Mark W. Gaither's Blog
September 15, 2011
For Enduring Relationships, Respond Rather than React
You’ve probably seen or experienced this yourself: one person in a relationship does something dramatic to upset their harmony, which prompts the other to react, which in turn triggers a reaction to the reaction. Pretty soon, a series of escalating reactions pulls the relationship apart at the seams, polarizing the people, leaving both sides feeling isolated, helpless, misunderstood, victimized, and even bewildered. If their relationship survives and neither learns how to behave differently, they are doomed to endure lifelong drama—perpetual conflict occasionally interrupted by episodes of remorse.
Relationships survive when at least one partner understands the difference between responding and reacting. Relationships thrive when both partners learn how to take a deep breath and then respond rather than react to the actions of their mate.
What’s the difference between responding and reacting? Consider the following comparisons and their corresponding truths:
Response comes from a place of confidence in the Lord’s sovereignty and goodness.
Reaction fears the Lord is asleep at the switch and leaps ahead of His divine plan.
The truth: God knows what is best; we have a pitifully limited perspective.
Response prompts us to do what is right, regardless of what others do.
Reaction tries to prevent another from doing something wrong.
The truth: Any sense of control beyond self-control is an illusion.
Response waits patiently until something invites or demands our taking action.
Reaction impulsively springs into action based upon what we assume to be true.
The truth: We actually know very little compared to what we think we know.
Response considers the highest, greatest good of everyone involved.
Reaction preserves the interest of self above all.
The truth: Self-interest makes us no better than the people seeking to harm us.
Response empathizes with the pain, fear, anger, or confusion of another.
Reaction expresses one’s own suffering without regard for its effect upon others.
The truth: We accomplish far greater good when we seek to understand others before expecting them to understand us.
Response seeks to do what is right, regardless of the cost to self.
Reaction seeks the quickest end to one’s own suffering, regardless of how much it harms others.
The truth: Doing what is right frequently demands the sacrifice of comfort, popularity, prosperity, and power.
Response is an act of faith expressed as grace.
Reaction is an act of desperation for the sake of self.
The truth: We are selfish to the core, so we need divine wisdom and strength.
Response remains above reproach, even when it calls for tough action.
Reaction lowers us to the level of those who seek to harm us.
The truth: We need the help of wise counsel to examine our motives.
Response may not be tender or tolerant at all times, but it is always grace-filled.
Reaction takes the quickest, easiest path to self-comfort, and frequently appears merciful.
The truth: Sometimes love must be tough.
The next time someone you love does something hurtful, slow down, allow the initial wave of emotions to ebb, resist the urge to react, and then carefully consider your response. Do this, and your reward will be increased wisdom, decreased drama, and perhaps even a strengthened relationship.
Mark W. Gaither
Redemptive Divorce: A Biblical Process That Offers Guidance for the Suffering Partner, Healing for the Offending Spouse, and the Best Cata
Relationships survive when at least one partner understands the difference between responding and reacting. Relationships thrive when both partners learn how to take a deep breath and then respond rather than react to the actions of their mate.
What’s the difference between responding and reacting? Consider the following comparisons and their corresponding truths:
Response comes from a place of confidence in the Lord’s sovereignty and goodness.
Reaction fears the Lord is asleep at the switch and leaps ahead of His divine plan.
The truth: God knows what is best; we have a pitifully limited perspective.
Response prompts us to do what is right, regardless of what others do.
Reaction tries to prevent another from doing something wrong.
The truth: Any sense of control beyond self-control is an illusion.
Response waits patiently until something invites or demands our taking action.
Reaction impulsively springs into action based upon what we assume to be true.
The truth: We actually know very little compared to what we think we know.
Response considers the highest, greatest good of everyone involved.
Reaction preserves the interest of self above all.
The truth: Self-interest makes us no better than the people seeking to harm us.
Response empathizes with the pain, fear, anger, or confusion of another.
Reaction expresses one’s own suffering without regard for its effect upon others.
The truth: We accomplish far greater good when we seek to understand others before expecting them to understand us.
Response seeks to do what is right, regardless of the cost to self.
Reaction seeks the quickest end to one’s own suffering, regardless of how much it harms others.
The truth: Doing what is right frequently demands the sacrifice of comfort, popularity, prosperity, and power.
Response is an act of faith expressed as grace.
Reaction is an act of desperation for the sake of self.
The truth: We are selfish to the core, so we need divine wisdom and strength.
Response remains above reproach, even when it calls for tough action.
Reaction lowers us to the level of those who seek to harm us.
The truth: We need the help of wise counsel to examine our motives.
Response may not be tender or tolerant at all times, but it is always grace-filled.
Reaction takes the quickest, easiest path to self-comfort, and frequently appears merciful.
The truth: Sometimes love must be tough.
The next time someone you love does something hurtful, slow down, allow the initial wave of emotions to ebb, resist the urge to react, and then carefully consider your response. Do this, and your reward will be increased wisdom, decreased drama, and perhaps even a strengthened relationship.
Mark W. Gaither
Redemptive Divorce: A Biblical Process That Offers Guidance for the Suffering Partner, Healing for the Offending Spouse, and the Best Cata
September 6, 2011
Ten Characteristics of a Great Apology
A great apology has amazing power to heal even the deepest emotional wounds. It’s also a great first step toward rebuilding trust, the foundation upon which all relationships rest. A lousy apology, on the other hand, can do more harm than good.
To be certain your next apology heals rather than harms, review these ten characteristics of a great apology. Then, choose your words carefully and let your humility do the talking.
A great apology fully acknowledges all wrongdoing.
A great apology accepts complete responsibility for wrongdoing.
A great apology empathizes with the offended person.
A great apology gives priority to the good of the offended person over self.
A great apology rejects excuses and avoids defensiveness.
A great apology refuses to presume upon grace.
A great apology places no expectations on the offended person.
A great apology accompanies restitution, when possible.
A great apology strives to heal the offended person’s injuries.
A great apology embraces humility.
Mark W. Gaither
Redemptive Divorce: A Biblical Process That Offers Guidance for the Suffering Partner, Healing for the Offending Spouse, and the Best Cata
To be certain your next apology heals rather than harms, review these ten characteristics of a great apology. Then, choose your words carefully and let your humility do the talking.
A great apology fully acknowledges all wrongdoing.
A great apology accepts complete responsibility for wrongdoing.
A great apology empathizes with the offended person.
A great apology gives priority to the good of the offended person over self.
A great apology rejects excuses and avoids defensiveness.
A great apology refuses to presume upon grace.
A great apology places no expectations on the offended person.
A great apology accompanies restitution, when possible.
A great apology strives to heal the offended person’s injuries.
A great apology embraces humility.
Mark W. Gaither
Redemptive Divorce: A Biblical Process That Offers Guidance for the Suffering Partner, Healing for the Offending Spouse, and the Best Cata
September 2, 2011
Learning to Forgive by Learning How to Be Offended
I remember a time when I didn’t carry grudges. I had the uncanny ability to absorb the most outrageous offenses with barely a flinch and then return unconditional love without resentment. In fact, my armor-like invulnerability to pain and my remarkable freedom from bitterness became a curious source of pride. I could forgive-and-forget with almost supernatural ease. But then something changed all of that. A bizarre combination of circumstances I had never faced before. First, an offense so great, so destructive, I actually wondered if I might die from grief. Second, an apology. Not your run-of-the-mill, mealy-mouthed “I’m sorry.” But a request for forgiveness laced with such deep, empathetic sorrow, I thought my offender might die with me.
Still, I struggled to forgive.
Sorrow weighed heavily on my heart while resentment coiled around my chest like a python. To survive, I had to learn why I couldn’t simply shrug off this transgression like I had so many others before. This forced me to learn about the true nature of forgiveness, and I soon discovered that I had never actually forgiven anyone of anything. Instead, as I examined my past, I discovered a number of coping mechanisms in my relational toolkit. Here are a few examples.
Minimizing: “Oh, I shouldn’t make a mountain out of a mole hill. The offense really is an insignificant issue; I just need to adjust my perspective to see it for what it is: nothing.”
Denial: “He really didn’t mean to hurt me. In fact, it was probably an accident. I’m sure he doesn’t even know I’m hurt.”
Rationalizing: “I can totally see why she behaved they way she did. If I hadn’t done _______________, she wouldn’t have been in the position to hurt me. So, it’s really my fault.”
Excusing: “I cannot condemn him for what he did because if I were in his situation, I would have done exactly as he did. I would be a hypocrite to hold something against another person when I am no better myself.”
If you examine these carefully, you’ll notice they have something in common. Each coping mechanism transfers guilt from the offender’s account to mine. In each case, I was able to let the other person off his or her moral hook by denigrating myself and then bearing my offender’s sin as my own. For years, I bounced back from devastating relational blows without confronting the offender—or even so much as a conversation—and I avoided all strife in my relationships. Unfortunately, I paid a terrible price. One can absorb abuse and heap self-loathing upon himself for just so long before something breaks.
Like I said, this one particular offense changed everything. I couldn’t minimize the sin; the injury was the kind of life-altering event that changes people forever. I couldn’t deny the sin; my offender chose to hurt me knowing the damage it would cause. I couldn’t rationalize the sin; I did nothing to deserve or provoke the transgression. Moreover, I could not excuse the sin. While I have certainly failed morally in my lifetime, nothing in me can identify with this particular sin. So, I languished for a long time, unable to bear the sorrow and powerless to cast off my burden. Eventually, pain forced me to learn a new skill: genuine forgiveness.
My first and greatest lesson on forgiveness proved to be the most difficult. To forgive a sin, one must first face it. In other words, I had to learn how to be offended.
Forgiveness doesn’t minimize, deny, rationalize, or excuse a transgression. Forgiveness begins with complete acceptance of truth—life as it is—including the destruction of sin with all its hateful hideousness. No matter how much I tried to view things differently, the truth overwhelmed my delusions. Furthermore, my offender unwittingly kept me from returning to my old habits by offering the first genuine apology I had ever received. The following appeal isn’t word-for-word, but it’s accurate enough:
My offender stood vulnerable before me, ready to accept my rejection, yet hoping for mercy. I knew the time had come to lay aside my emotional armor. My disciplined talent for denial had done its job, but could serve me no more. So, for the first time in my life, I allowed a loved one’s sin to pierce my heart. And I cannot fully describe the agony I felt as I discovered firsthand the truth of Neil Anderson’s words: “Forgiveness is agreeing to live with the consequences of another person's sin. Forgiveness is costly; we pay the price of the evil we forgive.”[1] The pain brought me to my knees. And it brought healing—to me, to my offender, and to our relationship.
Now, many years later, I cannot shrug off offenses with ease. I struggle to forgive and I find that resentment clings to me with surprising stubbornness. But that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Sin hurts. Forgiveness requires supernatural courage. Grudges don’t fall away easily. Yet, for all my new difficulties and complications, at least I know I’m living authentically. I no longer wear the slapdash grin of a man in denial. I relate honestly with others, and their wounds hurt me because I have opened myself to the possibility of love. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
But first, I had to learn how to be offended.
1. Neil T. Anderson, The Bondage Breaker (Eugene: Harvest House Publishers, 1990), 194–197.
Mark W. Gaither
Redemptive Divorce: A Biblical Process That Offers Guidance for the Suffering Partner, Healing for the Offending Spouse, and the Best Cata
Still, I struggled to forgive.
Sorrow weighed heavily on my heart while resentment coiled around my chest like a python. To survive, I had to learn why I couldn’t simply shrug off this transgression like I had so many others before. This forced me to learn about the true nature of forgiveness, and I soon discovered that I had never actually forgiven anyone of anything. Instead, as I examined my past, I discovered a number of coping mechanisms in my relational toolkit. Here are a few examples.
Minimizing: “Oh, I shouldn’t make a mountain out of a mole hill. The offense really is an insignificant issue; I just need to adjust my perspective to see it for what it is: nothing.”
Denial: “He really didn’t mean to hurt me. In fact, it was probably an accident. I’m sure he doesn’t even know I’m hurt.”
Rationalizing: “I can totally see why she behaved they way she did. If I hadn’t done _______________, she wouldn’t have been in the position to hurt me. So, it’s really my fault.”
Excusing: “I cannot condemn him for what he did because if I were in his situation, I would have done exactly as he did. I would be a hypocrite to hold something against another person when I am no better myself.”
If you examine these carefully, you’ll notice they have something in common. Each coping mechanism transfers guilt from the offender’s account to mine. In each case, I was able to let the other person off his or her moral hook by denigrating myself and then bearing my offender’s sin as my own. For years, I bounced back from devastating relational blows without confronting the offender—or even so much as a conversation—and I avoided all strife in my relationships. Unfortunately, I paid a terrible price. One can absorb abuse and heap self-loathing upon himself for just so long before something breaks.
Like I said, this one particular offense changed everything. I couldn’t minimize the sin; the injury was the kind of life-altering event that changes people forever. I couldn’t deny the sin; my offender chose to hurt me knowing the damage it would cause. I couldn’t rationalize the sin; I did nothing to deserve or provoke the transgression. Moreover, I could not excuse the sin. While I have certainly failed morally in my lifetime, nothing in me can identify with this particular sin. So, I languished for a long time, unable to bear the sorrow and powerless to cast off my burden. Eventually, pain forced me to learn a new skill: genuine forgiveness.
My first and greatest lesson on forgiveness proved to be the most difficult. To forgive a sin, one must first face it. In other words, I had to learn how to be offended.
Forgiveness doesn’t minimize, deny, rationalize, or excuse a transgression. Forgiveness begins with complete acceptance of truth—life as it is—including the destruction of sin with all its hateful hideousness. No matter how much I tried to view things differently, the truth overwhelmed my delusions. Furthermore, my offender unwittingly kept me from returning to my old habits by offering the first genuine apology I had ever received. The following appeal isn’t word-for-word, but it’s accurate enough:
Mark, I sinned by [detailed admission of wrongdoing], and I have no excuses. It wasn’t an accident; I chose to please myself, even though I knew it would devastate you. And I confess that, at the time, I didn’t care how much you would be hurt by my actions.
I am asking for your forgiveness. I have no right to expect it and I will completely understand if you refuse. But I love you, and I want our relationship to be restored.
Will you forgive me?
My offender stood vulnerable before me, ready to accept my rejection, yet hoping for mercy. I knew the time had come to lay aside my emotional armor. My disciplined talent for denial had done its job, but could serve me no more. So, for the first time in my life, I allowed a loved one’s sin to pierce my heart. And I cannot fully describe the agony I felt as I discovered firsthand the truth of Neil Anderson’s words: “Forgiveness is agreeing to live with the consequences of another person's sin. Forgiveness is costly; we pay the price of the evil we forgive.”[1] The pain brought me to my knees. And it brought healing—to me, to my offender, and to our relationship.
Now, many years later, I cannot shrug off offenses with ease. I struggle to forgive and I find that resentment clings to me with surprising stubbornness. But that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Sin hurts. Forgiveness requires supernatural courage. Grudges don’t fall away easily. Yet, for all my new difficulties and complications, at least I know I’m living authentically. I no longer wear the slapdash grin of a man in denial. I relate honestly with others, and their wounds hurt me because I have opened myself to the possibility of love. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
But first, I had to learn how to be offended.
1. Neil T. Anderson, The Bondage Breaker (Eugene: Harvest House Publishers, 1990), 194–197.
Mark W. Gaither
Redemptive Divorce: A Biblical Process That Offers Guidance for the Suffering Partner, Healing for the Offending Spouse, and the Best Cata
