05/25/2026
The Bitter Water and the Cross
There is a sin that grows quietly, not always announcing itself with violence or scandal, but sitting in the heart like a stone. It remembers every wound, keeps every receipt, rehearses every insult, and calls itself justice, while slowly becoming bitterness.
Unforgiveness is not a small matter in Scripture. In the Lord’s Prayer, Jesus teaches us to pray, “Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.” Then He makes it even clearer: “For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you: But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.” — Matthew 6:14–15
That is a hard word, but it is also a merciful warning. The unpardonable sin is not the cry of a person who struggles, grieves, wrestles, or asks God for help. It is the hardening of the heart until we no longer want mercy, no longer seek repentance, and no longer recognize the Spirit of God calling us back.
Matthew Henry wrote that “in all matters of strife and contention, those that revenge are the conquered, and those that forgive are the conquerors.” A hardened heart cannot receive what it refuses. Matthew Henry wrote, “Those who revenge are conquered,” and that is the tragedy of unforgiveness. We think we are holding someone else captive, but we are the ones chained to the wound.
Bitterness is expensive because it costs peace, joy, tenderness, humility, and the ability to see clearly. It can even cost forgiveness, not because God is unwilling to forgive, but because a heart that refuses mercy for others becomes less able to receive mercy for itself.
Ephesians tells us, “Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamor, and evil speaking, be put away from you… And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you.” — Ephesians 4:31–32
Notice what bitterness produces: wrath, anger, clamor, and evil speaking. It stirs up trouble, makes a person loud inside, turns pain into accusation, and can eventually turn accusation into identity.
C.S. Lewis once observed that everyone thinks forgiveness is a lovely idea until there is actually something to forgive. That is where faith becomes real, because forgiveness is no longer a theory, a sentiment, or a pleasant religious word. It becomes an act of obedience before God.
Corrie Ten Boom knew this. She and her sister Betsie suffered in a N**i concentration camp, and Betsie did not survive. After the war, Corrie came face to face with one of the former guards, and when he reached out his hand and asked for forgiveness, everything human in her recoiled.
But she understood something deeper than emotion. Forgiveness is not pretending evil did not happen, approving abuse, excusing cruelty, denying betrayal, denying unfaithfulness, remaining silent when truth must be spoken, or trusting the untrustworthy. Jesus Himself said, “Be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.” — Matthew 10:16
Forgiveness is not foolishness, and it does not erase wisdom, boundaries, justice, or truth. Forgiveness means we release vengeance into the hands of God, because Scripture says, “Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.” — Romans 12:19
That is not weakness. That is faith. It is the soul saying, “Lord, I will not become what wounded me. I will not carry poison in my spirit. I will not make bitterness my inheritance. I will tell the truth, but I will not worship the wound. I will let You be Judge.”
There is a difference between victimhood and sainthood. Victimhood can become a throne built out of pain, saying, “Because I was hurt, I am justified in bitterness,” while sainthood kneels at the Cross and says, “Because I was forgiven, I must ask for the grace to forgive.”
This does not minimize suffering. It magnifies grace, because we are all sinners, all fallible, and all in need of mercy we did not deserve.
Hebrews warns us not to allow a “root of bitterness” to spring up and defile many. Bitterness rarely stays private; it spreads into words, judgments, anger, cynicism, suspicion, and coldness. It can make an older person hard instead of holy, and it can make a younger person angry before life has even fully begun.
But Scripture gives us a picture of healing. In Exodus 15, the children of Israel came to Marah, where the waters were bitter and they could not drink. The word Marah means bitter in Hebrew, and when the Lord showed Moses a tree, Moses cast it into the waters, and the bitter waters were made sweet.
The tree points us to the Cross, where bitterness meets mercy, justice and forgiveness, and the poison of sin is answered by the love of God. “But God commended his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.” — Romans 5:8
This Memorial Day weekend, we pause before the memory of men and women who gave their lives in service to this nation. Their sacrifice reminds us that freedom is never cheap, and that some debts can never be repaid by monuments, ceremonies, or words alone. We honor them best when we remember with humility, live with gratitude, and refuse to let hatred become the inheritance of the living.
We look at graves marked by crosses and stones. We remember sacrifice, names carved into monuments, and the cost of freedom. Stone remembers, but baptism tells us something even greater.
The stone can mark a grave, but it cannot hold back resurrection. The stone was rolled away, the old life is buried, and the new life rises. In baptism, we are reminded that what goes down into the water does not have to come back the same.
The bitter can be made sweet, the hard heart can become tender, the burden can be released, and the wound can be placed into the hands of God.
So let the stone bear witness, let the Cross speak louder, and let the waters remind us that grace is not only something we receive, but something we are called to extend.
Lord, forgive us our trespasses, and give us the courage, humility, and holy strength to forgive those who trespass against us—not because the wrong was small, but because the Cross is greater.
