott, Becci Seaborn, and Joanna Shapland. A selection of the papers presented to the symposium was prepared by Myra Blyth and Matthew Mills as a special collection in the Oxford Journal of Law and Religion, 5.1 (2016). It is gratifying that the contribution by Joanna Shapland (‘Forgiveness and Restorative Justice: Is It Necessary? Is It Helpful?’, pp.  94–112) continues to be listed amongst the Journal’s ‘most read’ articles. The symposium was vital in confirming our initial judgement that there was a forgiveness-shaped hole in studies of restorative justice, as well as interrogating and thereby clarifying our research question. The articles by Shapland, Fiddes (‘Restorative Justice and the Theological Dynamics of Forgiveness’, pp. 54–65), and others, have also ensured that a number of important issues were kept in view in the preparation of this book. These include whether forgiveness may be operating in restorative justice conferences even when the word itself is not used, what it means to describe forgiveness as a maximising ‘value’ within vii

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restorative justice, whether forgiveness must be conditional or unconditional, and how forgiveness relates to reconciliation. The symposium underlined the urgent need for: (1) data regarding perceptions of forgiveness, from across the range of stakeholders engaged in restorative justice conferences, and (2) further academic reflection upon its nature and significance. Michael Taylor joined the project in 2016 from the University of Birmingham (UK) to contribute to progress in these areas. Our fieldwork took the form of guided interviews with seven restorative justice practitioners, five harmers, and three victims; and the results are presented and analysed in Chap. 6 of this book. This research required, amongst other things, ethical clearance from the University of Oxford for a study involving human participants, followed by permission from the Home Office (UK) to work in prisons. Alongside this ‘practical’ strand of work, our academic study of forgiveness was spurred along by an invitation to present a series of public lectures at the Oxford Centre for Christianity and Culture (now ‘Religion and Culture’) in early 2018. Those lectures formed the basis of Chaps. 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and 7 of this book, though the texts were substantially revised in the light of helpful discussions with attendees, including members of the public, students, academic colleagues, and restorative justice practitioners. Chapter 8, by Matthew Mills, was added subsequently in order to address the possible relevance of Christian eschatology for thinking about the concept of the ‘unforgivable’. The publication of this book provides an opportunity to acknowledge many debts of gratitude accumulated over the last seven years. Particular credit for the smooth-running and success of the Oxford symposium must go to Isabella Bunn, Rosie Chadwick, our hosts at the Mathematical Institute, Oxford, and our sponsors: The Faculty of Theology and Religion, Oxford; Global Directions, Merton College, Oxford; Liz Carmichael and the Oxford Network of Peace Studies (OxPeace); and Westhill Endowment Trust. Of the symposium participants, Joanna Shapland and Paul Fiddes deserve particular mention for their encouragement, as well as for making themselves available to provide constructive and stimulating feedback, which improved the research as it developed. Peter Petkoff was instrumental in making it possible for us to publish the proceedings in the Oxford Journal of Law and Religion. In the early days of the fieldwork, Tim and Alice Chapman contributed valuable insights from Northern Ireland. Perhaps most significant in this regard was our partnership with Sussex Pathways, a criminal justice charity based

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in Lewes, East Sussex, kindly facilitated by Tim Moulds, Shirl Tanner, and their colleagues. In turn, our academic work has derived inestimable benefit from the encouragement, curiosity and questioning, and practical support of the community of Regent’s Park College, Oxford, which is also home to the Oxford Centre for Religion and Culture. Finally, we are grateful to Phil Getz, Senior Editor at Palgrave Macmillan, for guiding us patiently and graciously to the point of publication, despite complications created by the Covid-19 pandemic, and to those who shared their thoughts on the draft manuscript during the process of peer review. This book is dedicated to friendship, not only as a reflection of the spirit in which we have sought to collaborate over recent years, but also in recognition of those relationships which flourish in and through working together. We remember with particular gratitude our friend and colleague, Pamela Sue Anderson (1955–2017), Professor of Modern European Philosophy of Religion, Oxford. Until her premature death from cancer, Pamela was a tremendous support to this project, including as a contributor to the Oxford Journal of Law and Religion (‘When Justice and Forgiveness Come Apart: A Feminist Perspective on Restorative Justice and Intimate Violence’, pp.  113–134). We have missed the many and valuable contributions she would have made, in a spirit of friendship, undoubtedly exhorting an even bolder vision and always mindful of those most at risk. Oxford, UK  

Myra N. Blyth Matthew J. Mills Michael H. Taylor

Contents

1 Introduction  1 2 Rituals of Restoration  7 Myra N. Blyth 3 Reframing the Narrative of Victimhood 21 Matthew J. Mills 4 The Role and Meaning of Forgiveness 39 Michael H. Taylor 5 Just Enough to Be Satisfied 57 Matthew J. Mills 6 Forgiveness and the Conference Experience 75 Myra N. Blyth 7 Restorative Justice and Social Justice 91 Michael H. Taylor

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8 Forgiving in the Presence of God109 Matthew J. Mills 9 Conclusion123

Bibliography131 Index139

CHAPTER 1

Introduction

Abstract  The meaning of ‘forgiveness’ and its place within the theory and practice of restorative justice are contested. The rationale for analysis of these issues from perspectives within Christian theology is that insights from the story of salvation history and the doctrine of the faith can make a valuable contribution to the public debate. This book benefits from a diversity of opinion, since its co-authors approach forgiveness and restorative justice from different confessional and academic starting points, but also a consistent focus upon a number of central themes: the significance of grand or ‘meta’ narratives, communities as a locus of restorative processes, and an imperative for any restorative process to be morally serious, never to make light of, or seek to diminish, acts of wrongdoing. Keywords  Forgiveness • Restorative justice • Theological perspectives A year after the genocide of 1994 in Rwanda, when at least half a million people were massacred, I visited that blighted land … I told them that the cycle of reprisal and counter-reprisal that had characterised their national history had to be broken, and that the only way to do this was to go beyond

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retributive justice to restorative justice, to move on to forgiveness, because without it there was no future.1

The debate about how we structure our criminal justice system, whom it protects, how it addresses wrongdoing, and so forth, really matters; our answers speak for us and for our civilisation. Despite Desmond Tutu’s famous dictum, ‘no future without forgiveness’, and the towering personal authority behind it, the place of forgiveness within the framework of restorative justice he envisioned can by no means be taken for granted. For some, forgiveness is a crucial underlying dynamic of conferencing processes; for others, it is an endpoint necessary for a ‘fully restorative outcome’; but for many critics, it is too vague, or too religious, or it has nothing to do with ‘reconciliation’ (often seen as the objective of restorative justice), and any sense of an obligation to forgive is suspected of being dangerously coercive. In this book, as ‘critical friends’ of restorative justice, our aim is to interrogate this thorny topic in the light of Christian theology and experience, in dialogue with insights from the social sciences and philosophy. We also pay some attention to the wider theological canvas against which the concept of forgiveness is invariably defined, encompassing topics such as narrative, victimhood, love, sin, satisfaction, resentment, and justice. There are many ‘lenses’ through which to analyse the values and practices of restorative justice, including the intersectional – combining insights about race, gender, and socio-economic status, for instance – and the ‘indigenous’ (i.e. in relation to communitarian models of justice developed in native cultures across the world).2 This book, as its title indicates, offers a range of Christian views (‘perspectives’), drawing particularly upon our backgrounds in the liturgical, social and historical fields. The significance of these different starting points will be evident throughout the book, as  – perhaps  – will our respective confessions: Baptist, Catholic and Anglican. For instance, whilst we all accept Michael Taylor’s delineation of five ‘roles’ for theology in the 1  D. Tutu, No Future Without Forgiveness: A Personal Overview of South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission (London: Random House, 1999), pp. 206, 209. 2  See, for instance, A. P. Melton, ‘Indigenous Justice Systems and Tribal Society (Indian Tribal Courts and Justice: A Symposium)’, Judicature 79.3 (1995), pp. 126–133; C. A. Hand, J. Hankes and T. House, ‘Restorative Justice: The Indigenous Justice System’, Contemporary Justice Review 15.4 (2012), pp. 449–467; T. Gavrielides, ‘Bringing Race Relations Into the Restorative Justice Debate: An Alternative and Personalized Vision of “the Other”,’ Journal of Black Studies 45.3 (2014), pp.  216–246; A.  Fallon ‘Restoration as the spirit of Islamic justice,’ Contemporary Justice Review 23.4 (2020), pp. 430–443.

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public square – to inform, inspire and give meaning, and to be a voice of authority and conviction – we lay different emphases upon the epistemic value of the Christian metanarrative.3 The preparation of this book, as each chapter was presented and discussed, revealed a continuum between our respective positions on the constructedness, contingency, and contestability of the Christian tradition. Broadly speaking, despite a common openness to alternative discourses, Taylor (Anglican) might be situated at the more ‘liberal’ end, whilst Matthew Mills (Catholic) might be considered more ‘conservative’. Individuation, rather than divergence as such, will be particularly evident from a comparison of each chapter’s references. Again, in broad terms: Myra Blyth’s contributions privilege a combination of sources from twentieth-century Protestantism, and the social sciences, as well as data collected from interviews with stakeholders in restorative justice conferences; Mills draws upon a range of theological sources, especially from the medieval and Catholic traditions, as well as modern philosophy (both ‘continental’ and ‘analytic’); Taylor engages with literature from the social sciences, especially criminology, and twentieth-century theology from across the denominations. Our different choices in this regard reveal our inclinations as theologians and the influences upon the shape of our arguments; these differences lie behind the range of perspectives on offer throughout the book. At the same time, we have found a powerful impetus to constructive dialogue in a common core of influential works, including those of restorative justice advocates, Howard Zehr and John Braithwaite; theologians, including Timothy Gorringe and Christopher Marshall; and sceptics, like Annalise Acorn.4 Many of these have been all the more important to us because their authors combine academic rigour with moral purpose. Perhaps inevitably, for a book which emerged from a lecture series involving multiple contributors, the range of topics addressed here is broad and, again, reflects our different interests. In Chap. 2, Blyth  – a practical theologian, specialising in liturgy – explores how the stories by which we live (both universal and particular) give meaning, inspire moral  See Taylor, Chap. 7.  See H. Zehr, Changing Lenses: A New Focus for Crime and Justice (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1990); J.  Braithwaite, Crime, Shame and Reintegration (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), Regulation, Crime and Freedom (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000), and Restorative Justice and Responsive Regulation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002); T. Gorringe, God’s Just Vengeance: Crime, Violence, and the Rhetoric of Salvation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996); C. D. Marshall, Beyond Retribution: A New Testament Vision for Justice, Crime and Punishment (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2001); A. E. Acorn, Compulsory Compassion: A Critique of Restorative Justice (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2004). 3 4

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character, and open up new possibilities for relationship. In particular, she proposes a critical conversation between the Christian eucharistic ordo and the conference script used by practitioners of restorative justice, identifying ways to enhance their potential as rituals of restoration to repair harm and transform conflict. In Chap. 3, Mills offers the first of three reflections in light of historical theology, including the writings of Anselm of Canterbury, whose substitutionary theory of the atonement has been criticised by some advocates of restorative justice as initiating a shift in the western intellectual tradition (and subsequently, jurisprudence) towards retribution and the marginalisation of victims. Mills’ essay is concerned with giving stakeholders ‘reasons’ to engage in a restorative justice conference in the first place, arguing for the mutual recognition in victims and offenders of sinfulness and belovedness; in other words, that mutual acknowledgement of a common humanity can be the starting point for criminal justice processes. In Chap. 4, Taylor asks whether forgiveness is a Christian idea, as feared by some who would deny its place within the principles and practices of restorative justice. In fact, he argues, forgiveness is incredibly difficult to define and there is no distinctively Christian concept, even though Christian faith may motivate its adherents to be forgiving. In Chap. 5, Mills then takes a different but complementary tack: whilst forgiveness could be described as a demand placed upon the victim and/or the restorative justice process, he explores what it is that victims have a right to demand from wrongdoers. He argues that victims ought to be able to expect some satisfaction to be made for what they have lost through an act of wrongdoing, but that satisfaction should not be defined in punitive terms, but rather as a token of amends or ‘just enough’. In Chap. 6, Blyth addresses issues raised by the conference experience and offers some initial analysis of the findings of empirical research from 2018 and 2019, which was undertaken alongside the writing of this book. Drawing together contemporary theological ideas on the dynamic of forgiveness and insights gained from the experiences of conference participants, she contends that the practices of restorative justice will be enriched by adopting a more fluid understanding of forgiveness as defined by participants, and by conceiving forgiveness as a process/journey-oriented practice, i.e. a dynamic and integral component necessary for a process to be ‘fully’ restorative.

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The final Chaps. 7 and 8, make a turn ‘outwards’, away from the conferencing process and towards the social context, and the eschatological context which must, Christians have traditionally believed, offer some kind of endgame. In Chap. 7, Taylor asks whether restorative justice carries any responsibility for establishing a more just society; that is, transforming the social reality which gives rise to many of the problems which the conferencing process is meant to address. As the former leader of an international charity (Christian Aid), he reflects upon how Christians can best contribute to debate and cooperate with others in the public sphere. In turn, in Chap. 8, Mills offers a speculative thought experiment concerning the afterlife as a context for restorative justice. Considering both a victim’s right to withhold forgiveness and the limitations of restorative justice for addressing acts of wrongdoing which are regarded as ‘unforgivable’, he considers the possible dynamics of a future in which all things are reordered and revisioned in light of a revelation of the archetypal victimhood of Jesus Christ. Not only is there a processional aesthetic to the ordering of these contributions – before, during, and after the conference – but a number of themes also run like threads throughout the book. All three of us refer to ‘metanarratives’ or all-embracing stories. Metanarratives give expression to the meaning of life; for Christians, the creative and redemptive drama of which we are a part, and to which we contribute for good or ill, is what life is all about. The metanarrative provides a context and rationale for various teachings or doctrines as they ‘fill out’ the details of the story. For example, doctrines of atonement, some more punitive than others, which try to explain how our redemption was brought about, only make sense within the bigger picture which explains why the redemptive act of the crucifixion was necessary in the first place. A second common theme is ‘community’, which is important for restorative justice as a whole. It is communities, not just individuals, that need to be ‘restored’ when the moral rules, and with them mutual trust, have been broken; trauma is social. It is communities that are bound together by shared values, reinforce them, and build solidarity. It is communities, not just victims, that should have a say as to how wrongs can be righted and may be best placed to do so. It is communities that have a vital, supportive role to play along the road to the restoration of offenders. And it is communities that may or, as many fear, may not be adequate to the task; more of a utopian ideal than a reality.

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Thirdly, we all regard ‘moral seriousness’ as essential to the task of restorative justice. The reality of offending, the harm done, the responsibility of the offender, and the need for reparation, must be fully acknowledged and confronted – by way of shaming, for example – and reflected in all attempts to deal with offending in a restorative way. Social policies, for instance, must be realistic and take into account what might be called the darker side of human nature, or what the Christian tradition refers to as ‘sin’, lying at the heart of its metanarrative about redemption and its rituals of baptism, confession, and eucharist. Besides being a costly endeavour, restorative justice involves confrontation with evil, clear-eyed judgement, and an inflexible love. Writing from a Christian point of view, most of our arguments in favour of restorative justice are made on Christian terms. We state the case, not ‘aggressively’ but convinced that ours is ground upon which others might come to stand as well. We also claim that religious traditions are worth engaging in dialogue, since they offer weighty insights, tried and tested by long experience, into topics highly relevant to restorative justice which may well enrich the wider discussion. Yet, even when one has difficulties with the metanarrative and doctrine of Christianity, perhaps in the life, ministry and martyrdom of Jesus of Nazareth, inspiration and justification may still be found. This could help those partners in criminal justice processes – police, prison services, probation officers, social workers, criminologists, lawyers, and the public – to understand where Christians may be coming from.

CHAPTER 2

Rituals of Restoration Myra N. Blyth

Abstract  Both the ancient eucharist ordo of the Christian church and the restorative justice conference may be described as rituals and, as such, may be said to function most successfully when they embody – and maximise the performance of – the characteristics of ‘good’ ritual. Three particular potentialities are discussed here: good ritual builds community by reinforcing moral commitment, both to values and to the ‘other’ through mechanisms like shaming; good ritual is processional, effecting transition from harm to healing; and good ritual harnesses the power of symbols, such as the Christ archetype, to effect social change and the transformation of participants. Keywords  Ritual/rituals of restoration • Eucharist • Restorative justice conference I first encountered restorative justice in the 1990s, as a staff member at the World Council of Churches, when I worked in post-conflict situations, especially in Eastern Europe and Africa. It was a time of seismic political change, with the collapse of the Soviet system and the apartheid regime epitomising the end of an epoch. These were situations where long years of oppression and struggle left deep wounds in

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people’s lives. Transitioning to a different future required courage and imagination amongst political leaders and ordinary citizens. Healing and transition could not simply be a matter of drawing a line; it needed to be navigated in ways that allowed wrongs to be acknowledged and repaired. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa was a bold, if flawed, attempt to undertake the journey of national reconciliation. It was also a striking example to the world of the potential of restorative justice as an alternative to the system of retributive justice that normally pertains in modern democracies. The restorative justice conference is one means by which the principles and practices of this vision are applied in conflict situations, and it pertains not only in national reconciliation but also on the level of communities and interpersonal conflict. In recent years, my involvement with restorative justice has been through research into the practice of conferencing within the criminal justice system of the United Kingdom. In my interviews with conference participants (harmers, harmed, and facilitators) a recurring feature, which has caused me to reflect deeply, has been the way in which the words ‘we followed the script’ are so often used. To the uninitiated, this can make the conference sound artificial, routine and formulaic, but the reality is quite the contrary. These words recognise that the conference conversation is prepared in a way that helps participants to navigate safely through potentially very stressful and emotionally charged experiences. The script is a safety net for a risky enterprise. The conference script consists of five questions which signpost the route along which the participants will journey. The questions invite participants to tell their stories, describing in their own words what has taken place, what they felt at the time, and how they have felt since. They open up a safe space in which to hear different accounts of the same event. In this process, both harmer and harmed can re-enter the experience in a new way and may, it is hoped, be caused to reframe their own narratives in the light of what they learn. In the exchange, emotions can be very raw and, at critical moments, the mood of the conversation can take dramatic turns, as when remorse or anger or empathy or forgiveness surface. After some time has passed, the space opens up for the conversation to look into the future. The participants are asked what they feel needs to be done, or might be done, to repair the harm. When agreement is

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reached and documented, closure is often marked by handshakes, or even tears and hugs. I recognise that my bias as a liturgical and practical theologian causes me to see the script in a particular way; but my experience through research suggests that it does play a key role, and that locating it in the domain of ritual may help to explain more precisely what is going on in the conference experience. It is a narrative-based experience in which participants seek to makes sense of their lives, to restore order and equilibrium in their relationships, and to move into the future with the hope that things can change for the better. Moreover, as a liturgical theologian in the Christian tradition, I would liken the conference script to the ancient ordo of the eucharist that has been core to Christian worship from the earliest days of the church. Commentators from other religious traditions might make similar comparisons with their own rituals; the Jewish Passover meal or the Cava ceremony in indigenous spirituality come to mind.1 In the eucharist, celebrated by Christians worldwide, symbols, words and actions function according to a prescribed sequence. The celebration of the eucharist varies across the world in style and complexity, but there is a core script or ordo which is universally acknowledged. This ordo involves four steps: taking (offering), thanking, breaking, and sharing. These actions signpost the journey of salvation, made plain in the living, dying, and rising of Jesus Christ. This journey is internalised and particularised in the life of every believer. Every week, even every day in some traditions, they gather around the word (i.e. scripture) to listen to the story of the faith, and around the table (i.e. communion table or altar) to rehearse/enact the story. In many contexts, table etiquette requires that only the initiated can participate, only the ordained can preside, the same specific words and prayers must be intoned, and actions must be performed by priest and people according to weighty rubric. After consuming the bread and wine – to many Christians, the body and blood of Christ – participants are sent out to practise the values that the meal has celebrated. This is a repeated activity, seeking to bond people together with God and with each other; it helps to establish and reinforce identity, place and 1  See M.  L. Hadley, ed., The Spiritual Roots of Restorative Justice (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 2001). Hadley has provided a plethora of detailed examples of the ancient roots of restorative justice principles and practices in philosophy and religion, including Aboriginal, Chinese, Buddhist, Hindu and Islamic.

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purpose in the wider narrative and to experience a heightened sense of God/otherness/the sacred. In many ways, a conference script for restorative justice and a eucharistic ordo both display strong generic likeness to the core characteristics typically associated with ritual. Their actions, words and gestures combine and are performed according to a prescribed pattern. What emerges is embodied communication: a speech act. In recent decades, Ritual Studies has flourished and it is attracting attention across a wide range of other disciplines. Definitional consensus around what makes a ritual is lacking, but two statements pertinent to this analysis need to be highlighted. First, ritual reveals the underlying values and patterns that aid understanding of the world and safe navigation through life. Second, ritual is a language-like system of communication (social drama and performative speech) which does not simply maintain equilibrium but is part of the ongoing process by which the community continually renews and re-vitalises itself. It belongs to the raison d’etre of what may be called a ‘ritual of restoration’ that they seek to embody the transformation of relationships between humans and even, as in the case of the eucharist, reconciliation between God and humanity. In the rest of this chapter, I will explore how the conference script and the ancient eucharistic ordo both cultivate and embody these core characteristics of good ritual. Of course, they are far from identical, but they seem to do similar things. In particular, they provide the scaffolding or narrative framework within which story-telling can take place; stories, in turn, give meaning, inspire moral action, and open up the possibility for alternative futures. Through a mutual critical conversation, script and ordo can learn from one another and, in turn, act as critical partners within the wider sphere of Ritual Studies.

Rituals Express the Values and Patterns of a Metanarrative In early twentieth-century theory, rituals were understood as being rooted in ancient myths, or conversely myths were thought to be the remnants of rituals. Either way, ritual involved rehearsing stories of dying and rising from which they attempted to frame a philosophical understanding of the world. The dominant view of human development was of a gradual progressive movement from ‘childlike savage’ to ‘civilized man’.2 The efficacy 2  See C.  Bell, Ritual: Perspectives and Dimensions (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), p. 4.

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of these explanatory narratives was judged to be interesting, but also primitive and flawed. A rival approach was not to look back into the mists of time for a metanarrative that would explain the world, but to understand ritual as existential. In this sense, ritual seeks to ‘present, model, and instil a coherent and systematic unity within all human experience’, portraying, in an idealised way, how the world should be organised.3 Rather than dismissing ritual and myth as flawed primitive explanations, the idea was to find in myth and ritual common underlying patterns and structures relevant to changing cultures and social realities. The eucharistic rite in the Christian tradition draws upon a dying-rising narrative structure (akin to some Ancient Near Eastern myths) and considers the story of Christ’s birth, life, death and resurrection to be paradigmatic of the life cycle that all people and races experience on the micro and macro levels of life.4 The evolution of this ritual is important to note. It reminds us that ritual is dynamic not static, and is capable of being used for good or abused for harmful purposes. Since the early church, the eucharistic meal has been rehearsed as an enacted parable, which reveals and embodies the underlying patterns and values that give life its meaning and purpose. In the early days, the eucharistic meal was a simple affair held in homes and embodying progressive patterns of social relationship. Whenever worshipping communities fell into bad habits, the apostle Paul was quick to remind them of the Christ-like values they needed to embody in mealtime gatherings. At times, these counter-cultural values and patterns have been dimmed but never lost, thanks to repeated reform movements safeguarding the essence of the eucharist and calling the faithful back to an authentic expression of its values. These reform movements in the history of Christianity have often come from beyond the structures of power. The modern western criminal justice system is founded upon the same narrative as the Christian church, with the Ten Commandments still featuring (alongside a blindfolded Lady Justice) in many US law-courts. The ritual of the courtroom presents as a secular liturgy that mirrors the liturgy of the church. The chief celebrant (the judge) sits on a throne, raised above the level of everyone else. The lawyers behave in a prescribed manner and present their cases on behalf of their clients in language that is  Ibid., p. 12.  For a complementary treatment of the Christian metanarrative, focusing upon archetypal concepts of ‘sinfulness’ and ‘belovedness’, see Mills, Chap. 3. 3 4

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technical and without emotion. The participants sit back from the action, silent and often bewildered. The message deeply embodied in this scenario is that authority resides in the one occupying the highest position; their word is law and their judgement not to be questioned. Commenting on the negative consequences of this court system, John Braithwaite has written: ‘Professional criminology, in all its major variants, can be unhelpful in maintaining a social climate appropriate to crime control because in different ways its thrust is to professionalize, systematize, scientize, and de-­ communitize justice. To the extent that the community genuinely comes to believe that the ‘experts’ can scientifically prescribe solutions to the crime problem, there is a risk that citizens cease to look to the preventive obligations which are fundamentally in their own hands.’5 The values undergirding restorative justice theory and practice disrupt, rather than legitimise, the status quo.6 Just as a restorative reading of the Christian narrative is egalitarian, participatory and transformational, so restorative justice process turns conventional legal authority and power structures upside down. In restorative justice conferencing, the space between those in authority and those ‘in the dock’ is subverted; the voices of those heard shifts from professionals to the victim and the offender; and the outcome hoped for broadens along with a view of justice that shifts from a retributive to a restorative paradigm. In the circle configuration, participants experience a shift in the power dynamics, which become less hierarchical and more consensual. Authority and authenticity are not derived from outside or above, but from within the group as people connect with each other’s stories and take responsibility for what has happened and what needs to be done. What lessons might be drawn from rituals of restoration about values, patterns and narratives that undergird and inform western culture and ritual theory? First, rituals are resilient. Their underlying values cannot be dismissed as interesting but flawed primitive explanations of the world. They embody enduring values derived from the Christian narrative. Whilst institutional religion in the west may be in decline, the values continue to inspire. Second, ritual is dynamic. Like the dying and rising pattern of ancient myths, rituals new and old are intrinsically capable of revitalising 5  J.  Braithwaite, Crime, Shame and Reintegration (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), p. 6. 6  For consideration of the contested nature of restorative justice, see Mills, Chap. 5 and Taylor, Chap. 7.

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and re-expressing enduring values. Third, rituals of restoration, in particular, point society and its institutions in the direction of more participatory, egalitarian and consensual practices, encouraging self-examination and correction.

Rituals Build Community by Reinforcing Moral Commitment Under the influence of the ‘father of sociology’, Émile Durkheim, the focus in Ritual Studies shifted to questions of function and structure. The functionalist approach is interested in ritual as a social phenomenon and particularly how ritual affects the organisation and workings of the social group. Durkheim argued that the form society takes is primary; social organisation precedes and explains patterns of human behaviour. Hence, in his study of totemism, he argued that worship is a social construct in which the highest ideals of the collective are ritualised. The primary function of religion is to create and maintain social solidarity, and ritual is necessary because participation generates a heightened sense of effervescence and builds collective conscience and morality. Durkheim’s argument that ritual is a mere reflection and perpetuation of the principles of the social order has dominated British social anthropology. Max Gluckmann has agreed with Durkheim that rituals are integrative and bonding for society, but he has also argued that rituals are the expressions of complex social tensions; they do not always or only channel coherence, but also have a subversive function, channelling tension in order to bring society to a place of catharsis. The eucharistic meal is where the church remembers the death of Christ. In the context of his last passover meal, Jesus said farewell to his disciples. That meal  – with the benefit of hindsight  – was the moment when the Old Testament story about the liberation of God’s people from slavery took on new significance for the disciples. Sharing bread and wine in the manner Jesus instructed is a ritual enactment of his life, death and resurrection. Its function within the life of the church is to build a restored and reconciled community, and to reaffirm the identity of God’s people. The opening words of the eucharist underscore the unworthiness of participants and require them to take time to prepare. In some traditions, this requires preparation prior to the service proper in the form of personal confession to a priest. The confessional is a rite of ‘reintegrative shaming’.

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It names wrongs done but looks for ways by which the penitent can make amends and so re-enter the community. In the eucharistic liturgy, the service begins with confession and from there moves towards the shared meal. Such acts of self-examination and penitence are a sign of taking wrongdoing seriously. They recognise that wrongs need to be righted, not ignored or treated as if it is nothing has happened. Moreover, corporate confession is a way of recognising that wrongdoing is always social as well as personal in its effect, so needs to be collectively addressed.7 In 1 Corinthians 12, Paul echoed eucharistic language by likening the church to the body of Christ and – analogous to a physical body with its many members – noted how the members of the body of Christ need one another in order to function. In an attempt to counter fragmentation and elitism within the church, Paul employed the body metaphor to argue that those who appear weak or inferior are actually indispensable, and that in their absence the body would become deformed and dismembered. Paul also argued that within the body what happens to one member affects all; if one suffers, all suffer. This appeal to solidarity in joy and suffering is a key characteristic of the eucharistic community. By sharing in Christ’s body (bread and wine), Christians remember his solidarity with suffering humanity and in turn commit themselves to be there for others. Dietrich Bonhoeffer described this as the vicarious solidarity of Christ with humanity, and at the heart of the eucharistic ritual there is a moral commitment to promote the wellbeing and flourishing of other people. Genuine encounter with the other – which is a mark of a successful eucharistic ritual  – is, according to Bonhoeffer, a form of true transcendence. Here, perhaps, we find resonance with the idea that ritual creates a sense of collective effervescence. In its scope, extending before and after the central moment of consecration, the eucharist enacts the drama of human restoration and inspires the commitment of all present to the moral community. Durkheim argued against the focus of public attention and the locus of ritual display being reduced to the site of the courtroom and the declaration of punishment. This narrowing down of the penal drama away from the public gaze reduced moral sensibility and the capacity of the criminal justice system to foster moral consensus. Institutions of penal punishment, he argued, had become instrumental rather than morally expressive. What he failed to recognise, according to his critics, is the dark side to the solidarity which punitive punishment promotes, namely, a solidarity of 7

 On the social dynamics of wrongdoing, see Taylor, Chap. 7 and Mills, Chap. 8.

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aggression; the dysfunctional consequence of this being the loss of dispassionate due process within the sentencing system. A second criticism voiced by H. Garfinkel concerns the effectiveness of degradation ceremonies. I shall say more of that soon, but first let me quote David Garland to summarise the significant contribution of Durkheim to the call for criminal justice to build moral community: ‘For all its difficulties, Durkheim’s analysis does succeed in opening up important dimensions of punishment that are not otherwise apparent. He shifts our attention from the mundane, administrative aspects of punishment (which form penalty’s modern self-image) to the broader social and emotive aspects of the process. Instead of seeing a utilitarian mechanism adapted to the technical business of crime control, we see an institution that operates on a different, symbolic register – and that resonates with meaning both for the social collectivity and for the individuals who compose it. The sense Durkheim gives of the sacred qualities claimed by authority, of the emotions that are stirred by crime and punishment, of the collective involvement of onlookers, of the role of penal rituals in organizing this, and, finally, of the social and moral significance of penal practices – all these interpretive insights can be shown to be important and relevant to an understanding of punishment today.’8 It is often said that restorative justice is not morally serious because, to its critics, it is soft on crime or lets the offender off lightly. But this criticism does not withstand scrutiny. Truth-telling sits at the centre of the conference process. For a wrongdoer, the prospect of meeting their victim can be deeply unnerving and listening to the impact they had on the victim is often emotionally disturbing. It requires the offender to face up to the truth, possibly for the first time, while the courtroom may have left them in bitter denial or emotionally unmoved. The difference is that the pain experienced in a conference is not an end in itself but is intended to lead to reparation and healing. At the same time, the opposite criticism is also sometimes made; namely, that conferencing, far from being soft on crime, can be manipulative and dangerous. This claim is directed to theorists like John Braithwaite who describe the conference as a shaming ritual. Braithwaite’s theory is strongly contested, but the evidence from substantial empirical research in Canberra and Cambridge has strengthened his argument to some degree. His appeal, moreover, to the power of the 8  D.  Garland, ‘Sociological Perspectives on Punishment’, Crime and Justice 14 (1991), pp. 115–165 (p. 127). On monasteries as moral communities, see Mills, Chap. 5.

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community for moral discourse and moral persuasion challenges the justice system to better balance current preoccupation with managing and controlling crime with more investment in restorative programmes and procedures where harms done can be addressed in a morally serious way. Braithwaite has argued that the power of moral shaming is the missing link in criminological theories, and proposes ‘reintegrative shaming’ as a positive mechanism for effecting change in offenders. His contention is based on the observation that societies with low crime rates, such as Japan, are those that shame potently and judiciously, and that individuals who resort to crime are those insulated from shame over their wrongdoing. He notes that the formal justice system is also de facto a shaming mechanism since, like the conference, it exercises social control by rebuking behaviour that offends acceptable standards. The difference between these two, however, is that the court system usually leads to shame that stigmatises the offender and drives them into further deviance. The role of conscience is key to the shaming process: ‘A learned conscience is the cornerstone to understanding the potency of reintegrative shaming for explaining law observance.’9 Unlike deterrent punishment, the purpose is not to frighten or threaten the offender into changed behaviour but to ‘moralise with the offender’ and thus ‘to reintegrate the offender back into the community of law-abiding or respectable citizens through words or gestures of forgiveness or ceremonies to decertify the offender as deviant.’10 Moreover, such reintegrative shaming ‘is not distinguished from stigmatization by its potency, but by (a) a finite rather than open ended duration which is terminated by forgiveness; and (b) efforts to maintain bonds of love or respect throughout the finite period of suffering shame’.11 Ritual is a collective activity which, when done well, builds and reinforces shared values and moral commitment within communities. The eucharist is a means of gathering people from all walks of life, helping them to discern common moral values, and instincts about how those could be lived out. A restorative justice conference is not a community of like-minded people but it does seek to bring people together to re-­establish communication, address harm and restore relationship. It is a messy business, to be sure, but should not be abandoned just because it is difficult, or because current discourse on the nature of community is contested.  Braithwaite, Crime, Shame and Reintegration, p. 37.  Ibid., pp. 100–101. 11  Ibid., p. 102. 9

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Restorative justice acknowledges that disagreement is inevitable and that learning to listen and to empathise with the other is the best chance we have of being able to restore damaged lives.

Rituals Effect Transition from Harm to Healing Rituals have been defined as rites which accompany every change of place, state, social position, and age. Arnold van Gennep has argued that all such rites are marked by a threefold progression: ‘separation, margin (or limen, signifying “threshold” in Latin), and aggregation. The first phase (of separation) comprises symbolic behavior signifying the detachment of the individual or group either from an earlier fixed point in the social structure, from a set of cultural conditions (a “state”), or from both. During the intervening “liminal” period, the characteristics of the ritual subject (the “passenger”) are ambiguous; he passes through a cultural realm that has few or none of the attributes of the past or coming state. In the third phase (reaggregation or reincorporation), the passage is consummated. The ritual subject, individual or corporate, is in a relatively stable state once more and, by virtue of this, has rights and obligations vis-a-vis others of a clearly defined “structural” type; he is expected to behave in accordance with certain customary norms and ethical standards binding on incumbents of social position in a system of such positions.’12 This latter stage involves symbolic acts, welcoming the person into a new state (birth of the new self; new name; communal meal). Initiation rites are the clearest example of this pattern, but also relevant are birth, marriage, and funeral rites. Victor Turner refined Gennep’s three-phase process in two ways. First, by classifying ritual as either rites of passage or rites of affliction. Second, by highlighting the state of liminality and describing it as communitas, i.e. the undifferentiated community of equal individuals. From Gennep, Turner argued that ritual is not only situated within a process of social drama but is itself processional in form. Its purpose remains, as Durkheim said, to maintain the unity of a group as a whole, but society for Turner is not a closed static system. Ritual, thus, becomes a social drama which does not simply restore equilibrium but forms part of the ongoing process of the community continually redefining and renewing itself.

12  Summarised in V.  Turner, The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure (Chicago, IL: Aldine Pub. Co., 1997), pp. 94–95.

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The pattern of the eucharistic rite is similarly processional, and takes the form of a rite of passage, particularly a ritual of restoration from brokenness to wholeness. The eucharist is best understood as a journey. It begins as a real separation from the world. The liminal space is characterised by an expectation expressed in singing and ritual, vestments and censing. It is the very movement of the church’s passage from the old into the new, from this world into the world to come. The eucharist is an ascension, an ascent into the mount of transfiguration, and a reality which does not conform to this world; it is heaven on earth. On this mountain top, the congregation shares bread and wine in a mystical experience of communion. From this vantage point, the church also prays for the world. The time comes, however, to return to the world, not in the sense of going back or re-entering the previous pre-liminal state but to progress, to enter the world newly formed, having been made competent to be witnesses. The liturgy of ascension makes possible the liturgy of mission, the new restorative space entered upon is the time of salvation and redemption. Analogously, the processional nature of ritual in the penal justice system is clear to see. There are institutional rituals associated with imprisonment, for example, including the induction process, where new inmates are stripped of their own clothes and possessions, bathed, processed and allocated an institutional identity. The aim of this rite (corresponding to Gennep’s first stage) is to underscore separation and detachment from an earlier fixed state in society and to assert institutional control. The second stage, transition, remains out of the public sight, but the third stage, reintegration, is particularly disturbing. There is a paucity of evidence of the prison service organising rituals of reintegration. By contrast, restorative justice conferencing is a classic reintegration ritual on many levels: when the process reaches its third step and the question is asked what needs to be done, the opportunity arises for the offender to prove their worth. It may begin with an apology, but it will go on to include options for reparation. The impact of this conference agreement is to enhance the motivation and dignity of the offender, and to celebrate symbolically the journey they have made and are making. Shadd Maruna suggests that reintegration rituals need to capture the imagination of the public because, while they know the various rituals involved in arrest, conviction, and imprisonment  – all of which embed in the imagination a strong sense of public morality – reintegration ritual lacks an equivalent hold on the public imagination or media representation.

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In order to be meaningful, reintegration rituals ought not to take place in secret; the point is to engender inclusion and solidarity, and therefore the participation of the public is necessary. A one-off ritual, welcoming a former outcast into society will not be sufficient to support the processes of desistance and reintegration. Equally, there needs to be a consistency of message in the justice system or rituals of inclusion can be undermined by degradation ceremonies; ex-offenders are frequently subjected to humiliation years after their offence. Society’s basic fear of seeing offenders return to the community is possibly the biggest barrier. Ex-offenders are not allowed to lose their badge of shame. The lack of repeated rituals could also be the greatest weakness in restorative justice conferencing. It does not involve direct follow up and there is no organised system to help participants hold on to the good things that came out of the experience. A robust ritual of reintegration needs to have the capacity for the experience to be reinforced.

Rituals Harness the Power of Symbols In his later life, Victor Turner tried to articulate what ritual does through a close analysis of ritual symbols. He argued that the symbol is the heart of the ritual mechanism; the irreducible unit of ritual activity. Symbols are not timeless entities, they can condense many meanings together and must be interpreted according to the place they occupy in relation to each other in the system of symbols. In the line of Gluckmann, as I mentioned earlier, he argued that rituals do not always channel coherence, they can sometimes channel tension in order to bring society to a place of catharsis. He analysed conflict in social life and argued that many forms of ritual serve as social drama through which stress and tensions can be worked out. René Girard’s writings on sacrificial violence are an important example of how a rite of affliction functions as a way of regulating violence and a means of avoiding the self-destruction of a society. For example, the feuding parties in a community redirect the animosity they feel towards each other onto one who is powerless to fight back. By finding and sacrificing a scapegoat, anger is detonated, the feuding parties are reconciled, and the social fabric is temporarily restored. In the sacrament of the eucharist, the sacrifice of Christ is an unrepeatable event which ends sacrifice, not by violence but by the ultimate gift offering of God. The crucifixion was a voluntary act of self-giving which denounces the myth of redemptive violence. In Christ, the eucharist finds an archetype of restoration. The

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congregation seeks to make the archetype present and to be conformed to it through the sharing of the symbols of bread and wine. (In the gift offering, the figure of the symbol of the crucified can be appropriated by both the victim and offender; it is a unitive binding process.) In restorative justice, at its best, stakeholders within a ritual action give of themselves in ways that are self-sacrificial; victim and offender give time and space to one another, entering voluntarily and empathetically into one another’s stories. Conforming to the archetype of restorative justice means following restoration to its ideal goal; namely, reconciliation. In summary, just as through participation in the eucharist the faithful are gradually transformed into the likeness of Christ (becoming symbols of his love in the world), so in restorative justice conferencing, stakeholders are gradually transformed into symbols or icons of reconciliation in the world. This ritual appropriation of symbols does not just change the appearance but affects the very character of those involved. In other words, ritual does something. Having been changed, participants go into the community as agents of transformation; the eucharist ought to form competent witnesses, whilst restorative justice practice should create ambassadors for the process.

CHAPTER 3

Reframing the Narrative of Victimhood Matthew J. Mills

Abstract  In the metanarrative of the Christian faith, with its two complementary ‘strands’ of sin and love, victims may find good reasons to engage in restorative justice conferences which require them to reach out to wrongdoers, with the serious risk of being made to experience their trauma anew. Philosophers have made the case for the life-enhancing potential of such vulnerability, and Christians can argue for it as a moral imperative based upon an honest assessment of human nature, through which victims and wrongdoers – though not equally culpable – may cultivate empathy for one another as fellow creatures, both sinful and beloved of an invulnerable God. Keywords  Victimhood • Christian metanarrative • Embrace of vulnerability Even though Christians are called to proclaim a gospel of life – the resurrection of Christ following the trauma of his crucifixion  – the reality is complex, since we continue to live in a world affected by sin and ultimately haunted by the spectre of death. As Shelly Rambo has observed: ‘Forsakenness, abandonment, and alienation are truths of the cross that

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M. N. Blyth et al., Forgiveness and Restorative Justice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75282-8_3

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remain, extending beyond death to transform the landscape of life.’1 The Christian faith is not a fairy-tale, in which the heroic and selfless death of Christ, his atonement for human sin, has transported our history to a new plane, free from struggle, free from vice, and free from injury. Christian apologetics of the cross are, to use a phrase employed throughout this book, ‘morally serious’; we preach a metaphysical transformation of human fortune, the resurrection of friendship with God and the hope of eternal happiness, but we do not proclaim immunity from a share in human suffering. Nor, indeed, should Christian theologians ever seek to minimise the suffering of victims of harm with an apologetics which posit a simplistic binary, the supersession of death by new life. It would only take a few minutes watching the latest news broadcast to recognise that ongoing suffering is part of our metanarrative, the grand story of salvation history; indeed, if this were not the case, what kind of ‘faith’ could we be said to possess? The field of Christian theology which attempts to offer meaningful responses to suffering (often described as ‘theodicies’) must take full account of the lingering presence of death in our historical experience; or, put another way, that ‘there is something distinctive about the experience of survival’.2 We are, for now at least, a people in limbo who must make sense of that predicament. The challenge is for Christians to ‘theologize the middle’, the space between life and death, in all attempts to respond to suffering.3 This could include, as we will be arguing here, enabling victims of harm to use the Christian metanarrative not as a means of diminishing their experiences but to reframe them, deriving meaning from the lives of others and from crucial, universal concepts (such as ‘sin’ and ‘love’). One purpose of such a reframing exercise would be to give victims the confidence to embrace their own vulnerability – the ‘open wound’ of their trauma4 – which, we suggest, is a necessary condition for reaching out to wrongdoers, including in a restorative justice conference. This would constitute a form of genuine openness to the other, and even (first of all, perhaps) oneself as another – the shadow side of one’s life, of which

1  S.  Rambo, Spirit and Trauma: A Theology of Remaining (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), p. 13. 2  Ibid., p. 158. 3  See ibid., p. 8. 4  Ibid., p. 7.

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even victims may be ashamed – and pioneering philosophers have made the case for its life-enhancing potential. True ‘neighbour-love’, Pamela Sue Anderson argued, is only actualised when it is ‘performed openly and creatively’.5 When it is open to the risk of hurt  – vulnerability, or wound-ability  – and has faith in the creative potential of encounters of love to make the future better than the past. Such vulnerability acts as ‘a provocation for enhancing life by creating a space for transformation’.6 Referring to geopolitical conflict, Anderson called for the transformation of a ‘dark myth’ of vulnerability on the part of nation states which ‘creates a pattern for human relations where vulnerability generates fear, which in turn, generates violent forms of self-­ protection and/or self-other control’.7 In short, a myth which generates a pathological yearning and search for invulnerability. Far from the solution for victims of wrongdoing, this pathology is a trap, cutting them off from the human community into which they need to be restored in order to be healed, and entailing their revictimisation through stigma, including a negative assessment of self (or self-stigmatisation). It is a negative pattern of thought, inevitably followed by a negative path of becoming. On the contrary – according to Anderson, at least – in the embrace of vulnerability, in the concrete situation of my love in relation to my neighbour (and their love), there is the life-enhancing potential of ‘openness to mutual affection’.8 It is notable that in her later work, Anderson, who died prematurely of cancer, began to recognise the way in which what she described as the ‘ritual practices of restorative justice’ endeavour to create the conditions in which this process might take place following some act of harm or wrongdoing. She wrote that restorative justice has ‘attempted to initiate a process that, if properly designed, would facilitate mutual openness between the one who has been seriously hurt and the one who has caused the serious pain. The hope is that this shared vulnerability might bring about ethical reparation.’9

5  P.  S. Anderson and P.  S. Fiddes, ‘Creating a New Imaginary for Love in Religion’, Angelaki 25.1–2 (2020), pp. 46–53 (p. 48). 6  P. S. Anderson, ‘The Transformative Power of Vulnerability’ (blog post, 2016) http:// enhancinglife.uchicago.edu/blog/the-transformative-power-of-vulnerability [accessed, 12 Jan. 2018]. 7  Anderson and Fiddes, ‘Creating a New Imaginary’, p. 49. 8  Anderson, ‘The Transformative Power of Vulnerability’. 9  Ibid.

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Anderson’s call to embrace vulnerability is both courageous and enticing, but also somewhat daunting. If the outcome of an enhanced life were assured, then it would probably be worth the risk. The problem is that it cannot be guaranteed, and consequently the call places a demand upon victims to take a great risk on trust and in the uncertain hope of a better future. Notwithstanding the force of such arguments on paper, what seems to be missing is a necessary firmer ground; a better reason to hope. This chapter contends that an anthropological justification may also be given for openness and the embrace of vulnerability, especially by victims of the wrongdoing of others who may be wary of entering processes which demand so much from them as the harmed party. It is not enough to insist to a child, ‘Be good … because I told you so.’ The child may learn a grudging obedience, but not a lesson in the character and value of good behaviour which can then be applied in other spheres of life. The same is true of the injunction to love, even for Christians. ‘You must love … because I told you so’, does not explain what love is like nor respect the capacity for reason possessed by human beings created in the image and likeness of God. For theologians like Catherine of Siena, whose thinking has helped to form the argument of this chapter, enquiring after reasons is a God-given activity. In her famous work, The Dialogue, the character of God uses one of Catherine’s favourite descriptions of human beings as rational when issuing the invitation: ‘Open your mind’s eye and look within me, and you will see the beauty of my reasoning creature.’10 Christians called to love deserve reasons and, if adequate reasons are not forthcoming, they may even be justified in refusing to love. The lives of human beings are too often, in the familiar words of Thomas Hobbes, ‘poore, nasty, brutish, and short’; they are riven by suffering, formed by oppression, and hammered by the relentlessness of ageing and decay. In such circumstances, with self-­preservation to think of, anyone would be justified in asking what place there is for risky, wounding love as a motive for action in their lives. They may well ask, ‘Why should I bother to love?’ A similar question may be posed to the advocates and practitioners of restorative justice; namely, those who encourage victims of wrongdoing to engage in potentially traumatic processes, raking over the embers of yesterday’s fire – when their suffering burned so violently – and opening 10  Catherine of Siena, The Dialogue, 1, trans. by S.  Noffke (Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1980); see p. 26, n. 3.

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themselves up to the possibility of further harm. Why should a victim of domestic violence agree to sit opposite her partner in a conference, when she remembers how manipulative he could be, only for him to manipulate others into thinking that she was at fault after all? Why should a victim of rape, who was once thrown out of school, always suspected and often accused herself, trust another institution or give her rapist the chance to wield his social power again? These are legitimate questions and, it must be said, advocates of restorative justice have long since recognised the need to develop processes which are acceptable to victims with good reason to be anxious. Benefits for wrongdoers and wider society, in reducing recidivism by fostering right thinking and habits of good behaviour, must be accompanied by satisfaction for the harmed party.11 The way in which ‘the role of the victim is conceived’ – alongside, ‘how harm is defined’ – is one of the key ways of distinguishing between different approaches to restorative justice, which have, in turn, been shown to provide different levels of victim satisfaction.12 Restorative justice theorists claim, variously, to seek ‘restoration, redress and closure’, ‘reparation, meeting needs … healing and empowerment’, and these objectives arise from different definitions of harm.13 To take just one example, literature emphasising reparation may proceed from (i) its definition of harm, to (ii) its conception of the victim’s role, to (iii) praxis, as these words describe: ‘Being concrete, the term reparation implies redress focused on the actual damage done in the past. It assumes that the function or value damaged by the crime is measurable and can be compensated through an external action whilst the victim remains passive. The term, therefore, implies that a [restorative justice] practice seeking reparation should be more focused on outcomes than processes.’14 In reality, recent studies evaluating victim satisfaction with restorative justice highlight a range of factors covering the process from beginning to end. Victims emphasise ‘material compensation’ less than the relational components of the conferencing process, 11  ‘For offenders, restoration means reintegration into society by developing understanding for the wrong committed; for the community it means the assurance of security, rights and freedom’. D. Bolivar, ‘Conceptualizing Victims’ “Restoration” in Restorative Justice’, International Review of Victimology 17 (2010), pp. 237–265 (p. 237). On the effectiveness of restorative justice to transform society, see Taylor, Chap. 7. 12  Ibid., p. 237. 13  Ibid., pp. 238, 246. 14  Ibid., p. 246; for a table analysing a range of terms, see p. 247.

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from being able to speak to wrongdoers to learning more about what happened.15 In other words, they appear to seek  – and restorative justice claims to provide – a sense of empowerment through a real stake in a discourse that is mutual, open, and information rich. This is the interest of victims, but it is also a matter of public interest, which some have argued should extend to a role for victims in determining the form taken by wrongdoers’ reparation.16 Restorative justice has at its heart ‘a rich sense of procedural justice’17 and it is undoubtedly admirable to seek fairness and empowerment in the resolution of harm and the transformation of human relationships, both within and beyond the criminal justice system. One problem, however, is that victim satisfaction is far from guaranteed. Victims take a risk in making themselves vulnerable by participation in a conferencing process, born of a genuine need for human contact, but which may result only in their further harm.18 The conference may be badly facilitated, the wrongdoer refuse to take responsibility, the memory of the harm prove too much, or the victim be unable to express themselves.19 For all these reasons, and more, restorative justice risks violating victims’ vulnerability, offering only a potential chimera of satisfaction to sustain them. This is insufficient; victims need a better reason. They need a response to the question, ‘Why bother?’ or ‘Why should I do this without any guarantee of satisfaction?’ Whilst there may be several ways for a theologian to respond to this demand, what may be required for the victim is a reasongiving narrative. That is, a story into which an experience of harm or wrongdoing can be recontextualised, and in view of which both  For numerous cited studies, see ibid., p. 249.  See M.  Cavadino and J.  Dignan, ‘Reparation, Retribution and Rights’, International Review of Victimology 4 (1997), pp.  233–253 (p.  237–238). Responding to Ashworth, though they agree that victims should not determine retributive punishments in the current system; reparation is distinct from retribution (p. 238). 17  See J.  Bolitho, ‘Inside the Restorative Justice black box: The Role of Memory Reconsolidation in Transforming the Emotional Impact of Violent Crime on Victims’, International Review of Victimology 23.3 (2017), pp. 233–255 (p. 234). 18  For the risks to victims, see A.  Pemberton, F.  W. Winkel and M.  S. Groenhuijsen, ‘Taking Victims Seriously in Restorative Justice’, International Perspectives in Victimology 3.1 (2007), pp.  4–14; J.  A. Wemmers, ‘Restorative Justice for Victims of Crime: A Victim Oriented Approach to Restorative Justice’, International Review of Victimology 9.1 (2002), pp. 43–59. Cited in Bolivar, ‘Conceptualizing Victims’ “Restoration”’, p. 248. 19  For studies citing reasons for victims’ dissatisfaction, see Bolivar, ‘Conceptualizing Victims’ “Restoration”’, pp. 249–250. 15 16

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wrongdoing and participation in a conferencing process can be positively framed and justified. From the metanarrative of the Christian faith, we can extract two component narrative strands: the story of sin, and the story of love. On one side of the coin, there is an acknowledgement of the universality of sin and, moreover, of all humanity’s common inheritance of its taint.20 A victim’s recognition of their own sinfulness – or ‘non-culpable guilt’, as it has been described by Richard Swinburne – could help to foster humility, and empathy with the wrongdoer.21 On the other side of the coin, there is the conviction of the universality of divine love and, moreover, the belovedness of human beings by a God who is with them in their suffering just as he suffered for them, in his humanity, upon the cross. A victim’s sense of the gratuitousness of divine love could help to thaw the ice of resentment they bear to the offending other. ‘Who am I’, they ask, ‘to withhold love when so much love has been shown to me?’ They could also take reassurance from the belief that no matter how painful the recollection of harm may be during the conference, they are not alone. The one who suffered most stands with them, recollecting his own pain – contemplating the marks of his trauma – as well as showing forth his indestructible glory. It is as though he says to the victim, ‘My flesh was weak, too, but have courage for this same glory awaits you.’ Let us consider each of these narrative strands in turn, starting with sin. In seeking to understand the narrative of sin and relate it to the world of crime and punishment in which restorative justice operates, we can turn to an insight from literature; from Fr Brown, the famous priestsleuth created by G. K. Chesterton, whom a Guardian columnist once labelled ‘the empathetic detective’.22 In one of fifty-three short stories, Fr Brown explained the secret of his success as a detective and it lay in precisely what we are about to consider; namely, an acute awareness of human fallenness as a universal reality and a particular threat. On holiday in Spain, at the residence of a former criminal mastermind and his own dear friend, the priest spent an evening on a terrace in conversation  Michael Taylor prefers the phrase ‘existential insecurity’. See Taylor, Chap. 7.  The social equivalent may be to look beyond the stigmatising label and take into account the misfortune of offenders in the circumstances of their lives. See Taylor, Chap. 7. 22  M. Newton, ‘Father Brown: The Empathetic Detective’, The Guardian (2013) https:// www.theguardian.com/books/2013/jan/18/father-brown-the-empathetic-detective [accessed, 19 Jan. 2018]. 20 21

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with an American. Keen for Fr Brown to talk about the work which made him famous, the American gently accused him of not having a method. Either, he suggested, the priest’s method lay in the absence of method, or else it must have been ‘occult’ or ‘esoteric’, since it was far too obscure to be logical, after the fashion of Sherlock Holmes, for instance. Roused to reply only by the risk that he could be associated with anything so unsavoury  – so un-­Christian  – as magic, the little priest’s secret was eventually dragged from him, against the inclination of his humility. To the incredulity of his audience, Fr Brown declared, ‘The secret is … it was I who killed all those people. So, of course, I knew how it was done.’ He was innocent of the actual crimes, of course, but so acute were his understanding of the human condition and his power of empathy that he was able to reconstruct them perfectly in his mind; in the eye of his soul: I mean that I really did see myself, and my real self, committing the murders. I didn’t actually kill the men by material means; but that’s not the point. Any brick or bit of machinery might have killed them by material means. I mean that I thought and thought about how a man might come to be like that, until I realized that I really was like that, in everything except actual final consent to the action. It was once suggested to me by a friend of mine, as a sort of religious exercise … Science is a grand thing when you can get it; in its real sense one of the grandest words in the world. But what do these men mean, nine times out of ten, when they use it nowadays? When they say detection is a science? When they say criminology is a science? They mean getting outside a man and studying him as if he were a gigantic insect: in what they would call a dry impartial light, in what I should call a dead and dehumanized light. They mean getting a long way off him, as if he were a distant prehistoric monster; staring at the shape of his ‘criminal skull’ as if it were a sort of eerie growth, like the horn on a rhinoceros’s nose. When the scientist talks about a type, he never means himself, but always his neighbour; probably his poorer neighbour. I don’t deny the dry light may sometimes do good; though in one sense it’s the very reverse of science. So far from being knowledge, it’s actually suppression of what we know. It’s treating a friend as a stranger, and pretending that something familiar is really remote and mysterious … Well, what you call ‘the secret’ [of my success] is exactly the opposite. I don’t try to get outside the man. I try to get inside the murderer … thinking his thoughts, wrestling with his passions; till I have bent myself into the posture of his hunched and peering hatred; till I see the world with his bloodshot and squinting eyes, looking between the blinkers of his half-witted concentration; looking up the short and sharp perspective

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of a straight road to a pool of blood. Till I am really a murderer … I’ve put it badly, but it’s true. No man’s really any good till he knows how bad he is, or might be; till he’s realized exactly how much right he has to all this snobbery, and sneering, and talking about “criminals,” as if they were apes in a forest ten thousand miles away; till he’s got rid of all the dirty self-deception of talking about low types and deficient skulls; till he’s squeezed out of his soul the last drop of the oil of the Pharisees; till his only hope is somehow or other to have captured one criminal, and kept him safe and sane under his own hat.

One challenge for victims is to acknowledge their own sinfulness; their own, rather than the wrongdoer’s, corruption of will. That is, as Anselm of Canterbury wrote, their own privation of rectitude, with ‘rectitude’ being Anselm’s byword for the kind of justice enjoyed by human beings before the fall. Original justice – rectitude of the will – was lost to original sin. One purpose of restorative justice is to transform relationships between victims, wrongdoers, and wider society; and in the Anselmian schema this entails the difficult process of restoring the rectitude of the particular will first, starting with each moral agent cultivating a sense of their own unworthiness. At the heart of the Christian understanding of sin there appears to lie a paradox between its universality and, at the same time, particular embodiment in each person. How is it that all human beings are sinful whilst the scale of sin seems to differ from person to person? One reason is that whilst all possess a corrupt will, its appetites are resisted by those who cultivate the greatest awareness of their own guilt – the ‘objective [or, universal] consequence of sin’23  – leading to remorse and a desire for amendment. Guilt, as Reinhold Niebuhr explained, is experienced differently by all depending upon the degree of moral sensitivity each one possesses. This, in turn, arises from a process of self-realisation in which the will, the faculty for making choices, having been corrupted is gradually (re)conformed to a universal standard of good behaviour. (Notice that we have another universal here – that of the standard of the good – to juxtapose against the ubiquity of sin.) This process of self-realisation increases the moral sensitivity of agents, thereby increasing their sense of guilt for deviations, and creating the conditions for growth in holiness. Think of the saints whose lives are evoked by these words of Niebuhr: ‘The highest self-realisation … [is] not the 23  R.  Niebuhr, The Nature and Destiny of Man, I.  Human Nature (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1996 edn), p. 222.

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destruction of its particularity but the subjection of its particular will to the universal will.’24 Moral responsibility, then, is ‘attested by the feeling of remorse and repentance which follows the sinful action’.25 The application of this theory to wrongdoers in restorative justice is obvious. The purpose of the conferencing process is to encourage self-realisation by fostering a sense of moral responsibility which the wrongdoer then translates into action. Restorative justice seeks to (re)turn wrongdoers into members of society in good standing by resolving the consequences of their deviant behaviour; not deviation from an arbitrary legal code, but from a universal standard of the good for their victims and, crucially, themselves.26 In wrongdoing, they deviate from the path of self-­ realisation  – or drift further away from it, if they were not already pilgrims – and must be brought back. So much for wrongdoers, but what about those who have been harmed? Here the application is a little less obvious but equally important. The key point is that victims are on the road of self-realisation; they are themselves struggling with the consequences of a corrupt will. Victims may be ‘better’ people than wrongdoers – as in, more law-abiding members of society  – but of course they may not be. At ‘the ultimate religious level of judgement’,27 all that is consistently known from one restorative justice conference to the next is that one sinner has committed some act of harm against another. We are suggesting that it is the victim’s responsibility to be self-reflective – like Fr Brown – drawing upon their own experience of sin to see just how easily the tables could turn. Equally, just how fortunate they are to have cultivated for themselves – or to have had cultivated by their circumstances – the sense of guilt that restricts bad behaviour; that is, the acute awareness of feelings of remorse and the desire to avoid them which militate against wrongdoing.28 Such awareness is a mark of sanctity, creating the conditions for empathy and the willingness to embrace vulnerability. It will also inevitably lead to suffering, since self-knowledge is  Ibid., p. 252.  Ibid., p. 255. 26  For crime as harm rather than violation of law, see G.  Bazemore and L.  Walgrave, ‘Restorative Juvenile Justice in Search of Fundamentals and an Outline for Systemic Reform’, in G. Bazemore and L. Walgrave, eds, Restorative Juvenile Justice: Repairing the Harm of Youth Crime (Monsey, NY: Criminal Justice Press, 1999), pp.  45–74. Cited in Bolivar, ‘Conceptualizing Victims’ “Restoration”’, p. 238. 27  Niebuhr, Nature and Destiny of Man, I, p. 220. 28  On the social dynamics of wrongdoing, see Taylor, Chap. 7. 24 25

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necessarily self-accusing. Again, to quote some words of God from Catherine of Siena’s Dialogue: ‘From her deep knowledge of herself, a holy justice gave birth to hatred and displeasure against herself, ashamed as she was of her imperfection, which seemed to her to be the cause of all the evils in the world.’29 In short, then, we are suggesting that victims must foster a sense of their own unworthiness in order to be able to comprehend the wrongdoing of the other as something not too different from their own; a distinction in degree rather than kind. This does not mean that the victims of wrongdoing are guilty of any crime – least of all, that they are implicated in the act of harm perpetrated against themselves – but, rather, that they should strive to be in touch with the sense of guilt arising from an awareness of the human condition and its capacity for sin. It was for this reason that we adopted the phrase from Swinburne earlier, ‘non-culpable guilt’, which is part of the theory of sin underpinning his view of atonement. Guilt is the stain left by sin or wrongdoing, with sin itself predicated upon a theory of obligations. All human wrongdoing is fundamentally a failure to meet the obligations we have to ourselves and other moral agents. Sometimes, in failing to meet obligations human beings act wilfully, in full knowledge of an obligation and their decision not to meet it. The debtor, who fails to pay their debt having destroyed letters of reminder from their lender, is failing to meet an obligation in this way. This is the worst form of wrongdoing, which Swinburne calls ‘subjective’.30 However, there is also the failure to meet obligations of which one is essentially ignorant; the obligation of the child to honour their parents before understanding what honour means, for instance. This is called ‘objective’ wrongdoing and, whilst much less serious than its counterpart, it is no less real. Both leave a mark upon the soul, but the wound inflicted by subjectively choosing to act wrongly goes deeper; in Swinburne’s words, ‘subjective guilt is embedded … while objective guilt lies on the surface’.31 In addition, there is a distinction to be made between objective and subjective acts at the level of blameworthiness. In the mainstream of Christian theology, no distortion of the will or disruption of its capacity  Catherine of Siena, The Dialogue, 2.  For objective/subjective wrongdoing and guilt, see R.  Swinburne, Responsibility and Atonement (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989), pp.  74–76; R.  Swinburne, ‘Responsibility, Atonement, and Forgiveness’, in J. P. Moreland, C. Meister and K. A. Sweis, eds, Debating Christian Theism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), pp. 361–371 (pp. 361–362). 31  Swinburne, Responsibility and Atonement, p. 75. 29 30

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for choosing the good caused by original sin excuses moral agents from taking responsibility. This accusation has been levelled against some, such as Karl Barth, whose overwhelming focus upon the ubiquity of sin and the ‘ultimate religious level of judgement’ may seem to diminish or exclude the ‘moral achievements of history’, which only make sense within a temporal frame of reference.32 Objective guilt, the corollary of objective wrongdoing  – where the agent is unaware or incapable of recognising their obligations – is far from as serious as the subjective type. It is appropriately called guilt because the act leaves something to be corrected or resolved  – namely, indebtedness  – but it is not guilt characterised by blameworthiness. It is, rather, non-culpable guilt. Atonement is required, but only in the form of an apology rather than, necessarily, repentance and penance. Recalling Niebuhr’s concept of self-realisation, moral sensitivity self-imposes a new obligation to say sorry for any hurt which has been caused even though it was unintentional. In the Christian narrative of sin, which may be part of a reason-giving or reframing narrative for victims, the subjective sin and guilt of Adam are his alone, whilst, on account of the homogeneity of the human race, its taint has been communicated – or inherited, in the language of Augustine of Hippo – universally in the form of objective, non-culpable guilt.33 The apology which victims would seek to make for the guilt would first be directed to God and then by extension to all his creatures, including other people. An apology is an act of humility which creates the conditions for opening the heart to others, including wrongdoers, in empathy. It is a reason for the embrace of the vulnerability of love. Victims must not think of themselves as better than wrongdoers, even though they are not the culpable party at the restorative justice conference. This would be the sin of pride, the enemy of neighbour-love and a restorative process. Once again, in words of Catherine of Siena: ‘And who is hurt by the offspring of pride? Only your neighbours. For you harm them when your exalted opinion of yourself leads you to consider yourself superior and therefore to despise them. And if pride is in a position of authority, it gives birth to injustice and cruelty, and becomes a dealer in human flesh.’34

 See Niebuhr, Nature and Destiny of Man, I, p. 220.  Note that Swinburne himself rejects the Augustinian idea of inherited guilt; however, he does argue from genetic science for the inheritance of experience/tainted nature. 34  Catherine of Siena, The Dialogue, 6. 32 33

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So far, this chapter has been advocating what may be described as the ‘negative’ strand of our reason-giving or reframing narrative for making sense of victimhood, and as the foundation for asking victims to reach out to wrongdoers in the context of restorative justice. The negative strand is so called because it focuses upon the common identity of victims and wrongdoers as sinners. They are not the same in respect of the particular act of wrongdoing which brought them to the conference, but in so far as they are both subject to objective non-culpable guilt as children of Adam, members of the human race. In this light, victims may be challenged to act humbly as sinners, also in debt. They may imagine how their fallen nature could so easily manifest itself in acts of harm, seeking to behold the wrongdoer anew in vulnerable risky love, without an assurance of satisfaction and with the promise of pain. Now, though, we can turn to the second strand of our reframing narrative, focusing upon love. This means both the belovedness of victims – as we seek to affirm and comfort them – and the kind of love which they could show to wrongdoers. Building upon the narrative of sin, it should be obvious that neither of these expressions of love is about lovable qualities or the love of particular attributes, since guilt has tarnished the objective loveability of human beings on the basis of attributes. A love based on qualities is too weak to provide the backbone for a moral theory. Qualities may inspire love by appealing to a potential lover, but they are merely accidents  – transient and corruptible – concealing an inner nature which, in true love, gradually takes over. In the words of Josef Pieper, ‘incipient love may after all be attracted by “qualities” (beauty, charm, flashing intelligence). But when it has become real love it will then penetrate to the core of the person who stands behind these qualities and who “has” them, to the true subject of that unimaginable act that we call existing, to the beloved’s innermost self, which remains even when the loveable qualities long since have vanished’.35 The crux of our argument is that victims should embrace wrongdoers in love because they are themselves abundantly loved; first, in having been created and, second, in having been redeemed. This proposition is fundamental to the story of sin, too, since it is only in the knowledge that we are loved that we can face up to the reality of our sinfulness. Whilst paradoxical, these two realities must be held together because only in relationship  J. Pieper, Faith, Hope, Love (San Francisco, NC: Ignatius Press, repr. 1997), p. 205.

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can they make sense of the central act of the Christian metanarrative, the crucifixion – necessary on account of human sin, but warranted on account of divine love – as well as reflecting the ongoing complexity of human life in the midst of suffering. Chesterton once made an analogous argument which may help to clarify our position. In his celebrated biography of Charles Dickens, he explained that the author was also a social reformer, and that his attitude to the poor – labelled ‘the oppressed’ – was paradoxical; holding in tension the lowliness of their socio-economic status and the innate glory of their spiritual condition, having been made in the image and likeness of God. Chesterton wrote: ‘If we are to save the oppressed, we must have two apparently antagonistic emotions in us at the same time. We must think the oppressed intensely miserable, and at the same time intensely attractive and important. We must insist with violence upon his degradation; we must insist with the same violence upon his dignity. For if we relax by one inch the one assertion, men will say that he does not need saving. And if we relax by one inch the other assertion, men will say he is not worth saving. The optimists will say that reform is needless. The pessimists will say that reform is hopeless. We must apply both simultaneously to the same oppressed man; we must say that he is a worm and a god’.36 This argument provides at least two analogies for the subject of this chapter: first, as an explanation of God’s approach to human beings in redemption, and second, as an aspiration for the relationships between victims and wrongdoers in restorative justice. In order for the latter to work, victims must – like Dickens – look upon wrongdoers as both culpably guilty and worth redeeming; both miserable and beloved, at least in the sight of God who created and redeemed them. At a fundamental level, love is nothing less than an affirmation of being; saying to the other, ‘I want you to exist’.37 The act of our creation – God’s act – is an ultimate expression of love and the basis for true love of neighbour. Quoting Josef Pieper, we can say that the justification for loving ‘is the conviction that everything existing in the universe is creatura, creatively willed, affirmed, loved by the Creator and for that reason is really – in the most radical sense that the word “really” can possibly have – really good and therefore susceptible to, but also worthy of, being loved by 36  G.  K. Chesterton, Charles Dickens (London: Methuen, 1907), p.  270, cited in A.  Nichols, G.  K. Chesterton, Theologian (London: Darton, Longman and Todd, 2009), pp. 120–121. 37  Pieper, Faith, Hope, Love, p. 164.

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us’.38 In tandem with redemption – the ultimate act of loving recreation – God’s original act of bringing into being the whole contingent world stands as the great justification for love, to which the only fitting response is gratitude. Just as guilt entails remorse in the heart of a morally sensitive being, so the comprehension of divine love elicits gratitude; and apology finds its counterpart in thanksgiving. These juxtapositions themselves  – guilt/remorse-love/gratitude, and apology/thanksgiving  – show how closely bound together are the narratives of sin and love, and by extension the moments of creation and redemption to which they refer. This is a relationship which, Catherine of Siena explained, hinges upon love. In her Dialogue, God says, ‘I loved you before you came into being. And in my unspeakable love for you I willed to create you anew in grace. So I washed you and made you a new creation in the blood that my only-begotten Son poured out with such burning love.’39 For human beings, the knowledge of being loved – both by God and other people – is the stuff of self-realisation. It prompts and encourages a process of moral growth because to love is to impart a gift which means not merely ‘best wishes’ but to wish someone the good, to wish them to grow. Love conceived in this way is a challenge  – morally serious and robust – to become better. Likewise, the feeling of being loved can, like understanding one’s own sinfulness, lead to a sense of shame for wrongdoing. It is especially pertinent in a chapter engaging with restorative justice to raise the possibility of the power of shaming love for fostering awareness of faults and the desire of amendment necessary for reparation, since this has been advocated by one of its leading exponents, John Braithwaite.40 Such love does not accept wrongdoing but seeks to transform the wrongdoer. Whilst it does imply an affirmation that someone else exists, it is not the same as ‘undifferentiated approval’ which, as approval of the fault, would be morally weak. Indeed, undifferentiated approval would be immoral, especially as an expectation of victims, and so the love they bear must be possessed of a certain kind of inflexibility, intolerant of wrongdoing and placing a demand upon the wrongdoer to change; Stephen Pope and Janine Geske have developed this line of argument in respect of clerical sexual abuse, in particular, underscoring its

 Ibid., p. 199.  Catherine of Siena, The Dialogue, 4. 40  On ritual shaming, see Blyth, Chap. 3. 38 39

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compatibility with the Catholic theological tradition.41 Crucially, it must also be empowering, respecting a victim’s right to communicate their resentment in the form of shame. The love of victims for their offenders is accusatory, shaming onlookers just as the cross of Christ shames us all. Yet, the love of victims may also be unitive; fostering a unity or at least a mutual openness between the lion and the lamb, as at Calvary. This was what Thomas Aquinas meant when he described the difference between ‘goodwill’ and ‘actual love’. The latter may be predicated upon a certain kind of desire which yearns for the union of affections between the lover and the beloved. In Thomas’ own words, ‘the love, which is in the intellective appetite … denotes a certain union of affections between the lover and the beloved, in as much as the lover deems the beloved as somewhat united to him, or belonging to him, and so tends towards him’.42 This is a kind of interpenetrative love which requires, as its ground, a genuine embrace of vulnerability. To return to a point from the beginning of this chapter, we are agreeing with Anderson that striving for invulnerability (whether as nation states or individuals) is a pathology, and that the embrace of risk and the uncertainty of true love offers the only path to self-realisation. At the same time, however, we should not exclude invulnerability altogether. On God’s part, as Elizabeth Gandolfo has argued, invulnerability is the essential guarantor of the indestructability of the divine image in each person, and the only position from which the incarnation could have been possible. In short, it is the foundation of Christian hope. Invulnerability is also the only possible context within which human vulnerability can be fully realised without degenerating into ‘debilitating anxiety’.43 The paradox of human life is that finitude is encompassed all around by infinity; whilst the paradox of human redemption  – which began with Christ’s birth  – is that ‘the invulnerability of divine love becomes vulnerable human flesh and the vulnerability of human flesh manifests the invulnerability of divine love’.44 Human vulnerability is not unnatural – still less the consequence of sin – or it could not have been 41  See S. J. Pope and J. P. Geske, ‘Anger, Forgiveness, and Restorative Justice in Light of Clerical Sexual Abuse and Its Cover-up’, Theological Studies 80.3 (2019), pp. 611–631. 42  Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae II, ii. 27. 2. 43  E.  O. Gandolfo, The Power and Vulnerability of Love: A Theological Anthropology (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2015), p. 3. 44  Ibid., p. 214.

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assumed by God; only acts of harm which violate vulnerability are transgressive.45 Without ceding anything of their fundamental dignity, t­ herefore, victims of harm can follow the example of Christ by embracing vulnerability as a means of redeeming the other, and possibly themselves. They can reframe their feelings of hurt – and the very conferencing process which might induce further pain – in terms of an experience of true humanity. They can also reframe their own attitudes towards wrongdoers in terms of the yearning of God for his creatures: ‘Unlike the desirous dynamics of human anxiety … the desire of divine love is abundant life for all.’46 Let us conclude with some attempt to draw our narrative strands – and the strands of this chapter – together. Our purpose throughout has been to attempt to adduce reasons for victims to make themselves vulnerable in conferencing processes which cannot guarantee either a good experience or a satisfactory outcome. Victims may be dogged by ‘longstanding negative emotions … affecting their ability to enjoy the same activities as in their pre-crime daily life’,47 and they may with justification be sceptical about processes which require them to re-enter the realm of the damaging experience. Our purpose has not been to undermine these concerns – on the contrary, they have been upheld – but, rather, to attempt to provide a narrative in light of which they may be reframed. If restorative justice can help wrongdoers to experience remorse and to lead moral lives, then encouraging victims to engage in its processes is a matter of public interest. This reframing or reason-giving narrative, with its two strands – sin and love – has, therefore, both private and public dimensions. It is meant to maximise the wellbeing and moral agency of victims, whilst also maximising the capacity of restorative justice to try, through its processes, to reduce recidivism. At the start of this chapter, we characterised wrongdoing as a ‘fire’ and the conferencing process as an act of raking over the embers of yesterday’s blaze. Love, too, is a fire with the power to consume and transform everything into itself;48 but the fire that a victim may ignite – within themselves and others  – is different and more powerful. We are used to blazing anger – fire burning up in response to injustice – but far more miraculous,  See ibid., p. 8.  Ibid., p. 28. 47  Bolitho, ‘Inside the Restorative Justice black box’, p. 234. 48  See Pieper, Faith, Hope, Love, p. 281. 45 46

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as Gregory of Nyssa proclaimed, would be fire burning down, from top to bottom. In the incarnation, the divine nature turned itself upside down – embracing human vulnerability – and, in this context, victims could do the same. It is the ultimate act of power and the ultimate means of empowerment to follow the example of Christ in embracing vulnerability, embracing empathy, and embracing the other. As Gregory declared: ‘descent to man’s lowly position is a supreme example of power – of a power which is not bounded by circumstances contrary to its nature’.49 Perhaps victims could follow this example, embracing its risks, and show themselves to be truly holy.

49  Gregory of Nyssa, Address on Religious Instruction 24, cited in Gandolfo, Power and Vulnerability, p. 216.

CHAPTER 4

The Role and Meaning of Forgiveness Michael H. Taylor

Abstract  Lack of definitional consensus concerning forgiveness may have contributed to the challenge of establishing its legitimacy within restorative justice. Even Christianity, which often professes to have a special commitment to forgiveness, cannot lay claim to a distinctive concept. Rather, Christian beliefs are constructed, both by the influence of external factors and interpretations of biblical and traditional teaching. The special commitment of Christians is, in turn, motivated by perceptions of authority and revelation (i.e. God’s preference for forgiveness), self-interest (i.e. avoiding punishment), humility inspired by an awareness of sin, and confidence in forgiveness’ beneficial effects. In the ‘level playing field’ of public debate, including the debate about restorative justice, Christians must articulate this special commitment in terms which make sense to others as they search for common ground. Keywords  Defining forgiveness • Christian forgiveness • Theology in the public square Christians appear to have a special commitment to practising forgiveness which may influence their approach to restorative justice and differentiate it from others. This chapter begins to explore the nature of that

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M. N. Blyth et al., Forgiveness and Restorative Justice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75282-8_4

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commitment and its implications. A useful starting point is James Voiss’ claim that: ‘There is, indeed, a distinctive Christian forgiveness’, the very nature of which requires it to be practised and promoted on every relevant occasion, including, though it is not referred to as such, in a restorative justice conference where victim and offender, and others immediately affected by what has happened, meet and attempt to take a problem-centred rather than punitive approach to an offence.1 Those who have hesitations or object to forgiveness being mentioned can only do so, presumably, because they have a different concept of forgiveness and its possible effects. Without claiming to give an account of Voiss’ thinking but drawing heavily on his ideas, how might this ‘distinctive Christian forgiveness’ be described? In essence, it is the opening up of ‘space’ or the offering of an opportunity for both victim and offender, not to be hurt even more, but in full awareness of what has happened, to change and grow as persons and eventually to be reconciled. It should be promoted and practised as a matter of course because an open door of this kind, rather than a closed one, is always desirable. It can be opened by not acting on the feelings of resentment and hostility aroused by the offence, and its assault on the victim’s sense of self-worth. Voiss speaks of ‘absorbing’ the pain of it. Unlike reconciliation, it is unconditional. It is an offer, not necessarily explicit, which may or may not be accepted. It is an opportunity, which may or may not be seized. It might be suggested that where a restorative justice conference is undertaken in place of mainstream criminal proceedings there is just such an offer, space or opportunity, so that it is in itself an act of forgiveness! For Christians, this forgiveness is revealed in Jesus, whose whole life, ministry and death are shot through with such offers and opportunities whether the word ‘forgiveness’ is used or not. The attitude, in the gospel parable, of the father to the prodigal, and for that matter to the elder brother, and of Jesus himself to his persecutors and disciples, is typical. This inspiring example of Jesus is set by faith within a wider and deeper metanarrative, or ‘matrix of understanding’ according to Voiss, even more motivating for the Christian; namely, God’s ongoing activity in history in which Christian disciples are called to participate. According to this narrative, God longs in love to be in ever-closer communion with all creation, including women and men. This making of communion 1  J. K. Voiss, Rethinking Christian Forgiveness: Theological, Philosophical and Psychological Explanations (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2015), p. 388.

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might be seen as the nub of God’s creative activity. It is exercised and mediated through our ongoing life in this sacramental world, where God comes to be with us through people and the natural world and we grow up to be companions of God: a truth claim grounded in an act of faith which, as Voiss would agree, cannot be empirically verified. The incarnation, where God-­in-­Christ comes as close to us as can be, is its supreme manifestation.2 This narrative is complicated, however, because of our refusal of God’s offer of close communion, traditionally referred to as our ‘sinfulness’ or ‘disobedience’. This ‘fall’ from grace makes necessary an added layer or dimension to God’s activity. It must now involve ‘forgiving’ as well as ‘creating’, whereby we not only grow into communion with God but are given the opportunity to be restored to the growing relationship we have broken. What God-in-Christ and in the created order offers to us – through the kindness of others, for example – we are called as disciples who share in God’s mission to offer to others, including those who have not directly done us wrong. They, too, must be confronted with an open door. Here, it could be argued, is a Christian commitment to forgiveness which is distinctive in at least three ways. First, it is distinctive as a concept, defining forgiveness in its own special, not to say unique, way. Second, it has a distinctive source of inspiration in the gospel stories about Jesus. Third, it is deepened and legitimised by the distinctive metanarrative within which it is set. As a result, it affects the Christian approach to restorative justice processes, since in the light of it, Christians cannot conceive of any such process where forgiveness is not at its very heart rather than being ‘best not mentioned’, as some would argue, or only desirable as an added benefit, or acceptable as an ultimate but not immediate goal. Christians can only eagerly promote it. First, then: is the Christian commitment to forgiveness distinctive because its concept of forgiveness, that of Voiss or any other, has a distinctive content which sets it apart? This does not appear to be the case, on several grounds. Returning for a moment to Voiss, he himself recognises that the desirability of opening-up opportunities for positive change and reconciliation  – that is what he means by forgiveness  – can be readily appreciated by Christians and non-Christians alike. It is ‘an ordinary

2

 Ibid., p. 334.

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human enactment’, not an especially Christian one.3 It only becomes distinctive when seen to be inspired and endorsed by Jesus and set within a Christian metanarrative of creation, redemption and discipleship, which might be regarded as a matter of context rather than content. Voiss’ claim to a distinctive concept of forgiveness raises hesitations on other grounds as well. There is something rather unconvincing about it. The concept is attractive and even non-controversial in that no-one will object to providing an opportunity for change and reconciliation, but in itself it does not really sound or ‘feel’ like what many think of as forgiveness. It sounds, for example, more like the beginning of a process which may lead to or include, or eventually add up to, forgiveness rather than forgiveness itself. Rather than definitive, at best it stands alongside many other possible definitions or as one of several features of what some prefer to see as a forgiving process. A definitive answer remains elusive. There appears to be a whole catalogue of meanings. Voiss, in his valuable discussion, is of course entitled to say what he, and the Christian tradition as he understands it, mean by forgiveness, but it stands alongside many other possible definitions. For some, his argument may not go far enough, sounding like a welcome preliminary to a forgiving process, or an opportunity to forgive rather than forgiveness itself. For others, it may go too far. They may regard foregoing ill-will and ending hostilities, for example, as coming closer to what forgiveness is about, but would not see them as opening-up further opportunities for fostering personal relationships or reconciliation. Forgiveness can be more or less ambitious in its pursuits. It can also be unconditional as an open door policy, or come with conditions attached. The following definitions, for example, have been culled from a collection of papers, referred to in the preface to this book, published in the Oxford Journal of Law and Religion in February 2016 on the subject of forgiveness in relation to restorative justice.4 Some of the contributors regard forgiveness as the willingness to put the past behind. They speak of letting the offence slip into oblivion, moving on, wiping the slate clean, letting bygones be bygones, closure, the gift of ‘existing as if the offence had not been committed’, and simply forgetting or at least ‘not remembering’.

3 4

 Ibid., pp. xv, xix, 180, 264, 388.  See Oxford Journal of Law and Religion 5.1 (2016), pp. 49–152.

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For others, forgiveness is an emotional shift. They speak of replacing or overcoming negative feelings of hurt, resentment and hostility with more positive feelings of compassion, generosity and even love, of not holding a grudge, of embracing the other rather than keeping one’s distance and seeing an abuser with contempt, of empathy and sympathy and identification, of entering into the experience of the other to draw out a response. Further attempts to define forgiveness in these papers are less easy to group under a common theme. They speak variously of a gift of awakening, a freeing of one’s spirit, a release of long-held toxic energy, of evil absorbed, an energising power, an active commitment to restoration and reconciliation, the remission of debt, the opposite of revenge, of restoring into fellowship and, perhaps wisely, of a journey or continuum which includes many of the features of forgiveness explicitly mentioned above and more besides, including moral seriousness, confession, repentance and reparation. In short, the problem is that ‘forgiveness’ can be so hard to pin down that it is tempting to write off any attempt to define it as pointless; alternatively, it can also be talked about as if everyone knows what is meant when, in fact, there is a lack of definitional consensus.5 What, then, of Christian understandings of forgiveness other than that offered by Voiss? Are they also more widely held, debatable and not peculiar to Christian teaching; ‘ordinary human enactments’, as Voiss might say? One understanding of how Christian teaching or doctrine comes about would suggest that they certainly are. Assuming, for the sake of argument, that the work of Christ on his cross was the work of forgiveness, or the means by which our forgiveness was brought about, the question arising, and which has been much explored in Christian history, is ‘how?’ How exactly was it brought about? One answer has been called the penal or ‘substitutionary’ theory, whereby the punishment we deserved as sinners was borne by Christ the crucified. He paid the penalty, instead of us. Another, not all that different, is the ‘sacrificial’ theory, where Christ is seen as the sacrificial lamb appeasing God on our behalf. In both cases, he dies that we might be forgiven. Another answer, sometimes referred to as the ‘moral influence’ theory, suggests that 5  See C. D. Marshall, Beyond Retribution: A New Testament Vision for Justice, Crime and Punishment (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2001), p.  264; R.  Holloway, On Forgiveness (Edinburgh: Canongate, 2002); A.  E. Acorn, Compulsory Compassion: A Critique of Restorative Justice (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2004), p. 11.

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Jesus, in his obedience to God, provided us with such a good example that we can be moved to repent of our own disobedience, turn back to God and be forgiven. Others talk of a ‘ransom’ paid to free us from the clutches of the Devil, or of a battle where Christ, often referred to as ‘Christus Victor’, wins the victory over sin and death. Yet another answer places more emphasis on the incarnation and the story of God becoming a man in Christ and empathising deeply with our sorry human condition. In God incarnate, we find a generous and understanding companion, immersed with us in the creative and redemptive process. This ‘being with’ is typical of God, not only ‘once upon a time’ in Jesus, but all the time; a God with us and alongside us, best placed to bring about reconciliation and enable us to be with God. Some might say, more simply, that God wins us by God’s love, or is determined to stay with us ‘no matter what’. The healing lies in the relationship. Where, then, do these various answers and explanations come from? Hardly ‘out of the blue’, or revealed out of nowhere, not least because they have changed over time. F. W. Dillistone can perhaps be credited with clarifying matters as much as anyone in his book, The Christian Understanding of Atonement, by recognising that when we are puzzled as to how Christ’s life and death have ‘saved’ us we turn to existing ideas in order to understand and resolve the puzzle; for instance, ideas about the need for punishment and its efficacy, ancient ideas about sacrifice, persistent ideas about warfare, ideas about the power of a good example, the healing potential of someone getting close to us with sympathy and love, and the cost of righting wrongs and making something new.6 Some of these ideas, incidentally, have much in common with current criminal proceedings and others with restorative justice. The death of Christ does not, of itself, really tell us anything about forgiveness. Rather, we draw on what we already know about forgiveness to understand how it is exemplified in the crucifixion. As Paul Fiddes, following Dillistone, puts it: ‘The experience of forgiveness in human relationships helps us to interpret the cross of Jesus as God’s great offer of forgiveness to human beings’.7 Christian ideas about forgiveness are not distinctive, therefore, but common to many, Christian and non-Christian alike, and we might add, when we  See F. W. Dillistone, The Christian Understanding of Atonement (Welwyn: Nisbet, 1968).  P. S. Fiddes, Past Event and Present Salvation: The Christian Idea of Atonement (London: Darton, Longman and Todd, 1989), p. 175. 6 7

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change our mind about these matters it is an open question as to how far our Christian understanding is the agent of that change or revised in the light of it? If, then, the special commitment of Christians to forgiveness does not arise because of a distinctive understanding, is it because Jesus’ example is uniquely inspiring? That may very well be so. His life and death can certainly be read in this way. Whether he was God incarnate or not, Jesus’ life and ministry were shot through with an eagerness to forgive. This is reflected in stories about a wayward, prodigal son, a paralytic, a woman at the well, devoted shepherds, merciful creditors and anxious housewives, in a reference to a broody hen longing to gather her chicks under her wings and advice about multiple acts of forgiveness; also, in attitudes to so-called ‘publicans and sinners’, to tax-gatherers and the generally despised, to those like Peter who let him down but were rehabilitated, to a fellow criminal, and even to his executioners. Jesus may inspire on many counts, but he certainly inspires on this one, calling us to be merciful like our heavenly father and to forgive as we have been forgiven. Once this inspiring example of forgiving is seen as not only human but divine, it can be doubly compelling for Christians.8 Without denying the general point, however, it may be wise to proceed with a degree of caution. To return to an earlier point, whilst the various incidents as recorded in the Gospels may have much in common, when we ask what it is about them which is ‘forgiving’, the answers are not always the same. In some cases, it is a matter of taking someone back into the fold; in others, of refusing to judge or condemn; alternatively, it may involve reaching out to people beyond the pale; or, it could be about encouraging reparation; or, moving on and putting the past behind; in some cases, it looks like simple friendship, where before there was none; in the case of the paralytic, healing and the forgiveness of sins are closely related. All in all, we can find ourselves back in the discussion about defining forgiveness which seems to have many facets and asking what exactly we are inspired by Jesus to do? More seriously, perhaps, the idea that the Jesus of the gospels is uniquely inspiring when it comes to forgiveness may not be as straightforward as it looks. It is not the whole of the picture. Indeed, the picture may have another side to it altogether. Turning to John’s gospel, although he tells 8

 See Voiss’ reading of the Gospel narratives, in Rethinking Christian Forgiveness, p. 350 ff.

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us stories that can be associated with forgiveness – for example, about a Samaritan woman or a good shepherd or a wayward disciple’s reinstatement – his gospel has only one explicit reference to forgiveness, when the disciples are given power to forgive or retain sins, and one explicit refusal to condemn, with the woman taken in adultery. His interests and maybe those of an early Christian community, appear to lie elsewhere; in the importance of belief and faith for salvation. By contrast, when it comes to the synoptic gospels, there are explicit references to forgiveness  – for instance, when Jesus heals – but, even here, not as many as might be imagined. There are also examples, which we have referred to, of the so-called characteristic way in which Jesus behaves, which are regarded as forgiving, though not identified as such.9 Jesus desires mercy and acts accordingly. He speaks of generosity and love for enemies, and we are taught to forgive as we have been forgiven, not once but seven and even seventy times over. There is, however, a good deal of material in sharp contrast to all of this. Matthew and the tradition he represents may have had an agenda which was not altogether at one with that of Jesus, but what he wrote can cast a shadow over too much talk of restoration and open doors, despite the invitation to knock on them (see Mt. 7:7)! Forgiveness is often available only on a quid pro quo basis. There are many harsh warnings of judgement and punishment issued to evil doers, to idle, cruel and drunken servants, and to those who don’t listen to missionaries. Self-mutilation may be preferable to what the judge may have in store for the guilty. Sentencing can have a strong aura of finality about it. The door of opportunity is firmly closed. The law and the consequences of not keeping it are made more severe, not less. Those who observe it to the letter become leading figures in the kingdom of God. If we are to forgive our ‘brothers’, they are to be treated like pagans if they refuse to listen. Divisive, rather than conciliatory, notes are struck, setting families against each other. Some things are apparently unforgivable, and some painful punishments are unending. Mercy is but one of several virtues lauded in the beatitudes. Luke and Mark, for their different reasons, set a less threatening tone. Warnings to the pharisees are somewhat toned down, for example, but some of Matthew’s darker material can be found in them as well. They, too, refer to the unforgivable sin; they, too, suggest that self-mutilation might be preferable to being thrown into hell, and suffering horrific and unending punishment; they, too, threaten those who don’t listen to 9

 See Fiddes, Past Event and Present Salvation, p. 176.

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missionaries; they, too, talk of division; they, too, tell stories of servants who are lazy and cruel, and the fate which awaits them and of the uncaring rich who ignore all the warnings until it’s too late; they, too, counsel us to repent or perish. The story of the prodigal in Luke 15 is usually read as exemplifying divine forgiveness, and not without reason. Here, a wayward son, reduced to penury, calculates that his best bet is to go back home where at least he’ll get some food. When he does, much to the disapproval of his brother, his father welcomes him with open arms. The door to restoration could hardly have been opened more widely. There is, however, an alternative reading. The story could have more to do with the pleasure of an over-­ indulgent father, when he finds the calculating boy he had lost, than with forgiveness. It is one of three parables about losing and finding, and the lengths to which people will go to recover what belongs to them. It is not necessarily about forgiveness; a coin and a sheep can be lost, but not forgiven. Here, as elsewhere, eisegesis as well as exegesis may be at work when discovering in the gospels a consistent and compelling story about a certain understanding of forgiveness and an inspiring figure who constantly practises it. A comment by Voiss is telling: ‘seeing the Incarnation as the sacramental expression of God’s forgiveness extended over a lifetime can provide an integrative hermeneutic for understanding the whole of the public ministry of Jesus … his teachings, his miracles, his interaction with sinners, even his confrontation with the religious authorities. All are sacramental mediations … of the forgiveness of God’.10 Whether or not that is so, hermeneutics and eisegesis may not always be far apart and by no means indefensible but somewhat preconceived ideas can lead to over-­ simplification and to underplaying the force of less supportive and, for many, less welcome material. Rather than the epitome of forgiveness, we might be inspired by a fierce warrior on the side of the underdog, but not always a forgiving one. A consideration of New Testament teaching as a whole, not undertaken here, rather than focusing solely on the Jesus of the gospels, may lead to conclusions that are generally supportive of restorative justice and the role of forgiveness. Timothy Gorringe, for example, has concluded that the New Testament does not legitimise retributivist practice but advances an

 Voiss, Rethinking Christian Forgiveness, p. 351.

10

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alternative non-violent way with forgiveness at its heart.11 Christopher Marshall would seem to agree. First, he summarises his survey of what the New Testament has to say about punishment with the finding ‘that the punishments imposed by God or by the community of faith nearly always have a redemptive intent, not always with respect to the individual punished, though this is common’ and that ‘there are powerful grounds for concluding that the New Testament does indeed offer us a vision of restorative justice’.12 Second, Marshall concludes his discussion of forgiveness by saying that, ‘Restorative justice … makes room for the miracle of forgiveness to occur and for a new future to dawn. Nothing could be more compatible with the message of the New Testament than this’.13 Looking at three possible ways in which the Christian commitment to forgiveness might be distinctive, we have seen first, that that is not the case when it comes to its concept or understanding of forgiveness and, second, that whilst being inspired by the life of Jesus is distinctive, we should be cautious about seeing his behaviour too readily and simplistically as the supreme example of forgiveness as we have come to understand it. It may turn out to be more challenging and divisive than reassuring. What, then, of the metanarrative of creating and redeeming within which this concept of forgiveness is set as a possible source of a special Christian commitment? Once seen as part of a divine mission to draw all creation and its creatures into ever closer communion with each other and with God, the call to benefit as opportunities for growth and reconciliation are opened up and to cooperate by offering similar opportunities to others, becomes even more inspiring and compelling. It is a scenario that may well prove highly motivating for Christian believers. It not only paints a big and satisfying picture, but also gives believers a meaningful place within it. The offer of a restorative justice conference then finds its place, according to Ephesians 1:10, in God’s great scheme of things ‘to draw all things unto himself’. Escalating the significance of forgiveness within a metanarrative, in this way, is highly distinctive. It remains, of course, a matter of faith. The special Christian commitment to forgiveness and Voiss’ claim that Christianity’s understanding of it is distinctive may have other sources besides the three we have discussed. One might be related to ideas of 11  T.  Gorringe, God’s Just Vengeance: Crime, Violence, and the Rhetoric of Salvation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), p. 265. 12  Marshall, Beyond Retribution, p. 258. 13  Ibid., p. 284.

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authority and revelation. The Christian concept of forgiveness may not be unique, but it carries especial weight because God in Christ has clearly revealed a preference for it. This is how God behaves towards us and invites us to behave towards one another. It carries the divine imprimatur. Once again, however, Christians need to proceed with a degree of caution. For one thing, they cannot overlook the fact that God’s preferences are not made altogether clear in Christ and that they have changed over the course of Christian history. The same events were once thought to reveal, for example, that God favoured the cancellation of our debts to God on certain conditions, or that God was prepared to forgive our crimes of disobedience against God once the sufferings of Christ had been substituted for what should have been our own. The model was decidedly penal; only later, as ideas changed, did it become restorative. Again, Christians should remain aware that ideas about revelation and authority are human constructs; so, too, is the obligation to forgive. Likewise, the conclusion after reading the gospels that a God-like Jesus is relentlessly forgiving. It is a human assessment of impressive events. We ‘make it up’, though this does not mean that we play fast and loose with the evidence. The same is true of all doctrinal, traditional and settled ways of Christian thinking, including the claim that they are not constructed. What they are ‘made’ out of may be given to us, but what we ‘make’ of them is not. As such, they are not definitive or immune from the relativities that go with all human constructs including our interest at times in giving certain events and writings a high, authoritative status. Another example of ideas of authority and revelation, and the impetus they can give to Christians and their commitment to forgive, has to do with self-interest. Jesus warned that unforgiving attitudes would have eternal consequences. His ‘insider knowledge’ about the afterlife suggests that it is in our long-term interest to forgive. The rich man in the parable in Luke 16 who neglected the poor man at his gate, could not warn his brothers, but Jesus the storyteller with his insider knowledge has warned us of the reversal of fortunes that may await the ungenerous after death. Likewise, the unforgiving steward in another story appears to reap hell as his reward; more generally, those who condemn will in turn be condemned! Self-interest may not sit well with the Christian or any other set of virtues. It remains, however, a fact of life and of life after death, and Christians have been warned by One who knows!14  For an eschatological perspective, see Mills, Chap. 8.

14

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A further possible source of a special commitment to forgive has to do with Christianity’s characteristic emphasis on sin. It can take Christians in a penal direction and in a more humane one. As sinners, we have disobeyed God and deserve to be punished. As a result, we may be motivated to be obedient and live according to the rules, especially where there is fear of a vengeful God in contrast to a forgiving one and, once again, the consequences that may await us in the afterlife. More humanely, an awareness that ‘all have sinned and come short of the glory of God’, including those who are not marked out as wrongdoers, can lead to a certain humility about oneself in the face of overt wrongdoing in another, and a greater willingness to empathise and forgive the wrongdoer rather than condemn.15 A final source of a special commitment may have to do with Christian confidence in the beneficial effects of forgiveness. Certain Christians, notably Desmond Tutu, despite severely qualified assessments of South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission, are adamant that forgiveness is so efficacious that there is ‘no future’ without it; implying that with it there most certainly is.16 Forgiveness is essential if relations, whether community, racial or international, are to be improved. Gospel stories like that of the tax collector, among others, appear to suggest that, following forgiveness, men and women are healed, reintegrated into communities and enjoy a brighter future. Crucially, where the crucifixion is interpreted as the paradigmatic case of forgiveness, both human and divine, the resurrection, however understood, declares the death of Jesus to be a supremely effective act with immeasurable positive implications for the future. It is a, if not the, supreme source of Christian confidence. Forgiveness, like costly love, actually works  – or triumphs! The door of opportunity is opened wide! Whether such confidence is justified in the light of subsequent history is questionable, but it is a confidence born not so much of the facts as of faith, and not least of faith in the resurrection. Assuming, for the moment, Christianity’s special commitment to forgiveness, the question still remains: is it the overriding concern or does it stand alongside others, such as ‘justice’ and ‘love’, and need to come to terms with and even bow to them on occasion? Can it be pressed on restorative justice practitioners, for example, without qualification? Some,  For an elaboration of this argument, see Mills, Chap. 3.  D. Tutu, No Future Without Forgiveness: A Personal Overview of South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission (London: Random House, 1999), p. 209. 15 16

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including Christian teachers, would claim that forgiveness can undermine justice and that it cannot be offered unless justice has been done. Where justice requires a balance of power, a readiness to forgive rather than a withholding of forgiveness – in cases of domestic abuse, for example – may tip it further in the wrong direction. And if love has to do with acting in the best interests of others as well as oneself, putting the claims of forgiveness above all else, or even pressing its claims at all in certain circumstances, may not be the most helpful and, therefore, most loving move to make. It may also be worth noting again that apparently Jesus, the great inspirer, did not always seem to regard forgiving as the best option or even the most ‘loving’ one. Maybe his sense of justice had something to do with it. On the other hand, many Christians are clear that there is no reason why forgiveness should compromise justice in the sense of moral seriousness, and the need for repentance and reparation. Indeed, Voiss’ concept of forgiveness actually opens up opportunities for them. ‘Loving mercy’ does not imply failing to ‘do justly’. Being forgiving may even promote justice by putting victims on the front foot and giving back a sense of power and control to those who otherwise feel helpless and undermined. Nevertheless, committed to justice and love as well as forgiveness, the relationships between all three of them may prove to be as problematic for Christians as for others. So far, then, we have examined a number of sources of the special Christian commitment to forgiveness. Some, though themselves problematic, definitely mark it out as distinctive, such as the inspiration to be gained from the Jesus of the gospels, from the Christian metanarratives involving Christ’s birth, death and resurrection, and Christian discipleship, and from ideas of authority, efficacy and revelation. Others, notably the Christian concept of forgiveness itself, whatever that may be, do not mark it out. In their different ways, these considerations may well persuade Christians that they have a special mandate to promote the practice of forgiveness when it comes to restorative justice processes. They cannot, however, go it alone or deal with these matters simply on their terms. If they wish to argue the case for forgiveness and steer between the competing claims of justice and love, they must do so on grounds that can be recognised and appreciated by Christians and others alike. Restorative justice is, inevitably, a cooperative and interdisciplinary process, involving Christians and people of other faiths and outlooks, religious or otherwise. Their reasons for promoting forgiveness against the strong convictions of

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some,17 including some Christians, and the hesitations of others will have to be brought into the public sphere. Once out in this open space some of those reasons may still appeal. The story of Jesus, for example, may still inspire, though not in an unquestioning way that is different from the way we may be inspired by a Nelson Mandela or a Martin Luther King, or some lesser-known generous individual. Again, the biblical advice that ‘he that is without sin should throw the first stone’ will almost certainly still seem wise. Although the doctrine of ‘sin’ lies deep within the teachings of the church, we do not need to refer to them or persuade others of their merits in order to remind ourselves of some of the less attractive but undeniable aspects of our common humanity. That we are all sinners is one way of putting it. That we are all vulnerable and existentially insecure, prone to act in what we believe to be our own interests and against those of others in order to protect ourselves and make ourselves safer, is another. Nobody’s hands are entirely clean, not even those of the victim. He or she may not be in any way culpable in respect of the immediate issue, but they remain fallible human beings and responsible members of a society within which offending and other destructive events, and whatever provokes them, occur.18 Such self-­ awareness may foster a certain humility which in turn may incline them towards forgiveness. Yet, again, Christian teaching about forgiving as you have been forgiven can easily be appreciated in its worldly-wise counterparts such as ‘do as you would wish others to do to you’. Even Jesus commended such worldly astuteness. But in most cases, whilst the main reasons why Christians advocate forgiveness may be respected, they are unlikely to be persuasive. Christians should stand by their opinions, even promote them, true to their convictions, but also accept the need to seek common ground with others as to why forgiveness is so important and why everyone involved in restorative justice, having recognised its importance, should act accordingly. What might the common ground look like? Here ‘common ground’ does not mean any agreements that we might reach but what everyone might agree should be considered when trying to reach them. 17  See J.  Braithwaite, Restorative Justice and Responsive Regulation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), p. 15: whilst forgiveness may be important in the healing process, it is ‘wrong to ask victims to forgive and very wrong to expect it of them’. 18  For a similar argument, see Mills, Chap. 3.

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One set of considerations might be called ‘moral’, whether of a deontological or consequentialist nature. Is forgiving the right thing to do, regardless? Ought we to forgive as a moral duty which is good in itself? Is forgiving simply good because it’s good? Or, ought we to forgive because it will be beneficial all round? It will have good results. Central to the second, consequentialist approach, will be considerations about the actual benefits that forgiving might bring in its wake and the dire consequences of refusing to forgive. Deontological arguments about whether or not it is our duty to forgive, whatever the outcome, are not likely to be very fruitful if only because, once we ask the inevitable question ‘why is it our duty?’, we are pushed back to ‘theological’, ‘philosophical’, and ‘ontological’ arguments; that is, arguments about our human nature, our rights, and even about ‘metanarratives’. They are arguments which, practically speaking, are difficult to engage in, and about which, in trying to build a basis for concerted action, we are not likely to agree. The more fruitful approach may be the consequentialist, where we try to decide whether or not forgiving is a ‘good’ thing because of the benefits it brings. Many, including both offenders and victims, testify to its potential. It can release people from the past, for example, and help them to move on. It can deal with anger and with hurt. It can restore a sense of self-respect if others cease to regard you as morally reprehensible and best ‘sent to Coventry’. It can shift the balance of power, where a victim takes an initiative and once again feels in control. It can simply make for a more positive atmosphere. Self-interest may once again come into the reckoning. ‘Forgive or you will not be forgiven’ is not just a divine injunction culled from the Bible, it is a piece of common sense in line with other quid pro quo pieces of advice. If we don’t forgive others, they (rather than God) may not look kindly on us. Our inevitable misdeeds may be treated harshly in return. On the negative side, forgiving, and certainly forgiving too soon or too easily, may not take seriously enough the damage that has been done. It could be hard to say, ‘it doesn’t matter’ or ‘forget it’. It may presuppose relationships which don’t exist and don’t need to exist, requiring people to stay when all they want to do is get things sorted out and walk away. It only complicates matters. Far from improving the balance of power in an abusive situation, some believe it can make it worse. The arguments about justice and love can return to haunt us. Is this right in the circumstances, and is it in the best interests of all concerned? There are two obvious problems about arguing in this consequentialist way about the merits of forgiving or, shorn of its moral overtones, by

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focusing on ‘outcomes’. One is the lack of evidence and of careful research into the benefits of restorative justice processes in general, and of how victims and offenders, looking back, have felt about the absence or mention of forgiveness, in particular. If, for Christians, conclusions may be based too much on matters of faith to win their way in public debate, in the public space they may be based too much on mere opinion and not enough on experience. The second problem, once again, is a lack of clarity as to what precisely we are talking about, whether advocating forgiveness as a good thing, or opposing it; and, of course, forgiveness may be a good thing but still not such a good thing to bring into a restorative justice conference.

Conclusion When it comes to the meaning of forgiveness, Christians appear to have nothing particularly new or different to say, and can be as unclear and confused as the rest. What is distinctive is not the concept of forgiveness, nor even the sources from which it is derived, but the motivation for practising it and advocating its practice by others, rooted as it is in faith in a forgiving God and one’s own discipleship. That motivation should be nourished. It may well lead to strong advocacy and expressing opinions which are energising and need to be heard, as long as they make no claim to any privileged status on the level playing field of public debate. Furthermore, it might even be argued, with Voiss perhaps, that the Christian concept of forgiveness is distinctive because of its setting in a metanarrative about the will of God, and God’s creative and redemptive activities as revealed in Christ, and the sensitivity of the Christian tradition to the universal nature of sin and the need for humility. Whilst such references will carry little if any weight in the public sphere, they may nevertheless offer a clue as to one reason why any mention of forgiveness in restorative justice processes may be resisted, and that is because of the religious overtones it can so easily carry, adding further heavy layers of guilt, obligation and confusion. In other words, the problem for many may not be forgiveness, as such, but its religious associations. It does not help when God is brought into the picture! If so, and it needs to be tested, Christians may want to tread carefully and watch their language out of love and for the sake of the greater good. In all these discussions about forgiveness and what role it should or should not play in restorative practices, including conferencing, it may be

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useful to remember how difficult forgiveness is to define and how confusing it can be to talk as if we know what it means. It may be better to think more specifically of a whole range of ideas we can relate to it but not necessarily wholly identify with it, including opening up opportunities for change, repentance, reparation, release, humility, understanding, growing empathy, the ending of hostilities, foregoing ill-will, forgetting or ‘not remembering’, moving on, restoration and reconciliation, and to be clear which of them we are talking about at any one time and how far they can and cannot be separated out. What is required to ‘move on’, for example, may well include several of them. Bearing these many options in mind, from open doors and letting-go to new-found friendships and reconciliation, it might be more fruitful, and certainly as far as further research is concerned, to identify more carefully which of them, rather than ‘forgiveness’ as such, we might want to promote or object to promoting in a restorative justice conference, in general, or one such conference, in particular. Repentance and reparation may prove non-controversial. The actual use of the word ‘forgiveness’, whatever we encourage in practice, may well be banned if it inevitably carries unhelpful religious overtones and associated ideas. We might object to some options, such as the ending of hostilities or to restoration or reconciliation, because we regard them as inappropriate or premature or not in the interests of justice or the best interests of those involved, or simply best left out for the time being. On the other hand, a degree of emotional release might meet the immediate needs of many. Where, on common ground, it is generally agreed about which options, or what we might regard as aspects of forgiveness, could play a useful role and should therefore be welcomed, Christians may be especially motivated to see that they are.

CHAPTER 5

Just Enough to Be Satisfied Matthew J. Mills

Abstract  Despite criticism of medieval developments in the theory and practice of justice, the concept of ‘satisfaction’ derived from atonement theology may be helpful to restorative justice. Making satisfaction, according to Anselm of Canterbury, is a means of avoiding retribution (i.e. pain as an end in itself) whilst also taking wrongdoing seriously, since it does not preclude punishment with redemption or restoration as its goal. The Rule of St Benedict, under which Anselm lived, offers a blueprint for a communitarian model of justice with satisfaction at its heart; victims are empowered to determine the gravity of faults whilst, as a result of a generous definition of satisfaction as a ‘sufficient token’ or ‘just enough’, wrongdoers are also protected from vengefulness. Keywords  Medieval justice • Non-retributive satisfaction • Community Restorative justice is not a unified theory.1 At its heart, there is a lack of definitional consensus around the meaning of ‘restoration’ and whether the restorative justice paradigm is primarily a set of values or of pre-­ approved processes (conferencing, mediation, etc.) designed to 1

 See, also, Taylor, Chap. 7.

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achieve certain objectives.2 Nevertheless, all restorative justice theory begins from the assumption that current approaches to justice are flawed and in need of radical reform. In the sphere of criminal justice, retributive approaches have been judged by the supporters of restorative justice to be outmoded, failing to meet the needs of communities in which wrongdoing is taking place and failing to support victims as they seek to come to terms with their experiences. Even the traditional language of criminal justice some have claimed to be unhelpful. They argue that labels like ‘victim’ (which we retain here for ease of comprehension) should be replaced, since they disempower those who are subject to ‘acts of harm and wrongdoing’ (the substitutes for ‘crime’) and lock them into a discourse and set of relationships in which they are perceived as weak, unfit to fight their own corner, and in need of protection by the state.3 In a similar way, the term ‘offender’ is thought to belong to a dehumanising and pejorative discourse, branding wrongdoers with a permanent mark of their crimes, thereby precluding reform and reintegration into mainstream society. For some restorative justice theorists, the language of ‘victims’ and ‘offenders’ is not just unhelpful, it is immoral; and consequently, the system it upholds is unfit for purpose. Values-based approaches to restorative justice seek to reform the whole ethical framework upon which justice rests, whilst process/outcomes-based approaches focus upon maximising the performance of justice. If restorative justice can truly function as an approach to harm in many different contexts (beyond criminal justice, encompassing discipline at home and in school, for example) then this distinction between values and processes/outcomes is crucial. The same set of values (some positive, some negative) may pertain in many situations but be applied differently. Restorative justice is underpinned by an ethic of healing for victims and compassion for wrongdoers, but its genesis has been in the rejection of prevailing values which have allowed retributive justice to flourish. ‘Satisfaction’, the subject of this chapter, is one value against which restorative justice approaches have sometimes been defined, with the claim that it can legitimise arbitrary punishment or retribution. 2  This is a fundamental problem, since definitions of restoration determine (i.e. broaden or restrict) definitions of harm. See Bolivar, ‘Conceptualising victims’ “Restoration” in Restorative Justice’, International Review of Victimology 17 (2010), pp. 237–265 (p. 257). 3  See J. van Dijk, ‘Free the Victim: A Critique of the Western Concept of Victimhood’, International Review of Victimology 16 (2009), pp. 1–33 (p. 1).

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The suspicion of processes involving painful punishment as an end in itself lies at the heart of restorative justice. It rejects transactional approaches to harm and wrongdoing, in which a third party (the state) exacts a pre-determined payment from a wrongdoer in recognition of their breach of a specific provision of the law, and without consulting the wronged party (except as a witness for the prosecution). This kind of approach fails, it is said, because it does not seek to empower victims by helping them come to terms with their trauma, nor create the conditions for the moral growth of wrongdoers by bringing them to a deep understanding of the problem with their behaviour and its impact. Critics also claim that it is myopic, focused upon delivering a specific (arbitrary) punishment for a specific infraction, rather than restoring a right relationship between offenders and their victims by a personal and mutually-engaging process; still less, restoring or renewing the fabric of society.4 According to leading advocates of restorative justice, the current situation is very bleak indeed: ‘What we are doing is inflicting pain. Penal law would be more honestly called “pain law” because in essence it is a system for inflicting graduated measures of pain.’5 The idea that the relationship between retributive and restorative justice is a zero-sum game has been encouraged by those who, amongst others, appeal to Judeo-Christian biblical morality as their inspiration. Howard Zehr, one of the fathers of restorative justice, has argued that the ‘covenant justice’ which governs relationships between God and his people in the Old Testament, may provide a model for restorative justice by its focus upon ‘making things right, finding a settlement, restoring shalom’.6 In a similar way, Pierre Allard and Wayne Northey have proposed that the crucifixion, described in the New Testament, forged a permanent association between Christianity and criminal justice, whilst also delegitimising a culture of scapegoating wrongdoers by the sacrifice of the innocent

4  See G.  Pavlich, ‘Deconstructing Restoration: The Promise of Restorative Justice’, in E.  G. M.  Weitekamp and H.-J.  Kerner, eds, Restorative Justice: Theoretical Foundations (Cullompton: Willan, 2002), pp. 90–109 (p. 94). On the potential of restorative justice to transform society, see Taylor, Chap. 7. 5  Nils Christie, cited in H. Zehr, ‘Retributive Justice, Restorative Justice’, in G. Johnstone, ed., A Restorative Justice Reader: Texts, Sources, Context (Cullompton: Willan, 2003), pp. 69–82 (p. 71). 6  Ibid., p. 78.

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God-­Man.7 These approaches, whilst not identical, have two fundamental characteristics in common: first, an appeal to the holy texts of Judaism and Christianity to provide authoritative blueprints for restorative processes and their underlying values (healing for victims and fairness for wrongdoers); second, criticism of developments in western jurisprudence in the central and high middle ages (i.e. eleventh to fourteenth centuries) for apparently fostering the intellectual system underpinning retributive justice. Criticism of medieval developments has centred upon the twin pillars of the restorative justice prospectus: the re-empowerment of victims and the re-humanisation of wrongdoers. Restorative justice aims to give the greatest possible recognition to victims as stakeholders (especially in determining the appropriate response from wrongdoers) and, in turn, to combat the ‘othering’ of wrongdoers by rejecting scapegoating and fostering reintegration. This means, amongst other things, building into the criminal justice system an operative value of subsidiarity, which ensures that acts of harm and wrongdoing are dealt with at a local level, as close to stakeholders’ real lives as possible.8 The problem with the justice of the central and high middle ages, it is claimed, is that community-based and local models of dispute resolution gave way to centralisation as monarchs gradually usurped the role of victims and statutory punishments began to be exacted from wrongdoers by royal representatives. In effect, these developments have been described as a ‘grab’ of secular power by eleventh-century kings and their successors; as medieval kings were stripped of their sacral identities by an unprecedentedly belligerent papal monarchy following Leo IX (r. 1049–1054), determined to liberate the church from secular interference, they began to seek compensation in the accumulation of temporal power instead.9 Another version of this secularisation thesis is that developments in twelfth-century canon law, intent upon the prosecution of heresy (ending, ultimately, in the invention of the Inquisition), created a

7  See P. Allard and W. Northey, ‘Christianity: The Rediscovery of Restorative Justice’, in Johnstone, ed., Reader, pp. 158–169 (p. 159). 8  This is often claimed to be a hallmark of models of justice practised by indigenous communities. See, for instance, A. Fallon ‘Restoration as the spirit of Islamic justice,’ Contemporary Justice Review 23.4 (2020), pp. 430–443 (p. 431). 9  See Allard and Northey, ‘Rediscovery of Restorative Justice’, p. 163.

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blueprint for the centralisation of power which was later adopted by European monarchies.10 Whilst there is no consensus about the prime catalyst behind these developments between those restorative justice theorists who refer to the middle ages, their descriptions of what took place are generally consistent: the centralisation of justice and the rise of retribution. Zehr has given a forceful summary: ‘I am arguing that history has been a dialectic between two rival systems. Community justice was basically extra-legal, often negotiated, often restitutive. State justice was legal, expressing formal rationalism and rules, the rigidification of custom and principles derived from the Roman tradition into law. It was imposed justice, punitive justice, hierarchical justice.’11 Notwithstanding the obvious dangers of doing justice at a micro level, vulnerable to the vicissitudes of local power play, the advocates of restorative justice have tended to extol the virtues of community-­ based models whilst condemning statutory justice, especially for replacing negotiated settlements with the imposition of prescribed doses of retribution. The latter has been described as a ‘just desserts’ approach, predicated upon the belief: ‘Everyone must get what is due, and what is due is pain.’12 In other words, the demands of justice must be satisfied and the only valid satisfaction which is possible is retribution. For the intellectual roots of retributivism in the west, we are invited to look at the atonement theology of Anselm of Canterbury; specifically, the idea attributed to him that the crucifixion of Christ made satisfaction for the sins of humankind only as an act of retribution. Anselm stands accused of stripping the crucifixion of compassion and mercy, promoting the image of God as ‘a severe judge bent on punishment and almost literally “blood thirsty”’;13 that is, helping to inculcate a new religious and cultural sensibility which saw wrongdoing in terms of debt, and pain as the only valid form of repayment.14 Detractors claim that this helped to embed the metaphysical foundations of just desserts or, as one has defined it, ‘the reciprocity code’ (i.e. bad people deserve bad things) which came to underpin retributive justice.15 One of the tragic side effects of associating Anselm 10  See Zehr, ‘Retributive Justice, Restorative Justice’, p. 76; also, J. Braithwaite, Restorative Justice and Responsive Regulation (Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), p. 7. 11  Zehr, ‘Retributive Justice, Restorative Justice’, p. 76. 12  Ibid., p. 71. 13  Allard and Northey, ‘Rediscovery of Restorative Justice’, p. 164. 14  See ibid., p. 163. 15  N. Wolterstorff, Justice in Love (Grand Rapids, MI: Wm B. Eerdmans, 2011), p. 191.

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with legalism and retributivism in this way has been to make him a persona non grata of restorative justice, erecting a wall of suspicion around his theology and precluding meaningful engagement. The reality of his thinking is quite different, however, and it deserves a second look. Anselm did not advance a retributive theory of the atonement but rather a restorative approach based upon an anti-retributive concept of satisfaction. Far from a mechanism for exacting a necessary degree of pain in exchange for forgiveness, the crucifixion was, for Anselm, a means of making voluntary reparation for the debt associated with original sin (i.e. failing to render due honour to God), intensified by humanity’s incapacity to make reparation for itself, in order to forestall the punishment of the damned.16 Put more positively, it was the means by which human beings could be transformed into the likeness of the population of heaven and made fit for a state of eternal blessedness.17 In this light, the accusation from restorative justice theorists that Anselm’s approach is penal and retributive is shown to be disingenuous. In fact, this view is the result of later interpolation or eisegesis, as Caroline Walker Bynum has explained: ‘Recent scholarship … insists that Anselmian satisfaction was increasingly understood as a theory that Christ substitutes not only for our debt but also for the punishment we must endure (something Anselm nowhere said).’18 Bynum is correct, for even though Anselm’s exploration of the relationship between satisfaction and punishment includes some potentially misleading phrases (‘it is not fitting for God to forgive a sin without punishment’, for example),19 the relationship between the two concepts reflects the juxtaposition of opposites rather than a synergy between two compatible responses to wrongdoing; satisfaction and retribution are alternative modes of redress.20 Except possibly in respect of the fate of the damned  – souls consigned to eternal torment for having rejected God entirely – punishment is nowhere defined retributively, with pain as an end in itself. 16  On human incapacity as a cause of blame, see Anselm of Canterbury, Cur Deus Homo I. 24. 17  See ibid., I. 19. 18  C. W. Bynum, ‘The Power in the Blood: Sacrifice, Satisfaction, and Substitution in Late Medieval Soteriology’ in S. T. Davis, ed., The Redemption: An Interdisciplinary Symposium on Christ as Redeemer (Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), pp. 177–204 (p. 178). 19  Anselm of Canterbury, Cur Deus Homo I. 12. 20  See ibid., I. 15.

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Regrettably, too many commentators on Anselm – failing, presumably, to extricate themselves from the straitjacket of earlier scholarship – even those who distinguish between arbitrary, painful punishment and satisfaction successfully, have continued to claim that his atonement theology provided an impetus for retributivism. One such is Timothy Gorringe, whose work on retribution has influenced restorative justice. He takes the Anselmian paradigm to be one in which satisfaction is merely an imitation of necessary, painful punishment (i.e. retribution as an end in itself): ‘punishment must follow sin … satisfaction may take the place of punishment’.21 Citing the treatise, Cur Deus Homo (Why God became Man) I. 24, Gorringe argues that, for Anselm, ‘God’s justice allows nothing but punishment as the recompense for sin’, thereby suggesting that the satisfaction by which it may be avoided is merely a subset of retribution, rather than an alternative model.22 Yet, on the contrary, the purpose of Cur Deus Homo (especially book two) is to demonstrate the lengths to which God was prepared to go to pursue the alternative to retribution for his creatures, whom he wished to join him forever in a state of bliss. Having established the insuperable magnitude of sin for creatures seeking to make recompense in the first book of his treatise, Anselm’s second book turns to the extraordinary means by which God intervened to ensure that human beings would neither be lost nor, crucially, subjected to pain for the sake of expiation; namely, his own incarnation and crucifixion. Notwithstanding the remorselessness of Anselmian logic concerning what the just mercy of God required as a condition for forgiveness, it is clear that compassionate, restorative justice is the predicate of his atonement theology, not arbitrary punishment. Desiring only the salvation of his creatures, God made of himself a genuinely bloody sacrifice (see Rv 12:11) since, as Bynum has commented, evocatively, about a fourteenth-century passion meditation: ‘Ecstasy lies … in a net of scourging; redemption is wallowing in gore.’23 Inevitably, perhaps, the goriness of medieval perceptions of the crucifixion has led to their association with negative values, such as vengeance and retribution, which many find off-putting, including advocates of restorative justice. But again, the reality demands more careful thought. For medieval theologians, the suffering of Christ was not a symbol of the 21  T.  Gorringe, God’s Just Vengeance: Crime, Violence and the Rhetoric of Salvation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), p. 94. 22  See ibid., p. 95. 23  Bynum, ‘Power in the Blood’, p. 184.

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heights of divine wrath but of the depths of his compassion, the purpose of which was to accuse onlookers for causing such distress and enkindle in them a fitting response, an inclination to render to God his due by partaking of the sufferings of Christ themselves.24 The temptation to elide suffering and retribution, like conflating satisfaction and arbitrary punishment, must be resisted in studies of medieval thought, for they are not the same; they are alternatives. Suffering is more powerful if it is redemptive rather than arbitrarily pain-inducing, and satisfaction more compelling if it is restorative rather than retributive. On the latter point, in particular, Richard Cross has explained that ‘it would be an argument against the satisfaction theory if it could be shown to presuppose a retributive theory of punishment’.25 An understanding of satisfaction from medieval sources would, on the whole, preclude retributive punishment, without diminishing or minimising the experiences of victims. Instead, their suffering, like the sufferings of Christ, would be placed at the forefront. As Bynum has explained, suffering in the middle ages was thought to have restorative qualities; meditating upon the passion of Christ could induce guilt, shame and the desire for amendment, which were often seen as the preconditions for wrongdoers seeking satisfaction. Such suffering was not an end in itself, but took seriously the gravity of faults as well as seeing them as opportunities for growth. Through the lens of the passion, the contemplation of the sin of Adam did not lead to despair but a sober joy and hope. Certainly, original sin was taken seriously as the origin of discordance in the divinely-­ orchestrated harmony of creation, but it was also the ‘happy fault’ (felix culpa) described by Ambrose of Milan and Augustine of Hippo, and proclaimed throughout the whole church on Holy Saturday through the Easter Proclamation (Exsultet) from at least the seventh century. A medieval view of satisfaction would help restorative justice to revision crime along lines described by its advocate, John Braithwaite, as a chance to loosen the grip of evil upon the world: ‘Crime is an opportunity to prevent greater evils, to confront crime with a grace that transforms human lives to paths of loving and giving.’26 For Braithwaite, ‘the more evil the crime, the greater the opportunity for grace to inspire a transformative will  See ibid., p. 189.   See R.  Cross, ‘Atonement without Satisfaction’, Religious Studies 37 (2001), pp. 397–416 (pp. 400–401). 26  Braithwaite, Restorative Justice and Responsive Regulation, p. 3. 24 25

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to resist tyranny with compassion’.27 The remainder of this chapter will seek to outline such a vision: taking inspiration from monasticism to promote community as the context for doing justice, and to empower victims to determine the gravity of faults and the degree of satisfaction needed to make amends; then, inspired by Anselmian theology, to conceive of satisfaction as the key to an holistic process of healing and transformation, restoring right order in human relationships. The first lesson which restorative justice can take from the middle ages is the centrality of community life, exemplified by the monasteries, as the context for the operation of what has already been described as a principal of subsidiarity; that is, doing justice as close as possible to those affected by wrongdoing. For our purposes, we are referring to monastic communities constituted and living according to the Rule of St Benedict, a short document but one of the most formative for western civilisation. The Rule provides many helpful lessons for the practice of justice, undergirded by a restorative spirit, expressed in the injunction: ‘If you have a dispute with someone, make peace with him before the sun goes down.’28 Medieval monasticism based on the Rule was, fundamentally, a penitential form of life, the context for making satisfaction for sin and (more positively) advancing along the path of virtue towards salvation. Satisfaction was a key part of the penitential process and the monastic community, as an alternative to the public square, provided the locus of acts of penance.29 In what has been described as the ‘penitential code’ of the Rule (chapters 23–30, 44), the processes available to the community for dealing with wrongdoing are clearly defined. Crucially, the code is not altogether anti-punitive but anti-retributive, containing within it the possibility of a short exile, punishment by excommunication – not least to prevent further harm to victims or the community  – whilst an appropriate measure of satisfaction is determined. To reiterate something mentioned earlier, this exile may entail suffering, but it should be redemptive (not making pain an end in itself), with restoration as its end goal. According to the Rule, punishment by excommunication ought to follow several reproofs  – two in private and a third in  Ibid., p. 3.  Rule of St Benedict [RSB], ed. by T.  Fry (Collegeville, MN: The Liturgical Press, 1982), IV. 73. 29  See B. Guevin, ‘A Liturgico-ethical Reading of Benedict’s Penitential Code’, Cistercian Studies Quarterly 32.4 (1997), pp. 433–452. 27 28

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public30 – and may only be applied to members of the community who have reached the age of reason. Benedict of Nursia explained that punishment by excommunication only works if its nature is understood, which means (for example) that it may not always be appropriate for children: ‘those who cannot understand the seriousness of the penalty’.31 It is not to be taken lightly, representing the culmination of a preliminary process which is judged to have failed, but nor is it the same as other types of punishment, especially not the ultimate sanction of permanent exclusion or banishment. Punishment by excommunication is transitional in nature, undergirded by a sincere hope for restoration, but it is unlike other forms of transitional action, including blunter weapons such as corporal punishment: ‘they should be subjected to severe fasts or checked with sharp strokes so that they may be healed’.32 Whilst both these forms of transitional punishment are designed to straighten out the crooked heart and will, excommunication is the more subtle psychological instrument. It is a mechanism whereby the community recognises and puts into practical effect the position of ‘otherness’ already occupied by the wrongdoer as a result of their actions.33 Sinners put themselves outside the moral community, cut off from the means of their salvation. Through excommunication, the religious superior sets them apart physically, in recognition of the moral impact of their actions which have damaged the community and may risk further harm. Deprived of a place at the common table and, in serious cases, the oratory, wrongdoers lose the sustenance they need for body and soul.34 Such is the gravity of punishment by excommunication that it also imposes an obligation upon the rest of the community to withhold their society and even their prayers. Simply to converse with the one forced to dwell in isolation carries the penalty of the same excommunication, as ritual impurity is spread from one to the other, along with the need to undergo the same rehabilitative process. Recognising a wrongdoer’s newfound status – the effect of their sin – and cutting them off from the moral and social community is certainly punitive, but it is not necessarily (nor ideally) retributive. They are meant  RSB XXIII. 2–3.  Ibid., XXX. 2. 32  Ibid., XXX. 3. 33  Perhaps it could be described as a monastic ‘ritual’, according to the definition of rituals as effecting transition (e.g. from harm to healing) described in Blyth, Chap. 3. 34  See RSB XXIV-XXV. 1. 30 31

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to feel the pinch of starvation, but not as an external sanction arbitrarily imposed as an end in itself. The purpose is to remind wrongdoers that sins have consequences, and to encourage them to spend time in heartfelt reflection upon their actions, leading to an understanding of their impact and – crucially – a desire for amendment; in other words, to lay the necessary groundwork for satisfaction. Such punitive practices are neither unique to the Rule of St Benedict nor inimical to restorative justice. Whilst most advocates of restorative justice seem to have followed Zehr in arguing that pain-punishment-based and restorative models of justice are incompatible, since the former implies and legitimises retribution, others have suggested that this may be an unhelpful contemporary dichotomy. Restorative justice theory often appeals to community-based models of justice, which were apparently to be found in pre-medieval societies, before the rot set in. However, this could be quite problematic. For a start, it may be appealing to a chimera for which little or no real evidence can be found. In a scathing criticism, one commentator has accused the champions of restorative justice of being wrongly ‘attracted by communitarian utopias that herald a return to mythically conceived communities, harmoniously gracing the days of yore’.35 Similarly, another critic has explained that in many early societies, especially when punishment has been linked to expiatory sacrifices necessitated by the breach of religious taboos, restorative beliefs and practices coexisted with ‘strong currents of punitiveness and violence’.36 In such circumstances, punishment may have been used to signify the gravity of an offence, making wrongdoers feel bad (i.e. inducing guilt) and, in turn, helping to repair or restore their broken relationships with a deity. In reality, community-based approaches to justice may provide models for the creation of liminal spaces in which wrongdoers contemplate their actions, and so suggest some compatibility between restorative justice and (non-retributive) punishment. This is certainly a lesson which may be drawn from Benedictine monasticism, which prescribes transitional punishment by excommunication as the means of creating the conditions for return and rehabilitation. In the monastic paradigm, it may be suggested that the abbot – who imposes punishment by excommunication – stands  Pavlich, ‘Deconstructing Restoration’, p. 90.  R. E. Mackay, ‘Punishment, Guilt and Spirit in Restorative Justice: An Essay in Legal and Religious Anthropology’, in Weitekamp and Kerner, eds, Theoretical Foundations, pp. 247–266 (p. 248). 35 36

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for the harmed party, determining the gravity of faults and the degree of satisfaction needed to make amends.37 The abbot takes on this role – the persona of the victim – by right of his election; his being in persona Christi, standing in the place of the archetypal victim.38 The abbot forces the wrongdoer to embrace the status which is a consequence of their offending behaviour as well as the condition in which they may find the heart for empathy and apology, having considered the harmed party’s feelings of violation, uncleanness and unworthiness. He is an empowered victim, taking a leading role in the process whereby harm is redressed and restoration fostered. In keeping with the demands of restorative justice, the Benedictine abbot shows how victims can be in the driving seat of justice processes, in which each party, as Marilyn McCord Adams explained, experiences a degree of honour and shame determined by the performance of their social role.39 The evidence that punishment by excommunication is neither arbitrary nor retributive, however, is that it also imposes a responsibility upon the harmed party to work towards the wrongdoer’s reintegration. The purpose of this type of punishment is to bring an end to punishment, a principle enshrined not only in the Rule of St Benedict but also in Anselm’s Cur Deus Homo. To quote McCord Adams, Anselm understood that ‘Divine wisdom and power must make a success of divine projects which feature an ideal society populated not only by angels but also by members of Adam’s race. This plan cannot be carried out if Adam’s entire race is perpetually punished. Satisfaction is the alternative to punishment. Divine resourcefulness must find a way for satisfaction to be paid.’40 For Anselm, himself a Benedictine monk, Christ was the great abbot – the archetypal empowered victim – who both faced up to the moral seriousness of harm and reached out to wrongdoers in love, in the hope of ending their exile from the kingdom of heaven. Thus, the Rule of St Benedict instructs the abbot to make every effort to reintegrate wrongdoers; he ‘should follow the procedure of a wise physician. After he has applied compresses, the ointment of encouragement, the medicine of divine Scripture, and finally the cauterizing iron of  See RSB XXIV. 2; XLIV. 3.  See ibid., II. 2. 39  See M.  McCord Adams, ‘St Anselm and the Goodness of God’, in G.  Gasper and I. Logan, eds, Saint Anselm of Canterbury and His Legacy (Toronto: Institute of Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2012), pp. 360–384 (p. 366). 40  Ibid., p. 367. 37 38

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excommunication and strokes of the rod, and if he then perceives that his earnest efforts are unavailing, let him apply an even better remedy: he and all the brothers should pray for him so that the Lord, who can do all things, may bring about the health of the sick brother.’41 The abbot acts first out of love and second out of the fear of the failure of the project of his abbacy, the trust that God has placed in him. In so far as the abbot stands in place of the harmed party, it may be very onerous indeed to set aside resentment and act in this way; but it is crucial to the success of the restorative process. Dispute resolution and the righting of wrong which is not handed over to an unconnected third party but involves all stakeholders, requires that victims, in their newfound role as masters of the process, make room for wrongdoers. Neo-classical approaches to criminal justice have been criticised for marginalising victims by concentrating power in the courts (professionalising justice), and victims rightly complain about this.42 However, it is a matter of justice that a restorative approach to crime, which empowers victims to regain and exercise such control, also creates genuine opportunities for wrongdoers to be reintegrated, inspired by a dawning awareness that they are loved or, at least, willed to exist.43 In their liminal condition, so the monastic theory goes, wrongdoers will know the desire of the moral community for their restoration and be inspired by the shame of being cast out to realise the seriousness of the harm they have perpetrated, cultivate heartfelt repentance, and volunteer to make any necessary satisfaction. Such is the power of what has been described by Braithwaite as ‘reintegrative shaming’. Braithwaite does not appear to have had Benedictine monasticism in mind when devising his theory, which he labelled ‘decidedly Victorian’,44 but the Rule seems to embody many of his central ideas, and more besides. In a nutshell, Braithwaite’s theory is: ‘Crime is best controlled when members of the community are the primary controllers through active participation in shaming offenders, and, having shamed them, through concerted participation in ways of reintegrating the offender back into the community of law-abiding citizens.’45 Such shaming can both reduce crime rates and  RSB XXVIII. 2–5.  See J. Braithwaite, Crime, Shame and Reintegration (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), p. 7. 43  See J. Pieper, Faith, Hope, Love (San Francisco, NC: Ignatius Press, repr. 1997), p. 164. Also Mills, Chap. 3. 44  Braithwaite, Crime, Shame and Reintegration, p. viii. 45  Ibid., p. 8. 41 42

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procure effective conscience-building; and it works best within a communitarian framework in which individuals are bound together by multiple interdependencies. In Braithwaite’s own criminological jargon, it relies on the successful interplay of ‘macro variables’, such as communitarianism, and ‘micro variables’, such as interdependency, to produce a shaming effect which in turn disincentivises bad ‘micro choices’, such as becoming part of a criminal subculture.46 The net effect of all this is to ‘constitute a culture of intolerance and understanding’,47 directly analogous to the kind of inflexible love to which our previous chapter referred.48 The crucial point here is that reintegrative shaming must be born out of love for, rather than rejection of, the other – apart from their offending behaviour  – so that it does not stigmatise or scapegoat. Benedictine monasticism is the ideal expression of this because it is underpinned by the Christian commitment to just mercy which militates against the desire for revenge. Repressive social control, one consequence of scapegoating, has, since Émile Durkheim, been criticised as both ineffective and morally wrong, affronting a sense of human dignity.49 Reintegrative shaming, by contrast, entails informal social control predicated upon moralising by societies marked by common beliefs about right and wrong. Here again, the Rule of St Benedict would seem to offer an ideal context for this process. Unlike contemporary society, marked by diverse and competing moral systems, monasticism provides a core of values around which its members can coalesce. What we have been describing so far is really the first stage of a non-­ retributive journey of satisfaction, which could (it is hoped) be acceptable to restorative justice; namely, the empowerment of victims to control justice processes whilst creating the conditions in which wrongdoers – prevented from committing further harm – are given the space to contemplate the gravity of their actions. Wrongdoers are put to shame by temporary excommunication from the moral community and thus given cause to feel the humility and desire for amendment which, in the monastic paradigm, lead to an act of reparation. This would mean the direct repayment from wrongdoers to victims of something that is needed to restore right order;

 See ibid., p. 110.  Ibid., p. 110. 48  See Mills, Chap. 3. 49  See Braithwaite, Crime, Shame and Reintegration, p. 10. 46 47

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in the words of Howard Zehr, to make things right.50 The psychological transformation of wrongdoers during their liminality fosters a will to act to repair their broken relationship with victims and the moral community. In order the meet the demands of restorative justice, the satisfaction of wrongdoers must be a genuinely free choice. In monasticism and medieval theology, we discover that this requires a true change of heart and the cultivation of humility. In his Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans, Peter Abelard explained the power of the cross in terms of the inspiration it can provide for those who contemplate it; to activate the grace in which they were created and bear the fruit of charity in their lives.51 This means allowing meditation upon the suffering of victims – here, the archetypal victim – to inspire genuine repentance and the desire to make an act of reparation. The cross of Christ is a shaming mechanism, holding up a mirror to the sins of those whose wrongdoing made it necessary. The power of this shame is to foster humility, which happens to be the subject of the longest chapter in the Rule of St Benedict. Humility is the ground of virtue, including the virtue of charity (caritas) which reaches out in love. Restoration, which Christian theology calls redemption, can only be accomplished by cultivating a humble heart and mind. Whilst pride erects walls, excluding the other, humility – like vulnerability – creates vast spaces in the soul, making it open to mutual affection. Benedict’s vision of humility consists of twelve steps, marked by increasing openness, especially to the religious superior, and the conformity (or submission) of one’s own will to that of another. This is meant to become a ‘habit’ marking and changing one’s life forever by reconstituting it as an expression of ‘perfect love’.52 This is very close, we may contend, to what Braithwaite means by suggesting that crime creates an opportunity ‘to inspire a transformative will to resist tyranny’;53 namely, the cultivation of a habit of humility whereby the wrongdoer submits their will to that of the victim, creating a new state of affairs. The will, the power for making choices, is no longer inclined towards evil but will seek only the good; and the more often it does so, the easier it will become. For Anselm, it was just such uprightness of the will, preserved for its own sake, which constituted the original justice possessed by human beings before the fall.54  Zehr, ‘Retributive Justice, Restorative Justice’, p. 78.  See P. Abelard, Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans, trans. by S. R. Cartwright (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2011); T. Williams, ‘Sin, grace, and redemption’, in J. E. Brower and K. Guilfoy, eds, The Cambridge Companion to Abelard (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), pp. 258–278. 52  See RSB VII. 67–68. 53  Braithwaite, Restorative Justice and Responsive Regulation, p. 3. 54  See Anselm of Canterbury, De Conceptu Virginali, 3. 50 51

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This paradigm has the potential to make victims all-powerful, creating opportunities for unjust treatment of wrongdoers born of a desire for revenge or retribution. Once again, however, monasticism and medieval theology show that this would be incompatible with a truly non-­retributive definition of satisfaction. In order to safeguard wrongdoers – and the very justice of processes claiming to seek their restoration – all that victims have the right to demand is a sufficient token; just enough. In the Rule of St Benedict, punishment by excommunication comes to an end when the abbot gives his blessing and says just one word, ‘enough’ (sufficit).55 This conception of the scale of satisfaction needed to make amends originated in Roman law. As one commentator has explained, it meant ‘to make some kind of payment on a debt in order to show willing and in the hope that the creditor will remit the rest or some of it, and not pursue you at law or otherwise’.56 In other words, it is a para-legal token, voluntarily given in place of due punishment; as such, the very act of agreeing to attend a restorative justice conference could be taken as part of the wrongdoer’s satisfaction by a benevolent victim. The moral significance of regarding satisfaction in this way is that demanding a token, rather than full restitution, will not act as a deterrent to wrongdoers to engage in restorative justice processes, by creating anger and resentment. This was certainly the view taken by Thomas Aquinas of the kind of satisfaction required by the church in the sacrament of penance and reconciliation.57 It was also a point developed in some Middle English literature, including the fourteenth-century poem, ‘Pearl’, and Geoffrey Chaucer’s ‘Clerk’s Tale’. In both of these, ynogh stands somewhere between ‘too little’ and ‘too much’, without negating the idea of ‘completeness’, since excess and completeness are not the same.58 Here, we begin to see the threads of a non-retributive understanding of satisfaction suitable for restorative justice coming together. In a process involving all stakeholders, the willingness to make satisfaction belongs to wrongdoers, but the willingness to demand and accept a reasonable token belongs to  RSB XLIV. 10.  J. Bossy, ‘Practices of Satisfaction, 1215–1700’, Studies in Church History 40 (2004), pp. 106–118 (p. 107). 57  See ibid., p. 108. 58  See J. Mann, ‘Satisfaction and Payment in Middle English Literature’, in J. Mann and M. Rasmussen, eds, Life in Words: Essays on Chaucer, the Gawain-poet, and Malory (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2014), pp. 138–166 (pp. 140–141). 55 56

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victims. Enough will never be sufficient, no matter how abundantly ­supplied, if the victim is avaricious; but a token may be sufficient, if they are generous. There is no need for human satisfaction to be all-in-all, since this has already been accomplished by Christ’s sacrifice upon the cross; all other satisfaction is an imitation. Its scope is equally mimetic. For medieval theologians like Anselm, the crucifixion restored harmony to a world broken by human sin, and its effects were experienced throughout the natural order. In his greatest prayer, addressed to the Virgin Mary, Anselm wrote: ‘Heaven, stars, earth, waters, day and night, and whatever was in the power or use of men was guilty; they rejoice now, Lady, that they lost that glory, for a new and ineffable grace has been given them through you.’59 Arguably, Aquinas went further than Anselm, to emphasise that the crucifixion does not just restore, it transforms: ‘It serves as the instrument for creating a new order’.60 In Aquinas’ own words: ‘there is no reason why human nature should not have been raised to something greater after sin. For God allows evils to happen in order to bring a greater good therefrom; hence it is written (Romans 5:20): “Where sin abounded, grace did more abound.” Hence, too, in the blessing of the Paschal candle, we say: “O happy fault, that merited such and so great a Redeemer!”’61 Note, in these words, echoes of the reference to original sin as a felix culpa and, more importantly, to Braithwaite’s opinion that ‘the more evil the crime, the greater the opportunity’.62 We began by describing satisfaction as a value, derived from medieval atonement theology, of which restorative justice advocates seem to be suspicious, regarding it as inimical to a non-retributive and communitarian theory of justice. We have tried to counter this claim on several fronts, arguing that an authentically medieval understanding of satisfaction, embodied in the Rule of St Benedict, may be perfectly consistent with the objectives of restorative justice. In fact, in so far as it provides a genuinely and historically attestable communitarian context for restoration, it may offer a better pattern for restorative justice than mythical utopias of the 59  Anselm of Canterbury, ‘Prayer to St Mary (3)’, lines 118–122, trans. by B. Ward, Prayers and Meditations of Saint Anselm with the Proslogion (London: Penguin, 1973), p. 118. 60  J.  Bracken, ‘Thomas Aquinas and Anselm’s Satisfaction Theory’, Angelicum 62.4 (1985), pp. 501–530 (p. 504). 61  Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae III, 1, 3. 62  Braithwaite, Restorative Justice and Responsive Regulation, p. 3.

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days of yore. The monastic paradigm reveals an operative value of subsidiarity, as well as a role for a competent authority; not the state but the victim, represented by the abbot. This means empowering victims to take ownership of justice processes, to recover the function they lost through the violations of an act of harm, and to engage directly with wrongdoers, with the risk of their being made passive or revictimised much reduced. Importantly, though, it also guards against the abuse of wrongdoers by defining satisfaction itself as ‘just enough’, a sufficient token to make amends, and calling upon victims to be generous, imitating the true and archetypal victim, Christ. Finally, it may be beneficial to think of satisfaction less as a value undergirding a specific moment (the moment of reparation or restitution) and more as a journey, through empowerment for victims, and shaming, humility, and the desire for amendment for wrongdoers. For restorative justice, this would require a new appreciation not merely of the power of non-retributive satisfaction to effect restoration, but of the potential of a journey of satisfaction to bring about the transformation of the human condition; and all this from the medieval sources which are held in such suspicion.

CHAPTER 6

Forgiveness and the Conference Experience Myra N. Blyth

Abstract  Restorative justice processes may be described as ‘thinner’ without forgiveness, understood as both a costly journey of reaching out to the ‘other’ and of subsequent endurance. The conference is the heart of restorative justice, yet very little empirical evidence has been gathered regarding the dynamics of forgiveness within conferencing processes, or analysis undertaken of whether/how to maximise the experience of forgiveness. Our qualitative study, involving structured interviews with participants (harmed, harmers, facilitators), suggests that, despite definitional complexity and some reservations, forgiveness and forgiveness-related ideas (such as ‘letting go’ and ‘moving on’) can be hallmarks of the conference, often emerging from unexpected shifts in emotional dynamics. Keywords  Empirical research • Restorative justice conference • Experiencing forgiveness The place of forgiveness in restorative justice is vigorously debated, both by theorists and practitioners. Whilst some contend that forgiveness needs to be integral for outcomes to be ‘fully’ restorative, others see forgiveness as an ‘emergent’ value: a helpful by-product that may be fostered through restorative justice, but is not essential to it. Others still,

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M. N. Blyth et al., Forgiveness and Restorative Justice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75282-8_6

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recoil from any suggestion that restorative justice should be associated with forgiveness, seeing this as an unwarranted and potentially dangerous infringement of participants’ autonomy: an attempt to impose external and illegitimate expectations upon a process that belongs to them. In 2014, as described in the preface to this book, experts from across continents and from many different disciplines came together to share in a symposium on the nature of forgiveness and its place in restorative justice. Whilst the topics of papers and contributors’ viewpoints were diverse, some consistent themes emerged, involving substantial and significant areas of common ground. First, they pointed to gaps in the evidence: gaps which had to be filled through empirical, qualitative research capturing what participants in restorative justice processes understand forgiveness to mean; how (if at all) they experience this in restorative justice settings; and what (if any) difference this makes to the outcomes of restorative justice processes. Filling these gaps is critical to moving discussion and practice forward. Second, they acknowledged the complexity, risks and sensitivities surrounding notions of forgiveness in the context of restorative justice. Finally, subject to the findings from empirical research and recognising the complexities, they suggested steps that might be taken, where appropriate, to optimise opportunities for forgiveness within restorative justice. This chapter is the fruit of such empirical work as the symposium identified as crucial to the next stage of thinking about forgiveness, and it draws upon qualitative research using a case study methodology and involving in-depth guided interviews with restorative justice conference participants: seven facilitators, each of whom described two conferences; five harmers, covering six conferences; and three harmed. Our choice of the case study method arose from the research questions which sought to explain how and why social phenomena work.1 The study was undertaken in partnership with Sussex Pathways, a criminal justice charity, so its scale was relatively small and localised; however, the process was comparable to similar studies in other contexts, making possible wider multi case study comparative

1  See R.  K. Yin, Case Study Research: Design and Methods (London: Sage, 4th edn, 2009), ch. 1.

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analysis.2 The process was also rigorous, including a review of literature, and adherence to research procedures, such as protecting against threats to validity, and obtaining formal ethical clearance from the University of Oxford (UK) for ensuring participant safety, and authorisation from the Home Office (UK) to carry out the study in HM prisons. Before considering the data, this chapter begins by placing the discussion in the context of an on-going dialogue, acknowledging strong parallels between the theological paradigm of forgiveness and key principles of restorative justice; namely, (1) radical participation, (2) righting wrong in a morally serious way, and (3) reintegration.3 Theologies of forgiveness and restorative justice theory both speak of justice as relational and, consequently, see the need for a participatory process; both understand the purpose of punishment as being restorative rather than retributive and, therefore, involving a costly journey in which the truth of the situation and the harm done are exposed, and emotions are managed through a sympathetic engagement in which everyone is involved; finally, both understand the ultimate goal of justice to be reconciliation (reintegration), so that the question of what needs to be done for restoration to happen is mutually resolved. Based on these points of parallel, and tested against the voices of conference participants (harmers, harmed and facilitators), this chapter contends that restorative justice and Christian theology can be mutually enriched by adopting a more fluid understanding of forgiveness and its related attributes, and by conceiving forgiveness as a process/journey-oriented practice, i.e. a dynamic and integral component necessary for a process to be fully restorative. Put negatively, it means that the restorative process is ‘thinner’ without forgiveness, whether as an emergent or maximising value.4

2  For a comparable example, see M.  Halsey, A.  Goldsmith and D.  Bamford, ‘Achieving Restorative Justice: Assessing Contrition and Forgiveness in the Adult Conference Process’, The Australian & New Zealand Journal of Criminology 48.4 (2015), pp. 483–497. 3  See M.  N. Blyth, ‘Towards a Restorative Hermeneutic: Local Christian Communities responding to Crime and Wrongdoing’, PhD Thesis (University of Birmingham, UK, 2012). 4  See P.  S. Fiddes, ‘Restorative Justice and the Theological Dynamic of Forgiveness’, Oxford Journal of Law and Religion 5.1 (2016), pp. 54–65.

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Forgiveness in the Judeo-Christian Tradition The theme of forgiveness can be traced throughout Jewish and Christian scriptures. Both traditions interpret forgiveness in terms of covenant love, meaning that it is not an abstract intellectual concept but is relational. In the Jewish tradition, for example, forgiveness is rooted in God’s generous covenant love reaching out to Israel through the prophets (e.g. Ho 11:8–9). Divine love and commitment to God’s people are unconditional and unlimited, in the sense that God never gives up. This is echoed in the Christian gospels, in the unconditional love of the father of the prodigal son (Lk 15:11–32). There is also a tension in the scriptures, concerning whether forgiveness is dependent upon repentance. In the Jewish texts, receiving forgiveness is dependent upon repentance and obedience to the law; but, in the New Testament, there is more ambiguity on this point. On the one hand, Jesus offers forgiveness without presuming prior repentance, or at least demanding that people show repentance in the way the law requires. The inference, in many situations, is that repentance is a response of gratitude to forgiveness and is manifested in a changed life. On the other hand, however, Jesus does seem to suggest a measure of conditionality in forgiveness. In Mt 18:15–20, forgiveness is conditional upon showing a spirit of forgiveness, echoed in Rm 21:21, whilst more ominously, in Mk 3:29, the notion of the ‘unforgivable’ sin is considered and described as blasphemy against the Holy Spirit.5 This tension running throughout scripture, whilst real, should not blind us to the fact that forgiveness is embedded in the whole biblical narrative and is a theme consistently underpinning all of God’s dealings with humanity. The writings of Miroslav Volf and Paul Fiddes have demonstrated how contemporary atonement theology continues to grapple with ideas of conditionality and unconditionality in a constructive way. For Volf, whose understanding was strongly influenced by the experience of growing up in Croatia during the Balkan ethnic struggles in the 1990s, forgiveness is necessarily conditional in nature and limited in scope. He sees sin as exclusion and defines exclusionary behaviour as inherently violent. It achieves its goals towards others by means of ‘elimination, domination or indifference’.6 Because of the horrendous evils done by all parties in the  For consideration of the ‘unforgivable’, as well as ‘unforgivingness’, see Mills, Chap. 8.  M.  Volf, Exclusion and Embrace: A Theological Exploration of Identity, Otherness, and Reconciliation (Nashville, TN: Abingdon Press, 1996), p. 75. 5 6

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Balkan war, Volf resists making a sharp distinction between good and bad people: ‘we should demask as inescapably sinful the world constructed around moral polarities – here, on our side, “the just” “the pure” “the innocent” “the true” “the good” and there on the other side “the unjust” “the corrupt” “the guilty” “the liars” “the evil” and then seek to transform the world in which justice and injustice, goodness and evil, innocence and guilt, purity and corruption, truth and deception, crisscross and intersect’.7 This is not to say that everyone is equally guilty but it does recognise the universality of sin; each person’s complicity in exclusionary behaviour means the need is within all to receive forgiveness.8 Volf has also argued that forgiveness is predicated upon repentance, insisting upon distinguishing between the willingness to forgive and the act of forgiveness. Before repentance stands the will to forgive or to embrace, but this is no guarantee of forgiveness. Only after repentance comes the grace of forgiveness or the ‘embrace’ itself. By contrast, Paul Fiddes has described the act of forgiveness as beginning prior to repentance and likened it to a two-stage journey.9 First, it is a journey of discovery, in which the offended party reaches out to the offender to offer forgiveness. This is a strategic move, meant to provoke awareness in the offender that something is wrong, to inspire feelings of guilt, and the desire to offer an apology. This offer of forgiveness is not the complete act of forgiveness, but it is a gracious beginning, an opening up of the space and possibility for forgiveness in the full sense to be given and received. This journey of discovery, or active gesture of forgiveness reaching out to the offender, is followed then by a journey of endurance or passive submission to their reaction. The response of the offender can range from glad recognition to vitriolic abuse, but Fiddes has insisted that this journey of endurance is a key movement of reaching out and maintaining, come what may, the prospect of love and acceptance: ‘forgiveness is no mere business: it is a “shattering experience” for the one who forgives as well as for the one who is forgiven. This is because forgiveness, unlike mere pardon, seeks to win the offender back into relationship … reconciliation is a costly process because there are resistances to it in the  Ibid., p. 85.  For distinctive treatments of the universality of sin, anthropological and social, see Mills, Chap. 3 and Taylor, Chap. 7. 9  P. S. Fiddes, Past Event and Present Salvation: The Christian Idea of Atonement (London: Darton, Longman and Todd, 1989), pp. 173–178. 7 8

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attitude of the person who has offended; the one who sets out to forgive must aim to remove those blockages and restore the relationship. Forgiveness then involves an acceptance which is costly’.10 The discussion between Volf and Fiddes – though divergent at some points  – nevertheless offers significant agreement on the central notion that forgiveness is best understood as a costly journey. Their process or journey-oriented approaches to the practice of forgiveness reflect what contemporary theologians look for in restorative justice, so that the processes and outcomes of the law respond as generously as possible to the needs and possibilities of a given situation. Two further observations arising from the theological debate on forgiveness are relevant to this discussion. The first, concerning the difficulties people face in extending forgiveness, naturally raises questions about the limits to forgiveness: is wrongdoing ‘unforgivable’? The unbearable pressure to forgive is often felt by victims and can be extremely damaging. A poignant example of this is the vicar who stepped down from her role because she could not forgive the terrorists who had killed her daughter. Her story depicts the agony people go through, on account of what they experience as the unforgivable sin: ‘forgiving another human being for violating your child is almost beyond human capabilities. It is very difficult for me to stand behind the altar and celebrate the eucharist, and lead people in words of peace and reconciliation and forgiveness, when I feel very far from that myself.’ She added that, ‘if someone were to say to me that my ability to forgive Jenny’s killer would end the violence then I could probably find the courage to do it. But I am not sure in my heart that I would believe it.’11 Volf has recognised that, given the horrendous nature of some sins, and the absence of remorse in some perpetrators, forgiveness (humanly speaking) might not be possible this side of eternity.12 For him, forgiveness ­cannot be demanded. The spirit of forgiveness comes from within a person as understanding and empathy grow; it cannot be enforced. The eschatological orientation of the church means that it looks for reconciliation in the future. It looks for relationships to be healed now but, recognising the  Ibid., p 60.  R.  Savill, ‘Vicar Who Can’t Forgive Steps Down from the Pulpit’, The Telegraph (7 March 2006) https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/1512281/Vicar-who-cant-­ forgive-steps-down-from-pulpit.html [accessed 29 March 2020]. On the potential for an eschatological resolution, see Mills, Chap. 8. 12  See Volf, Exclusion and Embrace, p. 126. For another take on the theological conundrum of forgiveness and the ‘unforgivable’ sin, see Mills, Chap. 8. 10 11

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limits of the human condition, also sustains hope that nothing and no one is irredeemable in the sight of God. Marylin McCord Adams expressed a similar idea, writing: ‘No matter what mess we make, God can clean it up not only “the easy way” by eliminating it … but by recontextualising it into a more subtle plot. In the realm of God the worst that we can suffer, be, or do, is not finally ruinous because God invents a new organisational grid that endows us with amazing meaning. For example, gruesome degrading caricatures of human beings become instances of identification with God in Christ crucified’.13 A second concern in contemporary debate arising from ideas about forgiveness is whether or not such a moral category has a legitimate place in the judicial process.14 The modern criminal justice system has been content to hand over questions of mercy and forgiveness to the religious sphere. But this stance is being challenged by those who argue that justice is relational, and that notions of repentance and forgiveness are integral to the moral framework of relationships within society, irrespective of religion, so they cannot simply be dismissed as a private religious matter. Crime, it is argued, is fundamentally a breakdown of trust in relationships which must be addressed in a manner that does everything necessary to repair the moral damage.

Overview of Participants’ Views We turn now to listen to the voices of conference participants: harmers, harmed and facilitators. During our interviews, four core questions were asked in relation to forgiveness: What does the word ‘forgiveness’ mean to you? What other words would you use to mean the same thing? Was the word used at any stage in the conference process? Did a sense of forgiveness grow during the process? Select data are classified below, according to the voices of harmers, harmed and facilitators, respectively. (1) First, the voices of harmers: ‘Forgiveness means “they don’t hate you”; it’s about “releasing the badness”’; it means ‘understanding the reasons why 13  M.  McCord Adams, Horrendous Evils and the Goodness of God (Ithaca, NY; London: Cornell University Press, 1999), p. 102. 14  For some consideration of this, see Taylor, Chap. 4.

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it happened’; it’s about being ‘willing to move forward and move on’; ‘it means forgiving you for all the things you’ve done – but it doesn’t mean they forget’. From the harmers’ responses, it is evident that in the context of a restorative justice conference the language of forgiveness, and the ideas behind this and related words, are not strange or unwelcome. No one resisted the question or rejected the idea of forgiveness as irrelevant. In the interviews, the word ‘forgiveness’ and associated words surfaced in descriptions of more than half of the conferences. Forgiveness was not a subject raised or discussed in the preparatory stage, and none of the harmers mentioned forgiveness as being amongst their expectations or hopes for the conference, but when asked what they thought forgiveness was, they chose words that were the same as, or similar to, words they had used to describe what they hoped for: ‘closure’, ‘understanding’, and ‘a willingness to move on’. They also chose phrases such as ‘no longer hated’ or ‘no longer regarded as a monster’, linking directly to the relief they experienced as a result of the conference. These responses point to forgiveness being a fluid concept, including a mixture of features, not all of which are always or equally present: remorse, regret, understanding, empathy, not hating, not fearing, willing to move on. We know that all of the harmers interviewed had personally requested a conference, and some had explicitly expressed the desire to say sorry to the harmed, in person, face-to-face. We know, also, that they did not look to receive forgiveness but to reach out to meet the needs of the harmed, as well as to be seen no longer as a monster and to be released from toxic shame or self-loathing. Harmers were unambiguous in their responses about whether forgiveness took place in the conference: more than half said the word was used and, where it was not used, the responses still indicated that ‘there was a willingness to move on’, which by their definition is forgiveness. When asked if forgiveness grew in the course of the conference, harmers responded positively, saying that understanding and empathy grew, and with that came a growing sense of closure. Some found this experience disarming. They were taken aback by the care and concern shown towards them by the harmed, but progressively as questions were answered and life stories shared, they noticed how the words and body language of the harmed changed towards them. When asked to describe the conference, harmers consistently chose emotional language. Rather than describing what happened, they chose to talk about how it felt. Their emotions appear to have passed through distinct waves: fear and anxiety; understanding and remorse; empathy and healing. For the harmer, meeting the harmed

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was a moment giving rise to considerable anxiety and fear. Most had not seen the harmed before, either because they did not attend the court sentencing or increasingly because the harmer will speak, if at all, through a video conference link into the court room. Making a written statement to the court, through the lawyer, is nothing in comparison to coming face-­ to-­face with the victim. For the harmer, it seems, a first pivotal moment is when hatred and anger begin to thaw: ‘When I talked about my life the mood changed, it became more friendly’. Harmers recalled the good feelings they experienced when relief appeared on the face of the harmed as they learn that they were not targeted. Harmers likewise experienced relief if and when the harmed changed their assessment of them. To feel ‘released from the badness around the crime’ and ‘no longer perceived as a monster’ were hugely important: ‘I started to tell her step by step what I had done … she broke down in tears and took a break – I felt really ashamed.’ At the same time, as previously noted, when the response of the harmed went further, the harmer could begin to feel unnerved: ‘I was shocked at how worried she was for me, and how she cared about me. She asked me all about how I was getting on in prison.’ To feel ‘cared for’ was not on the harmers’ list of expectations, stated or unstated, and for many, coming from contexts that were broken and dysfunctional, this was an experience that they did not easily comprehend. A second emotional wave followed when the harmers listened to the harmed describe the impact of their crime upon their lives. One harmer recalled how: ‘In the conference, I learnt how the burglary had a big effect on the woman. She cried as she told me how she feels scared in her house and says that every day in the house is a reminder of the event. It had also caused a big strain in her marriage. Until I saw the impact, I didn’t really care. Being face-to-face with her, I saw the impact. I said I was sorry.’ A facilitator also observed how, at this point in the conference, harmers are often visibly moved and affected: ‘When she told him through tears how the event affected her at the time, and how it continues to affect her, he became distressed. His remorse led to more than simply answering her questions, he wanted to help her. It released in him emotions that he had not expected to feel. He could not recover her stolen goods, but he could tell her what she needed to know. This had not been his plan, it was not in the script, but as the conversation flowed and he saw her distress, he decided she needed to know the whole story.’

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These descriptions demonstrate how, for harmers, the conference often proves to be more than ‘putting the record straight’, and filling in the gaps where there are questions with no answer; it is also, at a more profound level, about facing up to the truth about themselves in the presence of the one who has been harmed. One articulate harmer, in his debriefing session, described the conference as ‘an epiphany moment’. Many are less poetic in their choice of words, but their descriptions of the conference experience frequently convey an existential ‘moment’ when they see the other and, in turn, themselves in a new way. Yet, at the same time, significant barriers to forgiveness also emerged from the responses. Some harmers hesitated to use a word like ‘sorry’, knowing that when used lightly or easily it understates the seriousness of the harm done and undermines the integrity of the sentiment. In several situations, they felt unable to forgive themselves, which created a barrier to receiving the forgiveness when it was offered by the harmed. Finally, there was significant variation in responses as to whether to forgive means also to forget. One response suggested that forgetting is a clear feature of forgiveness which, in his case, the harmed could not do, and so forgiveness (as he interpreted it) was not possible, but this did not, in his experience, prevent other forgiveness-related outcomes. Another asked for forgiveness but did not at the same time expect the harmed to forget, and the harmed agreed that it was not possible to forget but that he would forgive. This tension between forgiving and forgetting is resolved in psychology by making a clear separation between the two: forgiveness means renouncing the right to resentment; it has nothing to do with forgetting. In theology, the two exist in an ambiguous relationship, where forgiveness is freed from the constraints of memory but not entirely separated: ‘I cannot forget but I can choose not to remember.’ (2) Next, the voices of the harmed: forgiveness means ‘letting go’; ‘understanding other people’s views’; ‘not holding a grudge’; ‘being able to communicate with somebody like nothing has happened or not hold it against them’; ‘I accepted the other’s side of the story’; ‘when they are genuinely sorry, it is about just “letting go”’; ‘being able to reframe what happened – what happened isn’t right, but you move on from blame and punishment to where you can make life better’. All of the harmed, as with the harmers, responded by saying that forgiveness is relevant to a

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restorative justice conference. For one of them, this was explicitly motivated by faith, whereas for others it was not. They saw expressions like ‘closure’, ‘letting go’, and ‘moving on’ as forgiveness-related and integral to a conference experience. The motivation to forgive was a combination of self-­preservation and healing, on the one hand, and concern for the harmer that they could turn their lives around on the other. Often, the motivation shifted radically in the process of the conference. It often began as an act of self-preservation: ‘In order for me to move on, I forgive you’. Everett Worthington has described this as ‘implicit’ forgiveness, i.e. by reducing unforgiveness, the harmer and harmed can be released from the negative emotions that threaten to consume and destroy them.15 For others, it was a moral and emotional struggle: ‘I wanted to forgive, to find closure, but I didn’t know how to forgive and this situation brought that to light … my anger and depression was all down to him … I realised that I was suffering and that I needed to forgive (to let go) but I couldn’t. The counselling helped me with this, that helped me to dig deep into why people do things … then to see in the conference when I told him my story, how really sorry he was, that helped me a lot. When I said, “I forgive you”, he was overwhelmed and we both cried.’ In many cases, also, forgiveness was conditional: ‘He said he couldn’t forgive himself; I said I could, but he needed to do something positive. The harmer wanted me to punish him not forgive, but I said, “that lets you off the hook, and I’m not going to do that”. We talked quite a lot about this because he wanted me to say he was bad and a terrible person and I refused, which he found difficult. He didn’t fully understand that I was refusing to absolve him from responsibility. I said, we need a bit more than saying sorry.’ In the following account, by a facilitator, an example is given of where forgiveness was two way: ‘The harmer, a young man, unsuccessfully attempted to overtake six cars at high speed in wet conditions. To avoid an oncoming car, he tried to re-enter his lane but skidded and hit the car in front of him sending it across the road and into a tree. An elderly couple were in the car and the gentleman who suffered life threatening injuries died three months later. The harmer was sentenced to three years in prison. The widow and her daughter saw disturbing news on the television about troubles in the prison where he was and they were concerned for 15   See E.  L. Worthington, Dimensions of Forgiveness: Psychological and Theological Perspectives (Philadelphia, PA: Templeton Foundation Press, 1998).

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him, so when they were approached about a possible restorative justice conference they readily accepted. The young man was deeply distressed by his actions and the effect it had on this family, but what also emerged in the conference, which had not surfaced in the preparatory stage, was that it was the woman who had been driving, and ever since the event she had blamed herself for the accident thinking that if she had been a better driver she could have prevented the outcome. The daughter, who was present, had no idea that she had been having these feelings, it was only in the conference with the harmer that she revealed her thoughts and anxiety. He responded, reaching out to her to assure her that there was nothing she could have done. It was his doing and his alone. It was clear in the conference just how deeply affected the harmer was by depression and guilt. The woman said to him, “If there is one thing I know, it is that my husband would not want two people’s lives to be destroyed by this accident”. She urged him to look ahead and they talked together about the future. [When he was subsequently] released from prison they met up for coffee and he offers to do anything he can practically to help her. In a video, he speaks of how forgiving she was and how in awe of her he is.’ This harmer also shared with his facilitator that he has not yet been able to forgive himself, so her gift lies waiting to be opened; he hopes that it will be possible some day in the future. (3) Finally, the voices of facilitators: forgiveness ‘is an unburdening of what is burning away’; ‘letting go’, ‘moving on’, ‘closing a door on the past or drawing a line’. In contrast to harmers and harmed, just under half of facilitators initially responded quite negatively to the question: ‘Is forgiveness relevant to restorative justice?’ They explained that ‘restorative justice is not about forgiveness; the word forgiveness is rarely used, and it only enters if it is raised by the participants’. This was underlined by references to restorative justice process: ‘Forgiveness in not in script – it’s not what it’s about – the purpose is not to forgive but to talk about the harm done.’ Other facilitators were more relaxed about its use, seeing forgiveness as a natural and positive component in the conference experience. Whilst recognising the complexity of forgiveness, and its potential for manipulation, they saw this as a matter to be managed through good practice. Several noted that the experience of facilitating restorative justice conferences had caused them to rethink their perspective on forgiveness: ‘It did not mean

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much to me before doing did this job. In ordinary daily life, it seems quite hollow, but in this job, it’s not just that they say it, you can see something is happening so that people are able finally to move on. It’s just like they have been able to close that door and take the first steps onwards.’ Despite the mixed response to the initial question, all facilitators went on without objection to offer a range of possibilities for the meaning of forgiveness in restorative justice conferences. Like harmers, some used toxic imagery: ‘it is an unburdening of what is burning away’; like the harmed, some used the language of ‘letting go and moving on’, together with phrases like ‘closing a door on the past or drawing a line’. In addition to this, facilitators  – perhaps wearing their ‘reflective practitioner’ hat  – gave two further meanings. Firstly, a juridical meaning: forgiveness in the restorative justice conference is associated with a reordering of unjust power dynamics and a restoring of equilibrium in human relationships: ‘It is a balancing up – a rebalancing, of power which the situation holds … Forgiveness is a recognition that in another situation it could have been the harmer being the harmed. There’s no goodness in one place and harm in another, people are all a mixture of the two, and forgiveness is about understanding that.’ Secondly, facilitators observed something intangible and grace-filled, or gift-like, about forgiveness within the restorative justice conference: ‘Forgiveness is about the person who is giving it: she was compassionate, was giving little gifts to pull him up; that generosity could be forgiveness.’ Also, ‘Forgiveness was in the air. Love was in the air. Giving was in the air. It’s not always about a word. From the beginning there was a reaching out to understand.’

Conclusion Overall, the picture presented by the data is that forgiveness has a broad and rich meaning, as well as a stable and consistent set of related attributes across the three categories of participant. By their own definition, participants associate forgiveness with: remorse, regret, letting go, empathy, and understanding, amongst other things. This cluster of forgiveness-related attributes points to a more fluid concept than has traditionally been acknowledged. Harmer and harmed seek, through some if not all of these attributes, to find closure and move on. They are motivated by a spectrum of desires, ranging from self-preservation and the restoration of dignity and agency at one end, to pure altruism kindled by understanding and empathy at the other. On a scale of 1 to 5 (1 = very poor, 5 = very high),

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participants rated the relevance of forgiveness in their conference experience at 3. Also, on a scale of 1 to 5, they confirmed (3.5) that during the conference there was a growing sense of forgiveness. A wider representative sampling is needed to confirm if these results are applicable to restorative justice conferences in general, but the study as it stands suggests that there is good cause to believe that forgiveness, as defined by participants, is an integral component in the conference experience. To say that restorative justice conferences are not about forgiveness, or that forgiveness is at best a by-product of the process, would contradict the evidence obtained in our interviews. Besides verifying these conclusions by gathering more data, the way forward, in terms of policy and practice, is to identify and create the conditions in which forgiveness can thrive and to identify ways to guard against its potential for abuse. Evidence from this small sample can only give some indicative conclusions but, certainly, two hypotheses merit testing on a larger scale. First, this study included four types of crime (fraud, burglary, death by dangerous driving, and grievous bodily harm) and the evidence seems to indicate that crimes against persons generated an unexpectedly high level of forgiveness-­related attributes in the harmed harmer relation. Second, evidence seems to indicate that forgiveness-related attributes grow in the process of the conference, causing an observable movement in the motivation and expectations of participants regarding outcomes. The nature of the shift was different in harmers and harmed. At the outset of the conference, the expectations of the harmed were mostly self-regarding; they needed closure in order to get on with their lives. At best, it was about self-forgiveness, renouncing the right to resentment in order not to be trapped in the past. But during the conference this shifted in ways they did not expect towards a concern for the harmer and their restoration. By contrast, the harmer’s initial stated expectations were mostly directed towards the harmed, giving them what they needed to be able to move on. But this too shifted as the conference unfolded, to being released from shame and recovering dignity. The theological notion of forgiveness as a costly journey suggests that it is a dynamic process, not confined to a single moment or event but spanning the whole conference experience and manifested at particular points, especially where understanding and empathy grow. The process-journey approach to the practice of forgiveness lends further support to the sense in which a restorative justice conference is future-oriented: its outcomes range from participants agreeing to move on without conditions, to

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formal agreements in which closure is dependent upon agreed actions being carried out. Best practice, according to current theory and reflected in the words of some of the participants (particularly facilitators), favours more formal agreements or outcomes, believing these to add to the accountability and moral seriousness of a conference. Pastoral theology and Christian realism, however, would caution that the reality of unforgivable sins, and the impossibility of forgetting, make flexibility most desirable. It might be a sufficient and necessary conclusion in some cases, for the event simply to have taken place. Christian eschatology would support participants who feel satisfied with this, or at least do not feel ready for more. Further outcomes may need to emerge in the fullness of time, or not, as the conference impact takes full effect. In this case, the theology cautions against a rigid outcomes-based approach that risks being at best unrealistic and at worst coercive. A fluid and dynamic understanding of forgiveness in restorative justice conferencing and in the Christian practice of forgiveness will mean that participants are free to express themselves without pressure or coercion.

CHAPTER 7

Restorative Justice and Social Justice Michael H. Taylor

Abstract  It is inadequate for justice processes to return wrongdoers to the situations of harm which gave rise to their offending behaviour. Yet, it is not clear that restorative justice is capable of being an effective instrument of social justice. An approach may be required which combines both the incrementalist or gradualist approach to social change taken by restorative justice and more radical structural change as a result of, for instance, mobilising grassroots movements. There may also be an important role for Christian theology, in terms of holding restorative justice to account. Whilst acknowledging that, in the public square, theological insights must be validated on common ground, the effectiveness of restorative justice in society may be challenged by, and ultimately benefit from, radical commitments to tackling structures of power and living out a preferential option for the poor sometimes found in the Christian tradition. Keywords  Defining restorative justice • Social change • Theology in the public square Coming fresh to discussions about restorative justice from a longstanding involvement in world poverty issues, I have been struck by a possible similarity between problems raised by the terms ‘rehabilitation’

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M. N. Blyth et al., Forgiveness and Restorative Justice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75282-8_7

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and ‘restoration’.1 When responding to a so-called ‘disaster emergency’, such as famine, conflict, disease or natural disaster which displaces people, often geographically (into refugee camps, for example), from the usual pattern of their lives and threatens to deepen their poverty, the first priority is to meet their immediate needs, such as food, shelter, medicines and security. The second, however, can often be ‘rehabilitation’; in other words, to get people back to their normality. In rural communities, that often means being able to grow their crops again and feed themselves, hence a frequent cry I remember, for ‘seeds and tools’. The obvious point, however, is that returning people to their normality can mean returning them to the circumstances in which the ‘emergency’ occurred. That is not to assume a simplistic pattern of cause and effect, but it is to recognise that if those circumstances remain the same, such as climate change, an inadequate health system, and deep political and social divisions, then the emergency or something similar is more than likely to occur again. Rehabilitation may be necessary, but in the longer term it may also be little better than sticking plasters on to wounds.2 Restorative justice is not easy to define.3 A commonly accepted definition describes it as ‘a process whereby parties with a stake in a specific offence resolve collectively how to deal with the aftermath of the offence and its implications for the future’.4 At its most familiar and 1  ‘Rehabilitation’ is also referred to in debates about criminal justice, see J. Braithwaite, Restorative Justice and Responsive Regulation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), p. 95. 2  See, for example, G.  Johnstone, ‘Introduction: Restorative Approaches to Criminal Justice’, in G.  Johnstone, ed., A Restorative Justice Reader: Texts, Sources, Context (Cullompton: Willan, 2003), pp. 1–18 (p. 14); D. W. Van Ness, ‘Proposed Basic Principles on the Use of Restorative Justice: Recognising the Aims and Limits of Restorative Justice’, in A. Von Hirsch, ed., Restorative Justice and Criminal Justice: Competing or Reconcilable Paradigms? (Oxford; Portland, OR: Hart, 2003), pp. 157–176; H. Zehr and B. Toews, eds, Critical Issues in Restorative Justice (Monsey, NY: Criminal Justice Press; Cullompton: Willan, 2004), p. 1. 3  See, also, Mills, Chaps. 3 and 5. 4  T. F. Marshall, ‘Restorative Justice: An Overview’, in Johnstone, ed., Restorative Justice Reader, pp.  28–45 (p.  28); cf. Braithwaite, Restorative Justice and Responsive Regulation, p. 11; C. Cunneen and C. Hoyle, Debating Restorative Justice (Oxford: Hart, 2010), pp. 1, 6 f.; Van Ness, ‘Proposed Basic Principles’, pp.  157–176; P.  Roberts, ‘Restoration and Retribution in International Criminal Justice: An Exploratory Analysis’, in Von Hirsch, ed., Restorative Justice and Criminal Justice, pp. 115–134; M. Schiff, ‘Models, Challenges and

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specific, it offers a practical alternative to the mainstream judicial system run by the state as a way of dealing with crime, except that ‘crime’ is no longer part of its vocabulary. Drawing together values and processes, it speaks instead of a ‘problem’ to be resolved, rather than a ‘crime’ needing to be punished; of ‘helping’ and ‘healing’, rather than ‘hurting’; and even more, of involving in a ‘conferencing’ process those most immediately affected, including the offender, the victim, and the community. ‘What is to be done to put things right?’ is the question, and the answers, if they can be found, must address the offender’s responsibilities, the harm done to the victim and its consequences, the sense of moral order that has been disrupted, the relationships that have broken down, and the loss of mutual and self-respect. Those answers will involve recognition of the harm done and the perspective of others, acceptance of responsibility, apology, repentance, reparation, restitution, restoration, reintegration, rehabilitation, and maybe reconciliation and even forgiveness.5 Needless to say, vigorous debate has surrounded not only the concept of restorative justice but every internal aspect of it. Let us imagine for the moment, however, an ideal scenario in which a restorative justice conference has agreed what needs to be done to heal hurts, show moral seriousness and mend relationships, that decisions have been followed up, and that many of the outcomes hoped for, such as a reformed character rather than a re-offender, have been realised; in other words, that the restoration of offender, victim and community has been brought about.6 My concern, then, similar to that related to ‘rehabilitation’, is whether this process of ‘restoration’ has done little more than to restore the circumstances that existed beforehand within which the ‘problem’ or ‘offending’ occurred and, if they remain the same, that the problem is more than likely to occur again. Just as climate change The Promise of Restorative Conferencing Strategies’, in Von Hirsch, ed., Restorative Justice and Criminal Justice, pp.  315–338; J.  Braithwaite, Regulation, Crime and Freedom (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000), p. 9; H. Strang and J. Braithwaite, Restorative Justice and Civil Society (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), pp. 12, 127 f.; Zehr and Toews, eds, Critical Issues, pp. 268–271. 5  See Cunneen and Hoyle, Debating Restorative Justice, p.  6 f.; C.  D. Marshall, Beyond Retribution: A New Testament Vision for Justice, Crime and Punishment (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2001), p. 284. 6  Braithwaite, Restorative Justice and Responsive Regulation, p. 95.

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and conflict give rise to emergencies, so there is plenty of evidence to suggest that, again without being simplistic in terms of cause and effect, where there is deprivation, inequality, discrimination, lack of work and opportunity, and perceived injustice within society, so-called ‘crime’ will flourish. According to John Braithwaite, it ‘is an irresistible temptation to actors alienated from the social order’, where ‘powerlessness and poverty increase the chances that needs are so little satisfied’.7 Similarly, Timothy Gorringe has argued that ‘social deprivation is one of the most fundamental causes of criminal behaviour’.8 The more obvious line of action, therefore, for those who want to reduce ‘crime’ and tackle the inadequacies of the criminal justice system, including imprisonment, is not to spend their energies on restorative justice but to work for social reform: for ‘social justice’ rather than ‘restorative justice’; otherwise, there is once again the danger of simply putting sticking plasters on to wounds.9 Advocates of restorative justice, as well as its critics, are aware of these concerns. Braithwaite, for example, has confronted a number of ‘worries’, including that it fails to promote social justice: ‘Restorative Justice cannot resolve the deep structural injustices that cause problems like hunger’; it can only make sure that it does not make them worse!10 Moreover, by focusing on ‘crime’, as defined by the powerful, restorative justice may fail to challenge ideological definitions, and the structural and social problems that go with them.11 Restorative justice needs to expand its horizons. Indeed, when identifying the great expectations of restorative justice, or its ‘supporting pillars of optimism’, Annalise Acorn does not refer to social justice at all.12 For Chris Cunneen and Carolyn Hoyle, therefore: ‘[restorative justice] must respond seriously to … broader social and economic issues’, such as health, education, unemployment and marginalisation.13 And Gerry Johnstone has insisted: ‘Harms don’t

 Braithwaite, Regulation, Crime and Freedom, p. 40.  T.  Gorringe, God’s Just Vengeance: Crime, Violence and the Rhetoric of Salvation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 13, 252. 9  See Braithwaite, Restorative Justice and Responsive Regulation, p. 239. 10  See ibid., pp. 150–158; also, Braithwaite, Regulation, Crime and Freedom, p. 325. 11  See Zehr and Toews, eds, Critical Issues, pp. viii f., 376. 12  See A. E. Acorn, Compulsory Compassion: A Critique of Restorative Justice (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2004), pp. 46–77. 13  See Cunneen and Hoyle, Debating Restorative Justice, p. 165. 7 8

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only emerge from conscious acts of individuals but the very structure of power-based social arrangements.’14

An Effective Instrument of Social Change? Arguments in Favour The issue, then, is not whether restorative justice is a good thing in itself, but whether it is capable of making a sufficient contribution to be regarded as an effective instrument of social justice, equally and even more deserving of our energies than, say, mobilising and campaigning for social and economic structural change. A number of considerations put forward by advocates of restorative justice suggest that it could be. Perhaps the strategy most frequently referred to (in the basic literature) might be called the ‘indirect’ but, in the longer run, influential approach to tackling issues of social justice. It would encourage the adoption of restorative justice principles and practices, not only in dealing with criminal offenders and victims but in all areas of life, such as families, workplaces, caring institutions, schools, diplomacy and nation-building. Taken into ‘the finance, nuclear, coal mining, and nursing home industries’ it could even offer ‘an approach to attacking the criminal abuses of corporate power that can be so important to understanding the advantaging of the rich over the poor’.15 Moves towards establishing ‘restorative cities’ illustrate this indirect approach.16 They have been defined as cities ‘where restorative principles and practices … are not only implemented in the criminal justice system … but in all relevant areas of city life including schools, work places, neighbourhoods, work with children and young people, social and health services, governance and housing’, implying that the changes need to have something of a statutory character about them, as well as a voluntary one. As we have seen, the principles and practices to be adopted as widely as possible would include: a problem-solving, rather than blaming approach to difficult and divisive issues; high quality deliberation and dialogue; empowerment, not least of women; recognition and respect for the other’s point of view; participation; reintegrating, rather than excluding; and  Johnstone, ‘Introduction’, in Johnstone, ed., Restorative Justice Reader, p. 7.  See Braithwaite, Restorative Justice and Responsive Regulation, pp. viii f., 156. 16  The following comments and quotations are taken from an unpublished survey carried out in 2018 by The Mint House: Oxford Centre for Restorative Practice, UK. 14 15

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an emphasis on relationships. In gradually altering ‘the way we do things’, restorative justice may well tackle not only the way we deal with crime but the way we tackle the injustices that are so often the causes of ‘crime’.17 A second consideration has to do with reducing reoffending, and the negative impact of imprisonment on, for example, employment prospects and the burden of debt repayment. Success in this area potentially increases the number of people who contribute to society and the common good, rather than exacerbating its problems as well as their own, and becoming a drain on its resources both human and material. Put differently, restorative justice, by reducing reoffending and imprisonment, could build social capital and create conditions more conducive to achieving social justice. The question about the effectiveness of restorative justice then becomes crucial.18 Braithwaite is optimistic, citing empirical evidence that restorative justice is effective and has enough potential to reduce reoffending.19 A third consideration, somewhat contrary to the criticism that the horizons of restorative justice are too narrow, is that, although it may not directly tackle the structural issues of poverty and deprivation, its approach to offending at least raises them by taking a far broader view of what has gone wrong and how it came about, than simply proving or disproving guilt and punishing according to the law. It may just militate against the ‘othering’ of wrongdoers ‘to see beyond the label “offender” to a person who may have been harmed by his or her experiences as much as he or she has harmed others’.20

 Roberts, ‘Restoration and Retribution in International Criminal Justice’, p. 115.  See L. Kurki, ‘Evaluating Restorative Justice Practices’, in Von Hirsch, Restorative Justice and Criminal Justice, pp. 293–314 (p. 309). 19  Cited in G. Johnstone, ‘Doing Restorative Justice in Modern Society: Introduction’, in Johnstone, ed., Restorative Justice Reader, pp. 247–254 (p. 253); cf. Cunneen and Hoyle, Debating Restorative Justice, p. 12. 20  Cunneen and Hoyle, Debating Restorative Justice, p.  12. This offers something of a social equivalent to the theological argument that the best way of approaching wrongdoers may be from a starting point of acknowledging shared sinfulness and belovedness. See Mills, Chap. 3. 17 18

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An Effective Instrument of Social Change? Arguments Against Several arguments, however, cast doubts on the potential of restorative justice to be an instrument of social justice. For some, there appears to be no argument at all, only the blunt recognition that restorative justice is ‘unimportant to struggles for social justice’.21 Not only does it fail to acknowledge that an offence does not occur in a vacuum, a criticism in direct contradiction to the third more positive consideration just referred to, but it also has no strategy for eliminating the causes of offending.22 At one time, Braithwaite agreed with this bleak assessment, admitting that ‘Restorative justice cannot resolve … deep structural injustices’.23 Later, he changed his mind, whilst admitting that the problems had not been satisfactorily resolved.24 One argument tending to support a negative assessment of the contribution of restorative justice to social justice has to do with its effectiveness, whether in reducing crime and reoffending, or restoring victims, offenders and communities, or reforming the criminal justice system. At best, it seems that the jury is out. Whilst there are clear endorsements and encouraging assessments of the achievements of restorative justice, most notably in dealing with young offenders, they can be hedged about with caution, even extreme caution, together with acknowledgements that research is limited and empirical evidence lacking. If there are such hesitations in claiming too much for restorative justice at its most focused, there can hardly be less when it comes to its contribution to social justice.25

21  J. Braithwaite, ‘Restorative Justice and Social Justice’, in E. McLaughlin, ed., Restorative Justice: Critical Issues (London: SAGE, 2003), pp. 157–163 (p. 157). 22  See Braithwaite, Restorative Justice and Responsive Regulation, p. 150 f.; Cunneen and Hoyle, Debating Restorative Justice, pp. 105, 156 f. 23  J.  Braithwaite, ‘Restorative Justice and a Better Future’, in McLaughlin, ed., Critical Issues, pp. 54–68 (p. 57). 24  Braithwaite, Regulation, Crime and Freedom, p.  325; Braithwaite, Restorative Justice and Responsive Regulation, p. 150. 25  See Johnstone, ‘Introduction’, in Johnstone, ed., Restorative Justice Reader, p. 15; also, G.  Johnstone, ‘Restorative Justice Practice: Variations, Development, and Rationales: Introduction’, in Johnstone, ed., Restorative Justice Reader, pp. 173–177 (p. 175); Strang and Braithwaite, Restorative Justice and Civil Society, p. 177; Cunneen and Hoyle, Debating Restorative Justice, p. 103; Braithwaite, Regulation, Crime and Freedom, p. 337; Braithwaite, Restorative Justice and Responsive Regulation, p. 167.

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The second argument has to do with constant references in restorative justice literature to communities, both large and small.26 According to Gorringe, contemporary work on the rehabilitation of offenders seems to require a heavy emphasis on ‘community’.27 Restorative justice aims to restore communities in the sense of healing the moral order they represent, which is harmed by breaches of trust and respect. Communities also loom large because they are a key element in at least two of the strategies mentioned above which might in time bring about social justice; namely, the ‘indirect’ approach leading to cultural change and, second, efforts to reduce reoffending and the impact of imprisonment. The first envisages communities gradually learning and agreeing to order their lives according to restorative justice principles and practices. The second relies on communities to support both harmers and harmed in the process of restoration, including, for example, their own personal ‘reintegration’ and healing, and the implementation of whatever has been agreed between everyone as appropriate reparation. Several questions arise. The most obvious is whether such communities exist? Many would argue that in our post-modern world of anonymity they do not, and question whether they can. Old community ties have been broken and with them our sense of responsibility to one another. Communitarian ideals have been jeopardised by individualism. Pluralism and relativism have challenged shared values. Even where communities exist, they are not sufficiently close-knit or vibrant to do the job that restorative justice requires of them; and it is questionable whether they are good per se, since defining communities inevitably implies ruling out certain people and places. Communities with their shared interests and ways of living, can be protective and exclusive, fostering conflict and divisiveness. There are no guarantees that they will act justly or be fair in their problem-solving. Offender and victim may not even belong to the same one. When it comes to society at large, the morals of the community can be punitive rather than restorative, demanding tough punishments and insisting, for example, that ‘prison works’. Does any of that constitute an appropriate setting for ‘reintegration’ or does it raise the old fears about the regressive nature of ‘rehabilitation’, where offenders are reinstated or

 On the theme of community see, also, Mills, Chap. 5.  See Gorringe, God’s Just Vengeance, p. 249.

26 27

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helped to ‘fit in’ to what was unsatisfactory in the first place?28 Braithwaite has acknowledged the difficulties and ‘worries’ that restorative justice relies on communities which don’t exist. Nevertheless, along with others, he remains hopeful about what Pavlich describes as ‘an uphill counter-­ cultural task’.29 A third argument casting doubt on restorative justice as an instrument of social justice has to do with realism. Restorative justice is rightly optimistic about human nature and its willingness to empathise, in this case with victims and offenders, and to actively stand by others as they try to rebuild their lives and relationships. The question is whether it is also over-­ optimistic. Several aspects of Braithwaite’s work sound a realistic note, including his comment that restorative justice ‘works best when it is backed up by punitive justice’ as a last resort; and his work on ‘regulation’ providing safeguards where obligations, in the caring or teaching professions, for example, are not being honoured. Realism is also reflected in uncertainties surrounding the ability of communities to rise to the morally demanding and labour-intensive challenges of restorative justice. Beyond that, attempts to tackle structural injustice inevitably meet with strong resistance. Vested interests fight to maintain the status quo. Gradualist attempts at radical social change may be too ‘gentle’, when what is required is the mobilisation of powerful movements in favour of social change and social justice to match the powers that resist it.30 Any attempt to assess the potential of restorative justice as an effective instrument of social justice cannot ignore the attempt of South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission to lift restorative principles and practices from the micro world of conferencing to the macro world of hugely significant social and political change, enabling a divided country to find peace with itself, and to recognise and move on from the cruelties

28  See Cunneen and Hoyle, Debating Restorative Justice, p.  16 f.; Gorringe, God’s Just Vengeance, p. 260; L. Walgrave, ‘Imposing Restoration instead of Inflicting Pain: Reflections on the Judicial Reaction to Crime’, in Von Hirsch, ed., Restorative Justice and Criminal Justice, pp.  61–78; A.  Bottoms, ‘Some Sociological Reflections on Restorative Justice’, in Von Hirsch, ed., Restorative Justice and Criminal Justice, pp. 79–113 (pp. 94–99, 109). 29  G. Pavlich, ‘What are the dangers as well as the promises of community involvement?’, in Zehr and Toews, eds, Critical Issues, pp. 173–183 (p. 177 f.). 30  See Braithwaite, Restorative Justice and Responsive Regulation, p. 30; Johnstone, ‘Doing Restorative Justice’, in Johnstone, ed., Restorative Justice Reader, p. 253.

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and injustices of apartheid.31 Assessments of the Commission have, not surprisingly, varied. For many, and not only in South Africa, the process was admittedly flawed – for example, by benefitting harmers more than victims – but eminently worthwhile and worth adopting elsewhere. At the same time, many note continuing conflict and economic disparities within the country, sometimes referred to as economic ‘apartheid’, and wonder what the Commission and its approach, whilst managing a political transition, actually achieved in the longer term.32

Two Paradigm Cases Discussions surrounding restorative justice and social justice highlight two ‘paradigm cases’ (i.e. typical or very good examples) of, first, debates about how to change our world for the better and, second, coming from a Christian perspective, the role that theology can play in them. No attempt is made here to deal with the first, apart from noting that there might be two models of change illustrated by the preceding discussion of restorative justice and social justice. One might be described as ‘incremental’ or ‘indirect’ or ‘gradualist’, by way of education, persuasion, example, cultural change, increasing social capital, ‘restorative cities’, and strategies such as embedding restorative principles and practices; and the other as ‘structural’, involving democratic mobilisation and empowerment with a view to reforming the social, political and economic order. Both models could be seen as ‘bottom-up’ rather than ‘top-down’, since the structural model is the result of ‘bottom up’ community organising and both, not just the incremental model, raise questions. If the incremental does not go far enough, the structural can certainly result in unforeseen consequences; for example, its political campaigning can ride roughshod over people and breed polarisation rather than consensus. One commentator on restorative justice seems to favour a ‘both/and’ approach, both gradualist and structural rather than choosing between the two.33 31  D. Tutu, No Future Without Forgiveness: A Personal Overview of South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission (London: Random House, 1999), p. 209. Braithwaite alludes to this approach, as well as ‘the need for others to listen to our stories of hurt, the need to heal before … nations can move on and solve the problem’. Braithwaite, Restorative Justice and Responsive Regulation, p. x. 32  Cunneen and Hoyle, Debating Restorative Justice, p. 180. 33  B.  P. Lofton, ‘Does Restorative Justice challenge systemic injustices?’, in Zehr and Toews, eds, Critical Issues, pp. 377–385 (pp. 384–385).

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Turning to the role of theology, it is notable that in the above discussion, coming from an openly declared Christian theological perspective, theology has not so far been mentioned; which raises the question as to whether it has anything to say or add, and why, as Christians, we may feel it needs to be brought into the debate, especially when restorative justice is necessarily a public and cooperative enterprise involving partnerships with people of different disciplines, and of various religious faiths and none. The point of the debate is not to persuade only Christians that restorative justice is or is not a sufficiently radical approach to social justice to deserve our energies, but to persuade everyone involved, whether Christian or not. What, then, are the possible roles that Christian theology could play or the contributions it could make to the debate? ‘Theology’, like restorative justice, is used to refer to more than one thing, including doctrinal, systematic and liberation theologies. What I have in mind here are the statements Christians make about what they believe about everything from the nature of humanity and the created order, to the efficacy of sacrificial love. Returning to the question as to what roles ‘theology’ or these statements could play and what contributions they could make, I suggest that there are five. First, they could play an informative role by contributing or revealing information, or telling us something about, for example, what social justice is and how change in its favour can best be brought about. Second, they could motivate us, either by moral imperatives, reinforcing the need to search for social justice, for example, or by inspirational examples arising, for instance, from the gospel stories or Christian history. Third, they could play a supportive role by bringing hope of meaningful achievements and reassuring us that there is some point to our efforts which will not go for nothing at the ‘end’ of the day, or by advocating a forbearing, forgiving and accepting attitude to failures, drawn from Christ’s example and theories of atonement. Fourth, they could sound a note of authority, whether divine, revelatory or traditional, which may usefully cut through differing opinions. Fifth, they could play an ‘opinionated’ role by putting forward strong convictions whilst accepting that the public realm is a level playing field where such convictions are not privileged and must be upheld on grounds that all, and not just Christians, can recognise and respect. Of the five possibilities, the second, third and fourth: motivating, supporting and striking an authoritative note, can be dealt with fairly briefly. All three of them depend upon a Christian metanarrative without which they lose their force. One example would be the ‘story’ hinted at in the

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creeds, that God created the world, that men and women by their disobedience desecrated it, and that God sent his only Son, both human and divine, to redeem it above all by his death and resurrection, the presence and power of the Spirit, and by the ongoing mission of the church. In the meantime, God’s kingdom of love and justice grows but is never complete (just as wheat and tares grow together) until one day, at the end-time, Christ will return, his promises will be fulfilled and the kingdom come in all its fullness.34 Another such story would see God as on a sharp learning curve, motivated by an undeviating creative love, but learning the cost of false moves and how to correct them as time moves on. Only if some such metanarrative, focused on Christ, is believed, can much of these three possible roles make sense. Only such a story can sustain our hope that ‘all will be well’ and that our endeavours do not go for nothing in the face of so much evidence to the contrary. Again, only such a story, with its references to atonement, forgiveness and acceptance, reassures us that our mistakes and wrongdoings do not rule us out as participants in God’s ongoing mission, whereas in the ‘real’ world they tend to have a negative effect on our ability to participate. Only such a story can add weight to any imperative to seek justice and love mercy, because it is no longer merely a matter of human ethics but of loyalty to the divine. Only such a story allows us to regard certain Christian insights as God-­ given and authoritative, rather than only human, and therefore capable of settling differences of opinion because this, after all, is what God has to say. Whilst theology may play such roles for many Christians, it cannot play them for those who do not accept the story that frames these Christian beliefs, and it cannot play that role in the public debate in which restorative justice has to engage. In other words, Christians cannot expect their partners in restorative justice to be committed, or hopeful, or forbearing, or submissive to a higher wisdom on their Christian terms. There are at least two clear caveats to this. First, is the way in which the Jesus of the gospels may inspire us by his life and teaching, and his costly dying, to struggle as he did for justice, to be obedient to the demands that justice makes, though also patient with ourselves and others as he was, and not to give up too readily because of the cost or the opposition, or fail to persist because at times it can look like a hopeless cause; none of which depends upon the metanarrative. Shorn of it, there remains an inspiring and charismatic historical figure who may win our admiration and  For an exploration of this point in light of trauma theology, see Mills, Chap. 8.

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allegiance, bolster our courage, and fire our enthusiasm. But whilst Christian disciples may respond to the Nazarene and his story in those potentially highly committed ways, most of those with whom we cooperate over restorative justice, or debate its merits, are unlikely to do so in a way which differs fundamentally from their admiration for a Nelson Mandela or a Martin Luther King. A second caveat is to recognise that theological insights are usually the result of what might be called lengthy periods of gestation. They can claim to be not fleeting but settled opinions, which have been tested and proved to be valuable over time; Catholic Social Teaching would be a good example. As such, they have a certain authority or ‘weight’ which should be respected by anyone in search of greater understanding. They are, however, subject to certain constraints, to which we will return, and remain open to debate. Returning to the first of the five possible roles, theology could play an informative role about the nature of justice and, of more importance here, how social justice can be brought about. Examples of the latter, and looking mainly to the gospels, might include: moral discernment and courage; striking a ‘prophetic note’; accepting and forgiving, rather than excluding attitudes; prioritising the poorest; sacrificial love; and realism when it comes to human nature. Theology might also have something useful to contribute to discussions about what ‘breeds’ justice and turns out in the end to be creative, whether that be a radical approach to social change by reversing fortunes, putting the last first, challenging the powers that be, both religious and secular, bringing down the mighty from their seats and lifting up the poor, or a more indirect, inclusive approach, reaching out to the ostracised, though on both counts there is little evidence that they have succeeded. Moreover, all of these insights are: first, rather general; second, contestable, both as ‘human constructs’ and as articles of ‘faith’; and third, adopted. First, when it comes to deciding what to do to bring about justice, generalities can only take us so far, partly because other considerations have to be taken into account, and partly because those other considerations can allow us to go in more than one direction.35 Prioritising the poorest, for example, could involve changes to employment laws or to the benefits system, or to education policies, amongst others, but arriving at well-informed options and deciding between them will require an 35  See W.  Temple, Christianity and the Social Order (London: Shepheard-Walwyn and SPCK, 1976).

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i­nterdisciplinary approach involving economists, business people, social workers, and teachers to name but a few and, as we know, they could come to different conclusions (to ‘right’ and ‘left’) whilst claiming allegiance to the same underlying principle. Alternatively, Christians and others could come to much the same conclusions, thankfully, but for different reasons. These ‘generalities’ could, however, give an initial sense of direction and serve as criteria to test the validity of any conclusion. Restorative justice, for example, would certainly pass the test of an ‘accepting’ rather than ‘excluding’ strategy, as might a thoroughgoing reform of an education system along restorative lines. On the other hand, many a political move might pass the test by being more calculating and realistic, with a sharper but more divisive sense of priorities than restorative justice. Second, these and other insights are not only general but also contestable once put in the public realm, which does not mean they are invalid but that they must be validated on common ground. They are contestable, first, because they are articles of faith, religious or otherwise. There is no conclusive evidence that what they claim to bring about will in fact come about, or that they will not fall foul of the law of unintended consequences. In fact, it could be argued, there is plenty of evidence to the contrary. In the case of Christianity, it is the metanarrative which gives them authority as not merely human opinions and, to those who believe in them, the assurance that by these means justice will be established in the end. They are also contestable because they, and the metanarrative which might give them weight, are human constructs  – and that includes the claims that they are not! They are what human beings make of the given but far from self-explanatory reality within and around them. As such, like all human beings, they are ‘infected’ by the limitations, vested interests, personalities and circumstances – historical, geographical, and personal – of those who fashion them. They are relative, not absolute, in the sense that if any of these factors change, such as the circumstances of those who hold them, they are likely to change as well. They are always subject to the so-called ‘hermeneutics of suspicion’. Those who vote for revolution, for example, and those who resist it can be equally self-interested. Third, the rather general information which theology/faith might offer about ways to achieve social justice might be described as ‘adopted’. Some Christians may well feel they had them given or ‘revealed’ to them by and within the Christian tradition. That is where they found them. Nevertheless, that is not necessarily their place of origin. A much-discussed example,

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highly relevant to restorative justice, has to do with Christian understandings of atonement and redemption. How are these fundamental changes, putting right what has gone so badly wrong, brought about? How does justice come about and how are right relationships restored? Christian answers have ranged from the punitive to the forgiving, to the more ‘revolutionary’ ones of ‘liberation theology’, and they have been adopted and adapted from the changing patterns of thought, including penal thought, of different cultures and generations.36 Christian thinking, once established, has of course influenced secular thinking, but the reverse is equally true, and the changing ideas about how to make change come about in favour of justice, which we have indicated as being at home within the Christian tradition, were often baptised into it rather than given birth within it. As such, they are not uniquely informative. Theology probably only knows what is already known. So, then, where do these considerations leave us with regard to the role which theology might play in debating the potential of restorative justice to be a sufficiently effective instrument of social justice? For Christians, debating among themselves, theology can be motivating and supportive, and generate respect for and give added weight to a number of important and revealing insights and criteria. Once the debate is in the public realm, as it has to be, these roles will remain important for Christians but not for others, and the Christian contribution, shorn of its metanarrative, will have to stand, as it were, on its own two feet. Which brings us to the fifth possibility when it comes to the roles that theology might play; namely, what might be called an ‘opinionated’ role, which enables Christians to put forward strong opinions rooted in their faith and be committed to them whilst accepting that the public realm is a level playing field where these opinions are not privileged but must be advocated and tested on grounds that others, not just Christians, can recognise and respect. Some of them were hinted at in the discussion of certain generalities which might function as criteria by which to evaluate a social justice strategy. If, for example, what we believe leads to the strong opinion that more will be achieved by inclusive approaches than divisive and excluding ones, how does a ‘structural’ approach measure up to it? Answer: probably not all that well!  See F. W. Dillistone, The Christian Understanding of Atonement (London: Nisbet, 1968).

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Power and Priorities Whilst living up to some of the criteria which theology might throw into the debate, such as acceptance and inclusion as creative ways forward, restorative justice could fall foul of others of which I mention two. The first has to do with Christian teaching about human nature. Besides striking a positive note with talk of us being made in ‘the image of God’ and capable, therefore, of creativity and love, it has traditionally described human nature as ‘sinful’.37 I prefer to describe it as ‘existentially insecure’, which is not to be understood as a psychological illness, though it can manifest itself in forms of anxiety and depression, nor should it be reduced to material hardship, though that certainly adds up to an overriding sense of insecurity for all too many. Rather, it is to recognise that whilst at times we can, thankfully, feel relatively safe – in a relationship, for example, or in the absence of war – we are confronted within and without by uncertainties about the ways of the world and their effects on us, about our futures, about who we are and ultimately when we stop to think, what life on earth adds up to. These multiple unknowns can foster curiosity and wonder, but vulnerability as well. The result includes attempts, often religious, to build safe houses of meaning for ourselves, but also a strong tendency to be self-­ protective or egoistic. We usually act in what we perceive to be our own interests and we protect them when they are threatened. If true of individuals, it is even more true of social groups and nations. Because of this reality, changing unjust social structures is not likely to come just by way of a benign, incremental process among people of good will. More likely, such radical change in favour of justice will have to reckon with powerful vested interests and confront them with counter powers that they cannot entirely ignore or resist. In practice, that will mean mobilising strong and determined social movements and taking political action. Restorative justice certainly talks about ‘empowerment’, but it almost always refers to individuals and their immediate circumstances, such as an abusive relationship. Important as that obviously is, it is a far cry from making them, or their communities, powerful players in the task of mobilising for fundamental social change. Some may look for evidence of this hard-nosed realism, of confronting power with power in order to bring about structural change in, say, the gospels and the example of ‘gentle Jesus’, and fail to find it. That is not surprising, since opportunities for  See, also, Mills, Chap. 3.

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mobilising social movements were limited under an oppressive regime. Jesus, following his mother, did, however, speak of reversals of power; there were hard sayings against those who oppressed the people. He certainly confronted the powers that be to the extent that they felt threatened; and they, in turn, protected their vested interests by executing him. Realism is there. A second test related to Christian beliefs which restorative justice might appear to fail has to do with priorities. There is a theme running through the Christian tradition, though by no means always apparent – at times, quite the contrary – which prioritises the poorest. It is there in the gospels, with their desire to exalt the humble poor, their empathy with the marginalised, and their references to reversals which put the last first. It is there in ongoing vocations. It resurfaces in the more radical expressions of Christianity in history, and in liberation theology and talk of God’s ‘preferential option’ for the poor. That is the strategic and moral place to start! Where it becomes a serious conviction to be thrown into the public debate, it again raises questions as to where, by choice or otherwise, the priorities of restorative justice really lie. The majority of offenders it works with in conferencing may be poor, but are they the poorest? Restorative justice seems to have had more to do with young offenders than with hard cases and older reoffenders, and when its principles and practices are taken into other social settings, the offences dealt with are of a minor (which does not mean unimportant) character, such as bullying in schools, which are not necessarily related to poverty. If restorative justice, any more than a punitive system of imprisonment, is not capable of tackling hardcore crime, with all its social causes and consequences, and the deprivation it reflects, then do alternative strategies need to be favoured and energies directed elsewhere?

Conclusion When it comes to assessing restorative justice as an effective instrument for achieving social justice and deciding where to put our energies, the wisest conclusion may well be a ‘both/and’ one: acknowledging that both the incremental approach of restorative justice, and one which mobilises powerful movements for social change, have a part to play. What we described as the ‘incremental’ or ‘gradualist’ approach seemed to be unrealistic about the ability of people and communities to rise to its challenges. Restorative justice also seemed vulnerable when it came to issues to do

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with realism, power and priorities. This vulnerability suggests that if we had to choose between an incremental approach and bringing about structural change by mobilising powerful social and political movements, the bias might be in favour of the second. Before making such a choice, however, attention needs to be paid to some of the problems associated with more radical attempts to change the status quo in favour of social justice, from issues of power and social engineering to their potential divisiveness and the unforeseen consequences of supposedly well-intentioned policies, such as recent attempts to reform the benefits system in the UK. This discussion of restorative justice and social justice from a Christian perspective partially illustrates one other variety of theology of the many previously referred to; namely, ‘theological reflection’. Accepting the level playing field of the public realm, where restorative justice belongs, theological reflection takes into careful consideration relevant insights born of faith, but also empirical evidence; that is, both the wisdom of practical experience and that of other traditions of thought and professional disciplines. Whilst all of these inform and enrich our thinking, they are nevertheless ‘human’ and must carry an air of provisionality and be open to compromise. They are not entirely decisive! The decisions are ours and what has to follow them is not more words on a page, but actions or ‘practice’ in line with what we have decided, which in time will raise further unsettling questions and require us to return to the more reflective aspects of an ongoing cycle. Whether in the case of so-called ‘crime’ that means a commitment to restorative justice practices, or to mobilising for wider social change or, as argued for here, to both, one of those questions must always be whether it goes sufficiently to the roots of a problem which so often lie in poverty, deprivation, inequality and injustice.

CHAPTER 8

Forgiving in the Presence of God Matthew J. Mills

Abstract  By the union of history (‘phenomenological time’) and eternity (‘cosmological time’), Christian eschatology may offer the hope of forgiveness in otherwise impossible situations, such as when victims perceive acts of harm to be ‘unforgivable’ and cannot let go of their resentment. Perhaps only in the afterlife, in which a purgatorial trial replaces the restorative justice conference, may victims be inspired to reframe their experiences in light of a revelation of the archetype of a powerful victim Christ. Their freedom – especially the prerogative to forgive – would be upheld, but their vision would be transformed, and without coercion God’s restorative purpose would be accomplished. Keywords  The unforgiveable/unforgivingness • Eschatology • Christ archetype This chapter is a contribution to what may be described, in words of Jacques Derrida, as the ‘speculative grammar of forgiveness’.1 We cannot claim to be dealing with known quantities, since forgiveness itself is a mystery, and here it is brought together with the mystery of life after 1  J. Derrida, Literature in Secret, in D. Wills, trans., The Gift of Death and Literature in Secret (Chicago, IL; London: The University of Chicago Press, 2008), p. 143.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M. N. Blyth et al., Forgiveness and Restorative Justice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75282-8_8

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death. Derrida wrote that ‘it is at bottom really difficult to know who grants [the grace of forgiveness] to whom, in the name of whom and of what’,2 and it is even more difficult to imagine how this could work in an unfamiliar spiritual realm. What we are attempting here is a thought experiment, imagining a possible after-world in which God has a place on the register of stakeholders concerned with a particular act of wrongdoing, joining them in the narrative of an act which the victim found impossible to forgive. This is about acts perceived to be unforgivable, which have been described by Derrida as the only kind worth forgiving.3 Forgiveness is always a moral response of great gravity, distinct from ‘excusing, pardoning, exonerating, and so on’,4 precisely because it is the means of releasing victims from resentment and wrongdoers from their liability to punishment, and it is determined by the perceptions of victims.5 Forgiveness is the prerogative of victims, so acts of harm and wrongdoing which a victim refuses to forgive are not forgiven.6 In such cases, moral disapprobation persists and a judgement of condemnation is upheld. For Christians, however, this is not the end of the matter, since faith – manifested as the love of God, the wellspring of charity – invites a reappraisal of the problem from God’s point of view, and ‘nothing is impossible with God’ (Lk 1:37).7 This means looking at the world eschatologically; in relation to the ultimate realisation of human fulfilment, eternal happiness. A necessary condition of such a process of realisation is the theological virtue of hope. When hope is allowed to penetrate the darkness of human misery, breaking the shackles of unforgivingness which prevents victims from moving on with their lives, it can transform the present and all possibilities for the future. Our argument in this chapter rests upon two fundamental presuppositions. First, that unforgivingness is a complex moral problem, which  Ibid., p. 151.  Cited in R. Holloway, On Forgiveness (Edinburgh; London: Canongate, 2002), p. xii. 4  See A. Bash, Forgiveness and Christian Ethics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), p. 4. 5  See ibid., pp. 6–7. 6  See K. Scheiber, ‘May God Forgive?’, in A. McFadyen and M. Sarot, eds, Forgiveness and Truth (Edinburgh; New York: T&T Clark, 2001), pp. 173–180 (pp. 173–174). 7  On loving others for the sake of God, see Augustine of Hippo, On Christian Teaching I, XXVII. 28, trans. by R.  P. H.  Green, Saint Augustine: On Christian Teaching (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), p. 21. 2 3

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frustrates the progress of human fulfilment. Even though victims can be said to possess a right to withhold forgiveness for a while, to hold on to their resentment, it is never good for them to do so, since it precludes their own healing,8 and even unjust to do so indefinitely.9 At the same time, the complexity of this issue is underscored by the fact that victims may have no choice but to resist forgiveness as they struggle to overcome the effects of wrongdoing. Trauma is rarely confined to a single event and often casts a long shadow. This has been likened to an experience of a life haunted by death, placing victims in an intermediate state – described by Shelly Rambo as ‘the middle’ – somewhere between death and new life, the familiar binary of the theological narrative of redemption.10 There is moral realism here, since it reflects the actual experience of the Christian community which, despite the cross, continues to sin and to live in the midst of the lingering effects of the fall, the first human trauma. Forgiving – letting go and moving on; moving out of the shadow of death11 – is a fundamental part of the human journey of becoming, or what may be described in traditional theological language as the status viatoris, our status as pilgrims in this life. The journey through restorative justice processes mirrors the more general sojourn of human beings through life which, according to Josef Pieper, is marked by both ‘the inherent “not yet” of finite being’ and the inherent goodness of striving to become, to unite the ‘is’ and ‘ought’ of human nature.12 Pieper has tied the status viatoris to life before death, but this does not seem necessary. Rather, suppose that the human pilgrimage extends 8  See L. B. Smedes, Forgive and Forget: Healing the Hurts We Don’t Deserve (New York: HarperCollins, 1984), cited in J.  K. Voiss, Rethinking Christian Forgiveness: Theological, Philosophical and Psychological Explanations (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press-Michael Glazier, 2015), p. 233. Also, Blyth, Chap. 6. 9  See Bash, Forgiveness and Christian Ethics, p.  7; R.  Swinburne, Responsibility and Atonement (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989), p.  87; Smedes, cited in Voiss, Rethinking Christian Forgiveness, p. 234. 10  See S. Rambo, Spirit and Trauma: A Theology of Remaining (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), pp. 3, 7–8. 11  See P.  S. Fiddes, ‘Restorative Justice and the Theological Dynamic of Forgiveness’, Oxford Journal of Law and Religion 5.1 (2016), pp. 54–65 (p. 55); citing M. U. Walker, Moral Repair: Reconstructing Moral Relationships after Wrongdoing (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), pp. 155–162. 12  J. Pieper, Faith, Hope, Love (San Francisco, CA: Ignatius Press, repr. 1997), p. 93. Also, Blyth, Chap. 6.

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into a process of purification after death and that re-formation through the realisation of hope, as something necessary for salvation, may also entail forgiveness in another sphere of existence. Forgiveness could be the final act of one’s journey to fulfilment, known as the status comprehensoris. Our second presupposition is that eschatological hope is inherently social and, as such, unrealisable except in a form of reaching out, including to the offending other. In this way, it is equivalent to trauma, which also reaches out beyond the individual to damage society as a whole: ‘our lives are inextricably bound together … no one remains untouched by overwhelming violence’.13 Pope Benedict XVI has justified this conception of hope on the basis that sources from the Christian theological tradition refer to the human community using social metaphors, such as ‘city’. Since sin has damaged the unity of the entire city, reparation can only occur through a form of corporate reconstitution. Thus: ‘real life … presupposes that we escape from the prison of our “I”, because only in the openness of this universal subject does the gaze open out to the source of joy, to love itself  – to God’.14 The despair of unforgivingness is marked by the ‘not’ of unfulfilment, which Pieper has characterised as a descent into hell.15 It pollutes the human psyche with a kind of sorrow, compelling the sufferer to seek withdrawal from world. It is antisocial and isolating, and – even more dangerously – creates the conditions for revictimisation by cutting off the harmed from communities of healing and transformation. The despair of unforgivingness is an obstacle to human transformation because it precludes the society that is needed as the context for the realisation of eschatological hope. In Christian tradition, that society has often been identified with friendship, defined in terms of the union of souls in the pursuit of goodness and eternal life.16 Nigel Biggar has defined friendship as the ‘paradigmatic context of forgiveness’.17 Only in relationship is it possible for victims to find the courage and opportunity to be  Rambo, Spirit and Trauma, p. 9.  Benedict XVI, Spe salvi, §14. 15  See Pieper, Faith, Hope, Love, p. 113; cf. p. 117. 16  For an introduction to the theme, including the monastic roots of our definition here, see L.  Carmichael, Friendship: Interpreting Christian Love (London: T&T Clark, 2004), pp. 70–100. On the role of society generally, see Taylor, Chap. 7. 17   N.  Biggar, ‘Forgiveness in the Twentieth Century: A Review of the Literature, 1901–2001’, in McFadyen and Sarot, eds, Forgiveness and Truth, pp. 181–217 (p. 181). 13 14

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magnanimous in reaching out to those who have offended them. Only when there is love may there be the hope of fulfilment, and love requires both a subject and an object. In theological terms, this necessary condition may be described as the communion of true friendship, beginning with meeting God-in-Christ, especially the cosmic crucified Christ, as the foundation for the generous extension of gracious love to other members of the human family. Yet, eschatology can only entail the transformation of human narratives if it stands in some kind of meaningful relationship to history. The eschatological moment (a time outside time) may be compared to the Hegelian ‘totalisation of history’, described by Paul Ricoeur. It is both a ‘collective singular reality’ of human beings and a divine atemporal context in which life events make sense in new and different ways, and their subjects find fulfilment.18 In other words, eschatology entails two interrelated orientations: future-present, and future. In Ricoeurian terms, these two orientations may be described as two ‘perspectives on time’: ‘the phenomenological’, which relates to the experience of harm as it happens in individual lives, and ‘the cosmological’, which sets that relatively narrow experience in a new cosmic context.19 The distinction between these perspectives on (or, spheres of) time is equivalent to the distinction between making and belonging to history, which can only be reconciled through an eschatological event of ‘totalisation’. These two tenses in the speculative grammar of eschatology and, for that matter, forgiveness, are fundamental to the Christian theological point of view on any subject. The former (future-present) entails living in the world as a pilgrim, humbly acknowledging one’s limited capacity to bring to completion even the most inspired projects. This has been illustrated by the teaching of the Second Vatican Council (1962–1965) on the perfection of the church. The Council’s Dogmatic Constitution on the Church, Lumen Gentium, explains that even though she is subject to a promise of restoration, which has already begun in Christ, this cannot be brought to completion until the Second Coming, ‘the time of the restoration of all things’.20 Christian eschatology does not negate 18  P. Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, vol. 3, trans. by K. Blamey and D. Pellauer (Chicago, IL; London: The University of Chicago Press, 1988), p. 192. 19  Ibid., p. 6. 20  See Vatican II, Lumen Gentium, in A. Flannery, ed., Vatican Council II: Constitutions, Decrees, Declarations (Dublin: Dominican Publications, 1996), pp. 1–95 (§48).

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the world, including the pursuit of justice for victims. Indeed, the Council placed it ‘in a new context, namely, that of a deep commitment to the transformation of the world and human history’.21 However, it does entail the setting of present experience in a wider context, stretching beyond the experience of history, towards an unrealised future (the second ‘tense’ or ‘orientation’) in which particular experience is objectified – as Pope Benedict has also argued – beginning to take full account of the experience of the ‘other’. This has been described by Karl Rahner as the power of death itself, which separates the individual person from the limiting experience of particularity and creates the potential for ‘a wider and deeper connection with the whole cosmos’.22 Each of these orientations has particular implications for understanding the dynamics of forgiveness and the scope, as well as the limitations, of restorative justice as a context in which forgiveness can occur. First, restorative justice has the potential to draw eschatological insights into the present, for the transformation of human lives and society at large; this claim has been evaluated elsewhere in this book, by Michael Taylor.23 Second, where a fully restorative outcome cannot be achieved on earth, perhaps because the victim is deceased, Christian eschatology offers the hope of reconciliation in the afterlife. This means the hope of releasing victims from the trauma of a specific moment in phenomenological time, for the sake of eternal peace. It is necessary because the ‘alternative … would be to “freeze yourself in the unfairness of a cruel moment in the past”’,24 and there is no room for cruelty in heaven, the place of joy and peace.25 Yet, this very proposal also raises a major problem to do with divine and human moral agency, and their relationship, which can be expressed as a syllogism: (i) victims decide whether or not to forgive; (ii) respecting the rights of free agents (the sovereignty of the free will), God does not coerce forgiveness from an unwilling victim (i.e. God cannot because there is no distinction between his decision and his being); (iii) therefore, victims will 21  P.  C. Phan, ‘Roman Catholic Theology’, in J.  L. Walls, ed., The Oxford Handbook of Eschatology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), pp. 215–232 (p. 218). 22  Ibid., p. 223. 23  See Taylor, Chap. 7. 24  Smedes, Forgive and Forget, cited in Voiss, Rethinking Christian Forgiveness, p. 234. 25  See Catechism of the Catholic Church (Vatican City: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 2nd edn, 1997), §1024, 1030.

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always be able to withhold forgiveness. Marilyn McCord Adams emphasised the primacy of such ‘unfettered’ freedom in classical free will approaches to evil and suffering, which hold that it is both a sign that human beings have been made in the image and likeness of God, and of our capacity to grow in God-likeness.26 Such is the approach taken by philosophers like Swinburne: ‘God endows us with free will, makes us thereby imitate Divine aseity, in order that through its right exercise we might become still more Godlike – namely, in being self-determining with respect to uprightness.’27 In thinking about victims and offenders, this would mean that God could not, at any time, violate the freedom which led to the original act of harm, nor unilaterally remove or revoke a just punishment. We are faced with a paradox: (i) forgiveness is an absolute prerogative of victims, and yet (ii) all wrongs must be righted, especially when wrongdoers are repentant and as a necessary precondition for the accomplishment of God’s salvific plan to restore the cosmos. The only option for God, therefore, would seem to be to do something non-­ coercive to change victims’ perceptions of wrongdoers. In this chapter, we are suggesting that perhaps God’s very presence and his claim to victimhood, through Christ, have the potential necessary to transform the moral context so radically as to make even forgiveness of the (perceived) unforgivable a possibility. In its intrinsically interpersonal dimension, purgatorial purification – in which victims are exposed to the cleansing presence of God – may be able to reclaim the souls of wrongdoers.28 For the benefit of one whom God knows to be destined for heavenly beatitude but who, at the same time, bears the marks of worldly pain and trauma, which can only be resolved through reconciliation, the wrongdoer may be snatched from the jaws of death. This would mean that God’s will for his beloved could be fulfilled whilst, at the same time, reclaiming the other’s soul. In the eschatological context, God’s presence may reframe reality in such a way as to create the conditions for forgiveness without treading upon the toes of human freedom. In a purgatorial process where the heat of the divine presence scorches away human sin, it would be bizarre to suppose that the continuing function of the human will (its 26  See M. McCord Adams, Horrendous Evils and the Goodness of God (Ithaca, NY; London: Cornell University Press, 1999), pp. 32–33. 27  Ibid., p. 32. 28  On the intrinsically social orientation of purgatory in modern Catholic theology, see Phan, ‘Roman Catholic Theology’, pp. 220–223.

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power to make choices) would not be affected in some way. The central point is that, apprehending a vision of the empowering quality of victimhood  – not to mention the strength of forgiveness29  – in the crucified Christ, the archetypal victim who is also the saviour, the human victim may begin to conceive of their circumstances differently. This is an alternative reading of the victimhood of the God-Man and its potential implications for perceptions of human victims, both within and beyond the criminal justice system, as debated by scholars like Jan Van Dijk and Yevgen Galona.30 Their exchange has clarified the etymological roots of the term ‘victim’ (victima), distinguishing between two definitions and tracing their relative pre-eminence in Christian theology and criminal justice theory. In short, historically there have been two conceptions of the victim: the ‘ritual’ victim (the object of sacrifice) and the ‘figural’ victim (the harmed party). The former took precedence in the pre-Christian, patristic and early-medieval worlds, but changing perceptions of the crucifixion in the devotional culture of the high middle ages and the articulation, chiefly by Anselm of Canterbury, of a satisfaction theory of the atonement, resulted in a reframing of Christ’s victimhood as that of a harmed party. Christ became the innocent victim of human sin, not to mention the brutal violence of the cross. In turn, through subsequent centuries, the pervasive power of the Christian metanarrative and culture affected western social constructs of victimhood, so that by the eighteenth century in England, for example, the term had come to be associated with the harmed party in a criminal case. We are indebted to these scholars for unearthing and clarifying these definitions and to Van Dijk, in particular, for also bringing to light the disempowering effect of this social construction of victimhood upon perceptions of harmed parties. Victim labelling, whilst eliciting compassion for victims from society, does so only on the condition that victims conform to established norms of ‘passivity and forgiveness’.31 The construction of victimhood implied by the Christ archetype, Van Dijk argues, has unhealthy and potentially  See Smedes, Forgive and Forget, cited in Voiss, Rethinking Christian Forgiveness, p. 235.  See J. Van Dijk, ‘Free the Victim: A Critique of the Western Conception of Victimhood’, International Review of Victimology 16 (2009), pp.  1–33; Y.  Galona, ‘From Ritual to Metaphor: The Semantic Shift in the Concept of “Victim” and Medieval Christian Piety’, International Review of Victimology 24.1 (2018), pp. 83–98; J. Van Dijk, ‘Galona’s Review of Victim Labelling Theory: A Rejoinder’, International Review of Victimology 25.1 (2019), pp. 125–131. 31  Van Dijk, ‘Free the Victim’, pp. 1, 8. 29 30

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destructive implications for those harmed by crime, inviting them to accept the role of scapegoat in criminal justice processes and an attendant obligation to forgive. Victims are scapegoats (or ‘quasi-scapegoats’)32 in the sense that, foregoing the right to exact revenge, they take a secondary role in the prosecution of wrongdoers. Such is the ‘symbolic exclusion’ whereby victims sacrifice themselves in order for officials to restore the harmony of society.33 They appear to do so voluntarily, whilst in reality being coerced by centuries of religious baggage and contemporary social expectations; those who fail to conform may be labelled ‘bad’ victims, undeserving of compassion.34 This is Van Dijk’s diagnosis, and his prescription is a healthy dose of secularisation, to ‘[allow] those harmed by crime to resist their labelling as victims with its adverse, incapacitating role and expectations of meekness’.35 On the contrary, we are suggesting that the solution does not lie in the abandonment of the Christ archetype but in the apprehension of its salvific power. Conforming oneself to Christ does not mean conforming to a model of passivity, but to strength; namely, the strength to transgress and ultimately to break the coercive practices of the past. It means the realisation of the fruit of the tree of death – resurrection – which confounds understanding and brings sacrifice to an end. As Mark Heim has written: ‘Where the witness of the cross is authentically heard, the collective agreement that makes sacrifice succeed or eschatological crusades thrive is decisively broken.’36 Van Dijk has adduced two observations in support of his conclusion, but which could equally, or even better, reflect the reality we are seeking to convey. First, he explains that victims can, and often do, show extraordinary inner strength in the very midst of trials: ‘the existence of unexpected deposits of inner strength in many crime victims has in recent years been confirmed in numerous clinical studies’.37 Second, that in the wake of harm, victims often identify with and seek to support one another, for instance, through charity work: ‘This theme is

 Ibid., p. 7.  See ibid., p. 6, building on R. Girard, Violence and the Sacred (Baltimore, MD: John Hopkins Press, 1977). 34  See ibid., pp. 8, 18 (cf. ‘reactive scapegoating’). 35  Van Dijk, ‘Galona’s Review’, p. 128. 36  M.  Heim, Saved from Sacrifice: A Theology of the Cross (Grand Rapids, MI: Wm B. Eerdmans, 2006), p. 290. 37  Van Dijk, ‘Free the Victim’, p. 10. 32 33

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so ubiquitous and so pronounced that it cannot be coincidental.’38 These facts, Van Dijk has argued, belie the social construction of victimhood and in so doing, invalidate the label itself. Whilst he may be correct in the observation, we have problems with the inference, and an entirely different conclusion may be reached if the label is reframed in light of the meaning-giving archetype of a powerful victim Christ.39 The best explanation for the strength of victims in adversity may be, simply, the strength of victims in adversity. The construction of intrinsically weak victims in need of protection by third parties, usually the state, is certainly shown to be flawed, but definitions may be replaced, reformed, recreated, without abolishing the categories altogether. In turn, the very fact that victims often band together, see each other in each other’s faces and stories, may be a sign of a deep centripetal desire to converge around a common or archetypal experience. Moreover, perhaps the afterlife – and purgatory, in particular – is the only conceivable context in which a ‘grand scene’ and ‘ceremony’ of transformation, from unforgivingness to forgiveness, could possibly occur.40 In purgatory, where history and eternity meet, the archetype of the crucified Christ may be placed in clear view, the incentive of heavenly glory laid bare, the individual objectified, and the offending other embraced within the victim’s narrative. Crucially, in the face of all this, the victim ‘whose suffering cries less for vengeance than for narration’, would not find their experience either explained away or reduced to an ‘emotional retort’.41 Their narrative would be somehow transformed, freed from its previous limitations, which are the ‘parasites’ of Derrida’s ceremony of culpability: ‘automatic ritual, hypocrisy, calculation, or mimicry’.42 Everything that can coerce, distort, manipulate and pollute would be removed, so that the victim’s narrative would be seen in the true, clear light of God, rather than through a dusty haze of sinfulness. The victim would be able to say of their own experience, this ‘is what I would have seen, what I would have witnessed if I had been there’.43 Since God’s presence cannot admit of

 Ibid., p. 12.  On a similar point, citing Marilyn McCord Adams, see Blyth, Chap. 6. 40  See J.  Derrida, On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness (London; New  York: Routledge, 2001), p. 29. 41  See Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, vol. 3, pp. 188–189. 42  Derrida, Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness, p. 29. 43  Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, vol. 3, p. 185. 38 39

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­ arasites, the purgatorial trial would be an infallible conference, not only p for its judgement but also for its probity. In Ricoeurian terms, it would be the context in which a ‘refiguration of time’ takes place through the union of history and fiction. Historical consciousness, Ricoeur explained, means ‘standing for the past … [by] analogous apprehension’.44 In the eschatological future, victims would remain conscious of trauma by the same ‘analogous apprehension’ which is both real and imaginary, without contradiction, but in which the self is also another; the reality of the past as ‘my past’ (therefore, ‘my pain’) would be let go, refigured or reframed as ‘its past’ or ‘the past of my other self’.45 The same ‘capacity of a subject to transport itself into an alien psychic life’, which forms the basis of ‘historical intelligence’, if transformed and supported, would become the means by which victims begin to understand and empathise with wrongdoers.46 This is one way of thinking about Pope Benedict’s reference to the universalisation of the subject: ‘the man of little faith’s heartfelt submission to the fire of the Lord which will draw him out of himself into that purity which befits those who are God’s’.47 In this process, victims would not be required to abandon a sense of themselves but, rather, to intensify their awareness of the mediation of historical consciousness by imagination, which makes sense of the past – drawing it into a coherent narrative – as ‘the ultimate presupposition of the reinscription of lived time’.48 This would not be a transition from reality to fiction, but a form of remembering rightly; even in the ‘most realist’ approaches to the historical past there is evidence of mediation, which Ricoeur has illustrated with the example of the sundial, namely, a schematising object uniting ‘the life of its constructor’ with ‘the astronomical universe’.49 For acts of horror, which should not be forgotten, refiguring ‘my past’ as ‘the past of my other self’, would create space for empathy with the other, the precondition for coming to terms with trauma, escaping the trap of Rambo’s ‘middle’, and avoiding what has been described as ‘a ruinous dichotomy between a history that would dissolve the event in  Ibid., p. 181.  Ibid., p. 181. 46  Ibid., p. 185. 47  J.  Ratzinger, Eschatology: Death and Eternal Life (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1988), pp. 229–230. 48  Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, vol. 3, p. 184. 49  Ibid., p. 182. 44 45

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explanation and a purely emotional retort’.50 The self-destructive, albeit understandable, desire for revenge would be transformed through a meaning-giving narrative (of Christ the victim), which remembers correctly rather than allowing the horror to take on a life-denying power of its own. It could be a form of what Lewis Smedes has described as ‘redemptive remembering’; either way, the phrase seems very apt.51 In the eschatological moment, God would create the conditions in which victims restore themselves and their wrongdoers through a meaningful refiguring of their narrative, in the perfect harmonisation of phenomenological and cosmological time, which would, in turn, make forgiveness possible. And they would do so all the more meaningfully in relation to the memory of Christ’s victimhood confronting them: ‘the remembering to which they are called is that in which God has taken the risk of forgiving and shown that forgiving is the way to redemption and new life’.52 Such forgiveness would also be a participation  – possibly the most meaningful kind – in the forgiveness of God-in-Christ, which has the sole distinction of perfection by means of its prevenience. First, the forgiveness of the victim is participatory because the prerogative of forgiveness originates with God and belongs to him; as Derrida wrote, ‘we have to realise that as soon as one says or hears “pardon” … well, God is mixed up in it’.53 Second, it is nevertheless subordinate to the perfection of divine forgiveness because it is not antecedent to confession (i.e. apology); in theological terms, it is not prevenient. If the eschatological victim has shown abundant love, the God-Man has shown the madness of divine love.54 The judgement of the purgatorial court – in so far as it could rest with victims, whose prerogative it is to forgive – would be exercised in a purely future orientation of eschatology, in a spirit of ‘narcissistic reflexivity’ for the sake of the glorification of victims.55 However, this also means that the salvific power of victims would be very great, since it would be a true participation in the essence of forgiveness, which ‘must not be a response to a request’.56 Reimagining life and the act of wrongdoing by which it has  Ibid., p. 188.  Smedes, Forgive and Forget, cited in Voiss, Rethinking Christian Forgiveness, p. 234. 52  Voiss, Rethinking Christian Forgiveness, p. 235. 53  Derrida, Literature in Secret, p. 148. 54  Ibid., p. 156. 55  Ibid., p. 145; cf. Augustine of Hippo, Christian Teaching I, XXVII. 28. 56  Derrida, Literature in Secret, p. 145. 50 51

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been blighted, the victim would take the sting out of their own r­ esentment (the emotional ground of unforgivingness), not at the request of a wrongdoer nor by the coercion of God, but by a voluntary act of their own sovereign will. Resentment overcome, the way to heaven opened and, as though by accident, the wrongdoer released. This would be a powerful form of forgiveness, indeed, since it would be simultaneously both offered and realised. In eschatological terms, forgiveness may be the only means of achieving a fully restorative outcome in the righting of wrongs; a process which does not (or cannot) lead to forgiveness is inherently limited, even though it may be satisfactory in a contingent way. All kinds of social, cultural and even economic criteria may be satisfied in a process which does not result in forgiveness, whilst at the same time being ultimately unable to break the stranglehold of unforgivingness preventing victims from moving on. By contrast, an eschatological vision invites victims to realise true freedom, not through letting go of their stake in an act of harm (as in traditional criminal justice processes, where it is ceded to the state) but by allowing their narrative to be refigured through union with a meaning-giving metanarrative of archetypal victimhood. Such a prospectus ought to feel both compelling and daunting. Compelling for advocates of restorative justice, since it accomplishes the objective of placing victims at the heart of the process; there is no diminishing a sovereign victim with the power to save. For victims, too, it offers a beatific vision of the future, where hope overcomes every pernicious influence preventing the full flourishing of life. Yet, for those who prefer to contain restorative justice within temporal bounds – that is to say, within the parameters of history – it is also daunting, since it threatens to expose the ultimate limitation of their system. Eschatology demands forgiveness as the key to a fully restorative outcome whilst, at the same time, making it virtually impossible for forgiveness to be accomplished on this side of eternity, thereby imposing a limit on the potential of restorative justice to achieve its own ends. Eschatological forgiveness cannot be reasonably expected of victims, since it entails transcending nature; as Derrida argued, it is both ‘exceptional and extraordinary’.57 Like the incarnation of Christ, forgiveness interrupts the course of history so that it may be transformed as if by God himself; yet, of course, restorative justice takes place within history.  Derrida, Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness, p. 32.

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Both morally and intellectually, an easy solution to this dilemma would be to sever the link with forgiveness altogether; to argue that restorative justice has nothing really to do with forgiveness or that it is simply too mysterious to be relevant. But this is cheap as well as easy. The challenge, accepting that forgiveness is integral to a fully restorative outcome in any process of righting wrong, is to embrace the fact that it may be only in the infallible purgatorial conference that a process begun in this life will find its fulfilment.

CHAPTER 9

Conclusion

Abstract  Despite a lack of definitional consensus, forgiveness seems to be crucial to justice processes which seek a ‘fully restorative’ outcome. Ongoing challenges include: determining whether forgiveness arises from mutual openness between stakeholders or is the prerogative of victims; whether the ‘act’ of forgiveness is primarily rational or emotional; and whether forgiveness is a morally serious concept. There is also work to be done in reconciling academic scepticism concerning the place of forgiveness within restorative justice processes and, by contrast, the apparent openness  – even, gratitude  – of stakeholders who have experienced it. From Christian theological perspectives, there would appear to be insights for restorative justice concerning both the use of metanarratives as a context for articulating and safeguarding values, and communities as a context for translating those values into actions. Keywords  Forgiveness • Restorative justice • Theological perspectives The case for restorative justice is strong, or so it seems to us. This book argues for it, notwithstanding its potential limitations (from the social to the eschatological!), on the basis of the Christian metanarrative, and its With thanks to Michael Taylor for preparing a first draft of this text. © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M. N. Blyth et al., Forgiveness and Restorative Justice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75282-8_9

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associated (or derivative) values, and historical experience. Implicitly, the book also raises the fundamental question of the compatibility of restorative justice and the mainstream criminal justice system, which many leading theorists – such as Howard Zehr and Annalise Acorn – consider to be, essentially, mutually exclusive.1 This issue needs further exploration, including from a theological point of view, but the idea that the two may not be incompatible has been signposted here: interviews with stakeholders in restorative justice processes included wrongdoers who saw a conference as something of ‘added value’ whilst serving their time in prison, as well as some prison officers who encouraged participation without apparently seeing this as a fundamental betrayal of criminal justice.2 Perhaps, as David Cornwell has argued from his experience of the prison service, there are possibilities for a rapprochement by a gradual embedding of restorative values and approaches.3 Most significantly, we have made the case for taking seriously the potential of forgiveness as a principle of restorative justice and a dynamic  – whether or not Christians can lay particular claim to it4  – within any process which aims to achieve a fully restorative outcome. Returning to the words with which this book began, we agree that there can be no future without forgiveness, especially not for restorative justice. At the same time, we also recognise that forgiveness is incredibly difficult to define or, if not difficult, may be defined in many different ways. Possible definitions include, but are not limited to: replacing negative attitudes and feelings with more positive ones, such as empathy and compassion; letting go and moving on; and repairing broken relationships. More elaborately, forgiveness can be set within a range of (chiefly theological) ideas, or on a ‘continuum’ from penitence and reparation to understanding and reconciliation, of which it may be described as an important part  – the fulfilment, even – but not necessarily the whole. In thinking and writing about forgiveness, four issues have occurred to us which seem worth 1  See H. Zehr, Changing Lenses: A New Focus for Crime and Justice (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1990), pp. 211–213, though some equivocation is suggested on p. 271; A. E. Acorn, Compulsory Compassion: A Critique of Restorative Justice (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2004), pp. 160–161 (on competing ‘utopias’). Also Mills, Chap. 5. 2  Blyth, Chap. 6. 3  See D. J. Cornwell, Doing Justice Better: The Politics of Restorative Justice (Winchester; Portland, OR: Waterside Press, 2007), ch. 4. 4  Taylor, Chap. 4.

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highlighting here; we have also provided references to particular chapters in the footnotes to this conclusion, for readers who wish to revisit specific arguments in detail. Firstly, there is a tension between mutual or ‘dyadic’ forgiveness, and the sovereignty of victims. Dyadic forgiveness itself can be understood in more than one way: it may refer to the widely acknowledged need for a harmer to show signs of remorse; in other words, to create some of the conditions for forgiveness, underlining the point that it is part of a process or continuum. More radically, it may also mean that forgiveness is a ‘two-­way street’, where both victim and harmer have something to give to, or require of, each other. It is a matter of mutual giving and receiving, which raises questions about who forgives and who stands in need of forgiveness, if not in relation to the immediate offence then at least to wider realities. Again, indeed, ‘dyadic’ might support the suggestion that forgiveness must be received in order to be completed. Whatever it means, it is resistant to the idea that forgiveness is a ‘unitary decision’ by victims.5 Secondly, what might be called ‘volitional’ or ‘rational’ accounts of forgiveness stand in contrast to those which privilege the ‘emotional’ (which does not mean ‘irrational’) dimension. No-one suggests that they are necessarily opposed to or divorced from each other, but there do appear to be differences in emphasis. Much of the discussion about the place of forgiveness in a process of reconciliation, for example, and what is required of both harmer and victim for it to be timely and appropriate, and about how justice (as well as love) may be served, seems calm and reasoned, culminating in a conscious decision as to whether to forgive or not: ‘a voluntary act of … [a] sovereign will’.6 On the other hand, forgiveness can be associated with ‘shifts in emotional energy’ or an ‘emotional turning point … where the rhythm changes from one of conflict to one of solidarity’ with a degree of spontaneity, rather than after carefully calculated decision-­ making.7 Surely, practitioners of restorative justice must remain open to – and prepared for – either expression taking place during a conference. Thirdly, there is a dissonance, and even discrepancy, between ‘academic’ discussions about forgiveness (especially the more sceptical) and the testimonies of participants in restorative justice conferences.8 5  On ‘dyadic forgiveness’, see M.  P. Armour and M.  S. Umbreit, Violence, Restorative Justice and Forgiveness: Dyadic Forgiveness and Energy Shifts in Restorative Justice Dialogue (London: Jessica Kingsley, 2018). Cf. Mills, Chap. 8. 6  Mills, Chap. 8. 7  See Armour and Umbreit, Violence, Restorative Justice and Forgiveness, p. 305. 8  Blyth, Chap. 6.

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Academic discussions are often wary about forgiveness, the pitfalls surrounding it, and the unhelpful religious baggage that any mention of it may carry.9 They are interested in analysis, definitions, pre-conditions (such as adequate remorse and reparation) and destinations (such as reconciliation). There are also debates as to how much of the whole, or which part of it, is to be identified with forgiveness, and rightly or wrongly forgiveness comes to be perceived as a complex issue best set aside. By contrast, when stakeholders in restorative justice conferences reflected on their experiences, although certain risks and its religious associations were mentioned, forgiveness was more often seen in a positive and non-controversial light.10 There was a ‘natural engagement’ with the concept, by both harmers and victims. They did not necessarily find forgiveness easy to define and their answers varied, but they knew what they meant by it and when it had occurred! It was usually associated with an unselfconscious moment when the mood shifted away from tension and hostility, towards understanding and friendliness. There was a ‘thaw’. It involved ‘letting go’, ‘closure’, and ‘moving on’. It was rarely talked about as part of a whole, but it clearly emerged from sorrow and growing empathy, and appeared to be a welcome reality, complete in itself. Fourthly, talk of forgiveness raises the spectre of a much wider debate about ‘moral seriousness’, which is often characterised (or even caricatured) as a distinction between ‘justice’ and ‘mercy’. Is forgiveness a ‘hard’ or a ‘soft’ concept, or something in between? Perhaps, understanding forgiveness in terms of ‘satisfaction’ may offer a means of straddling the divide.11 Satisfaction is demanding, but also leaves room for softness: the vicarious satisfaction of the God-Man, for instance, or the definition of satisfaction as a ‘token’ or ‘just enough’. Yet, the idea of ‘making amends’ does expose a disjuncture between ‘satisfaction’ and what is ‘satisfying’, since a compassionate victim may be satisfied with far, far less than the law requires. It is a reframing of the question at the heart of restorative justice theory to ask whether ‘satisfaction’ is rooted in some objective criteria related to morality, or common or criminal law, which even those satisfied with something different or ‘less’ should nevertheless respect. The practitioner of restorative justice has to decide where the conference stands in  Especially Taylor, Chap. 4.  Blyth, Chap. 6. 11  Especially Mills, Chap. 5. 9

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relation to the need to offer ‘satisfaction’, both as amends and as a feeling experienced by stakeholders. This last point has to do with one of the three themes identified in our introduction as threads running throughout the book: moral seriousness. A word or two may also be said about the others. To begin with, there is much discussion of ‘metanarratives’ as a context, possibly historical and certainly conceptual, within which to locate discussions of forgiveness.12 The reference is often to the overarching Christian story of redemption, both in terms of its offer (or pattern) of liberation and in relation to the ongoing experience of injustice (a possible byword for ‘sin’) in the world.13 Broadly speaking, metanarratives are stories about all our lives within which any particular life can be set, and from which it can gain meaning and purpose. These stories seem to be closely associated with values. They may give rise to them, or legitimate them, or both, and when rehearsed verbally or ritualistically, express and reinforce them.14 Religious or not, metanarratives are vital for explaining why we hold particular values and not others. Take the story away and the reason why we should respect one another is not so clear; metanarratives may be necessary for values to be sustained. On a practical note, the significance of metanarratives may present problems for restorative justice. Insofar as it is a ritual, because the same deliberate procedures are repeated on every occasion, a conference reflects and possibly reinforces certain values to do with respect, justice, healing, and reconciliation; ‘possibly’ because, though the ritual is repeated, many participants experience it only once.15 But, if certain values are rehearsed and to the fore, there is, not surprisingly, no apparent reference to, nor awareness of, any underlying understanding of what the lives of those involved are all about. Metanarratives play no apparent part in the proceedings, yet communities do still need stories upon which to hang their shared identities, and if these stories are of fundamental importance, restorative justice must find ways of encouraging participants, whether victims or harmers, to set what is happening to them in a wider, meaningful context.

 Blyth, Chap. 2; Mills, Chap. 3; Taylor, Chap. 7; Mills, Chap. 8.  Taylor, Chap. 7. 14  Blyth, Chap. 2. 15  Blyth, Chap. 2. 12 13

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The third and final theme foregrounded in the introduction to this book is ‘community’, and we have been concerned to interrogate the dynamics of community, from civic to ecclesial to eschatological. Communities play a prominent role in restorative justice thinking, not only for their capacity to be ‘restorative’, but also as corporate victims, suffering collateral damage from acts of harm.16 Communities are also expected to be the locus of ‘reintegration’, a core principle of restorative justice. Yet, practitioners will have to think carefully about what they mean by community in an increasingly atomised, fast-moving world, with the possible implication that their work may be less a matter of ‘restoration’ than ‘creation’ or ‘resurrection’ or ‘reinvention’, in order to be capable of creating a sense of order, support and welcome. Victims and wrongdoers must be supported in the wake of the conference to see themselves as part of their community, whatever form it takes. Where communities on the ground, as we usually envisage them, seem a distant dream, perhaps they must look to virtual communities, gathered communities, social media networks, clubs, congregations, charities and mentors, which may meet some, if not all, of what is needed. Christians making the case for restorative justice in mixed and dynamic contemporary communities must also be aware of the vital need to ‘connect’ so much of the material covered in this book with the cultures of other faith traditions and secular society. This is a complex issue, worthy of more than one further book, but it may provide a useful note upon which to end, since it underscores the challenge of making our case for restorative justice (and forgiveness, in particular) communicable. Arguments – or approaches to arguments – which have been described as ‘intuitive’ (‘I just know it’s right’) and ‘authoritarian’ or ‘emotive’ (‘it’s what I like or prefer’) all have their difficulties. ‘Consequentialist’ arguments may be more persuasive to some, but – as we have observed – the results of restorative justice remain ambiguous.17 In Chap. 3, ‘sin’ and ‘love’ were put forward as ‘reasons’ why especially victims, but also offenders and others, should be prepared to make themselves vulnerable, with vulnerability seen as crucial to forgiveness and the restorative process.18

 On the social dimension of wrongdoing, Taylor, Chap. 7; Mills, Chap. 8.  See Acorn, Compulsory Compassion, p. 46; Taylor, Chaps. 4 and 7. 18  Mills, Chap. 3. 16 17

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Whilst carrying clear references to the Christian metanarrative, once out in public and shorn of their religious context, perhaps ‘sin’ (‘no-one is perfect’) and ‘love’ can still make sense as ‘reasons’ for opting to behave in a restorative way because they indicate an understanding of who we are as human beings which it may be possible for us to hold in common.

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Index

A Abelard, Peter, 71 Acceptance, 79 Acorn, Annalise, 3, 94, 124 Adam, 32, 33, 64, 68 Afterlife/eschatology, 18, 49, 62, 63, 80, 89, 102, 110, 113, 115, 119–121 and forgiveness, 113 and glory, 118, 120 and historical consciousness, 119 and history, 113, 118 and hope, 22, 112 and narrative(s), 113 orientations of, 113 and remembering rightly, 119 and restorative justice, 114 and time, 113, 119, 120 Allard, Pierre, 59 Ambrose of Milan, 64 Anderson, Pamela Sue, 23, 24, 36 Anger, 8, 19, 53, 72, 85 Anselm of Canterbury, 4, 29, 61–63, 65, 68, 71, 73, 116

atonement theology of, 63 Cur Deus Homo, 63, 68 and original justice, 29, 71 and rectitude, 29 and satisfaction, 62 Apology, 18, 32, 35, 68, 79, 82–85, 93, 120 Aquinas, Thomas, 36, 72, 73 Atonement theology, 5, 43, 44, 49, 73, 78, 101, 105, 116 Augustine of Hippo, 32, 64 B Barth, Karl, 32 Benedict of Nursia, 66, 71 Benedict XVI, Pope, 112, 114, 119 Biggar, Nigel, 112 Bonhoeffer, Dietrich, 14 Braithwaite, John, 3, 12, 15, 16, 35, 64, 69–71, 73, 94, 96, 97, 99 Bynum, Caroline Walker, 62–64

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M. N. Blyth et al., Forgiveness and Restorative Justice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75282-8

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140 

INDEX

C Catherine of Siena, 24, 31, 32, 35 Catholic Social Teaching, 103 Chaucer, Geoffrey, 72 Chesterton, G. K., 27, 34 Clerical sexual abuse, 35 Common good, 96 Community(ies), 14, 16, 20, 50, 58, 65, 66, 69, 71, 98, 128 and crime, 15 eucharistic, 14 and healing, 112 monastic, 65 nature of, 16, 128 punishments of, 48 and reintegration, 98 and reparation, 5 and restoration, 5, 23, 98 and social change, 106 utopian dream of, 67, 73 and values, 5, 98 as victim(s), 128 as virtual, 128 Contemplation, 27, 64, 67, 70, 71 Cornwell, David, 124 Corporal punishment, 66 Crime, 12, 15, 16, 58, 64, 69, 71, 81, 83, 88, 93, 94, 96, 97, 107, 117 causes of, 96 Criminal justice system, 2, 11, 14, 26, 59, 81, 94, 116, 124 Cross, Richard, 64 Cunneen, Chris, 94 D Derrida, Jacques, 109, 110, 118, 120, 121 Dillistone, F. W., 44 Durkheim, Émile, 13–15, 17, 70

E Emotions, 15, 37, 77, 82, 83, 85, 121, 125 Empathy, 8, 27, 30, 32, 38, 43, 55, 68, 80, 82, 87, 88, 99, 107, 119, 124, 126 Empirical research, 76, 88 interviews, 8, 81 Ethics consequentialist, 53, 128 deontological, 53 Eucharist, 9, 11, 13, 14, 16, 18–20 and the Christian metanarrative, 10 consecration, 14 effects of, 20 and human flourishing, 14 and identity, 9, 13 and Jesus Christ, 9, 13 and reconciliation, 13 repetition of, 9 and the restorative justice conference, 9 shape/pattern of, 9 F Fiddes, Paul, 44, 78–80 Forgetting, 55, 82, 84, 89 Forgiveness, 47, 50, 79–82, 85, 102, 109, 112, 118, 120, 121 as acceptance, 79 and afterlife/eschatology, 113, 120 beneficial effects of, 50 Christian commitment to, 39, 41, 45, 48, 50, 51, 54 Christian concept of, 40, 41, 44, 48, 49, 54 as conditional, 46, 63, 78, 85 and conferencing, 126 criticism of, 2, 54, 76, 80, 86, 126 and the crucifixion, 44, 50 divine forgiveness, 41, 47, 49 as dyadic, 85, 125

 INDEX 

and forgetting, 82, 84 and Jesus Christ, 40, 43, 45, 46, 48, 51 in John’s gospel, 46 as journey, 79, 80, 88 and justice, 51 lack of definitional consensus, 42, 43, 45, 55, 87, 124, 126 lack of evidence concerning, 54, 76 as letting go, 111 and love, 51 and metanarrative(s), 127 miracle of, 48 as moral category, 81 as moving on, 55, 82, 84, 85, 87, 111 mystery of, 109 and negative feelings, 43 as non-violent, 48 as an obligation, 2, 49, 117 perceptions of, 81, 120 possible definitions of, 55, 77, 78, 82, 85, 87, 124 and power, 51, 53 not reconciliation, 40 as release, 43, 53, 81, 83, 110, 114 and repentance, 78, 79 and resentment, 84 and restorative justice, 41, 42, 75–77, 86, 114, 124 as restorative justice value, 75, 77 and satisfaction, 62, 126 in scripture, 78 in the synoptic gospels, 46 and theology, 80 as unconditional, 40, 78 Friendship(s), 55, 112 G Galona, Yevgen, 116 Gandolfo, Elizabeth, 36 Garfinkel, H., 15

141

Garland, David, 15 Gennep, Arnold van, 17, 18 Geske, Janine, 35 Girard, René, 19 Gluckmann, Max, 13, 19 God, 40, 69, 81, 102, 110, 118, 120 compassion of, 64 forgiveness of, 120 friendship with, 22 image and likeness of, 24, 36, 106, 115 invulnerability of, 36 as judge, 61 just mercy of, 63 kingdom of, 46, 102 mission of, 48, 102, 115 not coercive, 114, 121 punishments of, 48 as vengeful, 50 Good, the, 29, 30, 71 Gorringe, Timothy, 3, 47, 63, 94, 98 Gregory of Nyssa, 38 Guilt, 31–33, 35, 54, 64, 67, 79, 96 H Harm, 6, 8, 16, 23, 25, 31, 33, 37, 68–70, 74, 93, 113, 115, 117, 121, 128 definitions of, 25 Hegel, Georg W. F., 113 Heim, Mark, 117 Hell, 46, 62 Heresy, 60 Hermeneutics of suspicion, 104 Hobbes, Thomas, 24 Holiness, 29, 30, 38 Holy Spirit, 102 Home Office (UK), 77 Hope, 36, 110, 112, 121 as social, 112

142 

INDEX

Hoyle, Carolyn, 94 Human condition, 31 Humility, 27, 32, 50, 52, 54, 55, 70, 71, 74 I Imprisonment, 94, 96, 98, 107 Inclusion, 19 Indigenous spirituality, 9 Injustice, 94 Institutional religion decline of, 12 J Jesus Christ, 6, 19, 20, 41, 45–49, 51, 52, 68, 78, 101, 102, 106, 107, 113, 126 as archetype, 19, 37, 38, 42, 116, 117, 121 crucifixion of, 5, 19, 34, 59, 61–63, 73, 81, 116, 117 death of, 102 incarnation of, 36, 38, 41, 47, 63, 121 inspiration of, 45 passion of, 64 presence in suffering, 27, 44 public ministry of, 47 resurrection of, 11, 50 suffering of, 27, 63 trauma of, 27 victimhood of, 115, 116, 120 warnings of, 46 Johnstone, Gerry, 94 Just desserts, 61 Justice, 12, 50, 51, 79, 102–105, 126 as communitarian, 2, 60, 61, 67, 70 and covenant, 59 divine, 63 and Jesus Christ, 51

as relational, 77 and retribution, 58 statutory, 61 K King, Martin Luther, 52, 103 L Leo IX, Pope, 60 Liturgy, 11 secular/courtroom, 11 Love, 24, 50, 69, 71, 79, 101–103, 106, 128 as affirmation of being, 34 of attributes, 33 belovedness, 27, 33 as costly, 50 divine, 27, 34, 40, 44, 110 fire of, 37 and forgiveness, 43 inflexibility of, 35, 70 as interpenetrative, 36 of Jesus Christ, 46 risky, 33 and self-realisation, 35 of victim(s), 113, 120 for wrongdoer(s), 68 Luke, gospel of, 47, 49 Luke, the Evangelist, 46 M Make amends, 14, 65, 68, 72, 74, 126 Mandela, Nelson, 52, 103 Mark, the Evangelist, 46 Marshall, Christopher, 3, 48 Maruna, Shadd, 18 Mary, the Virgin, 73, 107 Matthew, the Evangelist, 46 McCord Adams, Marilyn, 68, 81, 115

 INDEX 

Mercy, 46, 81, 126 of Jesus Christ, 46 just mercy, 70 Metanarrative(s), 5, 27, 34, 40, 41, 48, 51, 54, 101, 102, 104, 116, 121, 123, 127 and forgiveness, 48 as reason-giving, 26, 32, 33, 37 and reframing, 22, 27, 33, 37 and salvation history, 22 of ‘sin’ and ‘love,’ 27, 35, 129 and suffering, 22 and values, 127 Middle ages, 60 and community(ies), 65 and justice, 61 kingship, 60 and retribution, 61, 63, 64 Mission, 18, 102 Monasticism, 65, 67, 69, 70 the abbot, 67–69, 72, 74 and reintegration, 68 and virtue, 65 Moral agency, 37, 114 Moral sensitivity, 29, 32 Moral seriousness, 6, 16, 43, 53, 68, 89, 118, 126 of Christian apologetics, 22 of the Christian metanarrative, 107 and justice, 51 and restorative justice, 15 and truth-telling, 15 N Narrative(s), 110, 118 reframing of, 8, 120, 121 story-telling, 12, 82, 83 New Testament, 47, 48, 59, 78 Niebuhr, Reinhold, 29, 32 and self-realisation, 29, 32 Northey, Wayne, 59

143

O Old Testament, 13, 59 P Pain, 59, 61 as an end in itself, 15, 62, 65 Paul, the Apostle, 11, 14 Pavlich, George, 99 Peter, the Apostle, 45 Pieper, Josef, 33, 34, 111 and the status comprehensoris, 112 and the status viatoris, 111 Pope, Stephen, 35 Poverty, 92, 94, 96, 103, 107, 108 Power, 19, 38, 51, 53, 69, 87, 95, 108, 120 Prodigal son, 40, 45, 47 Punishment, 14–16, 44, 48, 50, 62, 63, 84 and aggression, 15 as an end in itself, 46, 59, 67, 68 by excommunication, 65–70 and healing, 15 purpose of, 67 and redemption, 48 and restorative justice, 67, 77 and satisfaction, 62 statutory, 60 transitional, 66 Purgatory, 115, 118, 119, 122 and purification, 112 R Rahner, Karl, 114 Rambo, Shelly, 21, 111, 119 and ‘the middle,’ 22, 119 Recompense, 63 Reconciliation, 20, 41–43, 48, 55, 77, 79, 80, 93, 114, 115, 124–127 and afterlife/eschatology, 114 and forgiveness, 2

144 

INDEX

Redemption, 18, 71, 105, 111 Rehabilitation, 91–93 Reintegration, 18, 19, 50, 68, 69, 77, 93, 95, 98, 128 Remorse, 80, 82–84, 87, 125, 126 Reparation, 6, 15, 18, 23, 25, 26, 35, 43, 45, 51, 55, 62, 70, 71, 93, 98, 112, 124, 126 Repentance, 32, 43, 51, 55, 69, 78, 79, 81, 93, 115 Resentment, 40, 69, 72 and unforgivingness, 121 Responsibility, 32, 68, 93 Restitution, 72 Restoration, 5, 19, 20, 43, 46, 47, 55, 72–74, 77, 88, 92, 93, 98 of dignity, 87 as redemption, 71 and rehabilitation, 93 Restorative cities, 95, 100 Restorative justice, 99, 123 and afterlife/eschatology, 114 archetype of, 20 beyond criminal justice, 95 and community(ies), 98, 99 as cooperative, 51 and the criminal justice system, 124 criticism of, 96, 97, 99, 106, 107 effectiveness of, 97 effects on wrongdoer(s), 30 and empowerment, 95, 106 and forgiveness, 2, 114, 124 and history, 121 indigenous perspective(s), 2 lack of definitional consensus, 57, 92, 93 limitations of, 121, 123 and mutual openness, 23 and pain, 67 and partnerships, 101 possible definitions, 92 practitioners of, 50

principles of, 77 as problem-centred, 40 process-based, 93 and punishment, 67, 99 and recidivism, 25, 37, 96–98 and reconciliation, 77 and satisfaction, 126 and social capital, 96 and social justice, 94, 95, 97, 100, 105, 107 as subversive, 12 and theology, 77, 102, 104, 106 values of, 12 values-based, 58, 93 Restorative justice conference, 8, 15, 16, 18, 20, 48, 77, 82, 84, 85, 88, 93, 126 effects of, 20 and emotion(s), 8 and facilitator(s), 81, 86, 87 and forgiveness, 8, 40, 54, 82, 88, 126 as a gesture of forgiveness, 40 risks of, 15, 26, 37 script, 8, 10, 83, 86 and shaming, 15 as traumatic, 24 and victim(s), 81 and vulnerability, 22, 26 and wrongdoer(s), 81, 82, 84 Retribution, 58, 61–64, 72 Revenge, 43, 70, 72, 120 Revictimisation, 23, 74, 112 Ricoeur, Paul, 113, 119 and analogous apprehension, 119 Ritual(s), 11, 12, 14, 16–18, 20, 23 of affliction, 19 and community(ies), 10, 17 and the conference script, 9 degradation ceremonies, 19 as existential, 11 and imprisonment, 18

 INDEX 

of initiation, 17 lack of definitional consensus, 10 and myth, 10 as narrative framework, 10 and reincorporation, 17 of reintegration, 18, 19 repetition of, 19, 127 of restoration, 10, 13, 18 ritual impurity, 66 and scapegoating, 19 and society(ies), 13 as subversive, 13, 19 and symbol, 19, 20 and values, 10 Rule of St Benedict, 65, 67–73 as non-retributive, 65 penitential code of, 65 restorative spirit of, 65 S Sacrificial violence, 19 Salvation, 9, 18, 46, 66, 112, 115, 120 and monasticism, 65 Satisfaction, 58, 63–65, 67, 72, 73 and the crucifixion, 61, 73 as distinct from arbitrary punishment, 63 and forgiveness, 126 as freely chosen, 62, 71, 72 and healing, 65 journey of, 74 as non-retributive, 62, 70, 72 and punishment, 62 as restorative, 64 and restorative justice, 73, 126 as retributive, 61 as a sufficient token, 72, 73, 126 Scapegoating, 59, 70, 117 Second Vatican Council, 113, 114 Lumen Gentium, 113

145

Secularisation, 60 Self-realisation, 36 Shaming, 6, 16, 36, 69, 82, 88 and confession, 13 and the cross of Christ, 36, 64, 71 and ex-offenders/wrongdoers, 19 and love, 35 ‘reintegrative shaming,’ 13, 16, 69, 70 and stigmatization, 16 power of, 71 Sin, 31, 50, 62, 63, 78, 116, 118, 128 effects of, 66 as self-interest, 52 universal and particular, 29 universality of, 27, 32, 50, 52, 54, 79, 106 Sinfulness, 41 Smedes, Lewis, 120 Social change, 99, 103, 106 and community(ies), 106 as incremental, 100, 106, 107 as structural, 100, 105, 108 Social justice, 94, 96, 98, 99, 101, 108 and restorative justice, 105, 107 and theology, 104 Social order, 94 Society(ies), 25 Sorry, see Apology South Africa, 100 apartheid, 7, 100 and national reconciliation, 8 Truth and Reconciliation Commission, 8, 50, 99 State, the, 58, 59, 93, 118, 121 Subsidiarity, 60, 65, 74 Suffering, 24 as redemptive, 64 Sussex Pathways, 76 Swinburne, Richard, 27, 31, 115

146 

INDEX

T Ten Commandments, 11 Theological reflection, 108 Theology, 101 and authority, 101 as constructed, 49, 103, 104 of liberation, 105 in the public square, 2, 51, 52, 101–105, 108, 128 and restorative justice, 106 and social change, 100 and social justice, 104 Trauma, 22, 59, 111, 112, 115, 119 Truth, 15, 77, 84 Turner, Victor, 17, 19 Tutu, Desmond, 2, 50 U Unforgivable, the, 46, 80, 89, 110, 115 Unforgiveness, 85 Unforgivingness, 49, 110, 112, 118, 121 and resentment, 121 V Van Dijk, Jan, 116–118 Victim(s), 15, 37, 58, 64, 71–73, 83, 84, 87, 93, 99, 110, 114, 118 desire to forgive, 85 (dis)empowerment of, 59, 60, 68, 70, 74 and forgiveness, 111, 114, 115, 121, 125 freedom of, 115 generosity of, 73 healing of, 58 labelling of, 58, 116, 118 love for wrongdoer(s), 33, 34, 83 marginalisation of, 69

as mutually supportive, 117 needs of, 25 non-culpable guilt of, 27, 52 passivity of, 25 perceptions of, 58, 117 perceptions of wrongdoer(s), 115 and resentment, 111 responsibility for wrongdoer(s), 68 and revenge, 120 as scapegoats, 117 self-forgiveness of, 88 self-realisation of, 30 self worth of, 40 sense of guilt of, 30, 86 sense of uncleanness of, 68 sinfulness of, 27, 29, 31, 33, 52, 87 strength of, 117 vulnerability of, 22, 26 Victimhood, 25, 116, 118 definitions of, 116 as empowering, 116 and Jesus Christ, 115, 116, 120 and victim satisfaction, 25 Violence, 19, 67, 112 of the cross, 116 domestic violence, 25 Voiss, James, 40–43, 47, 51, 54 Volf, Miroslav, 78–80 Vulnerability, 23, 30, 32, 36 and anthropology, 24 life-enhancing potential of, 23, 24 like humility, 71 and the pathology of invulnerability, 23, 36 W Will, the, 29, 31, 71 World Council of Churches, 7 Worship as constructed, 13

 INDEX 

Wrongdoer(s), 15, 18, 25, 37, 67, 70–72, 79, 87, 93, 99, 118 abuse of, 74 compassion for, 58 freedom of, 115 othering of, 60, 96 otherness of, 66 perceptions of, 58, 81, 83, 85 remorse of, 80 self-forgiveness of, 84 and self-realisation, 30

sinfulness of, 33 trial of, 83 Wrongdoing, 58, 65, 110, 120 as objective, 31, 32 as social, 14 as subjective, 31, 32 Z Zehr, Howard, 3, 59, 61, 67, 71, 124

147