At dark times in American political life, the art of forgiveness has unexpectedly shone through. This year marks the fiftieth anniversary of US President Gerald Ford’s unconditional pardon of his predecessor Richard Nixon, who was likely to face criminal charges such as conspiracy and obstruction of justice for his role in the Watergate affair. Many Americans felt betrayed by Nixon and wanted to see him prosecuted for his actions. Once the pardon was announced, critics labeled it a “corrupt bargain.” Ford vehemently denied that there had been any quid pro quo, but that did not prevent his own press secretary from resigning in protest. Most blame the pardon for dooming Ford’s 1976 presidential campaign.

　　A little more than a month later, when Ford testified before the House Committee on the Judiciary, he explained his decision. For one thing, he sought to change the national focus from “a fallen president to the pursuit of the urgent needs of a rising nation.” We would, he said, be diverted from meeting these challenges by “remaining sharply divided over whether to indict, bring to trial, and punish a former president.” He quoted Alexander Hamilton, who wrote that a well-timed offer of pardon could “restore the tranquility of the commonwealth.” In his televised broadcast to the nation at the time of the pardon, he also expressed compassion for the tragedy of the Nixon family, which he felt only he could end.

　　There is good reason to think that our contemporary civic and political life needs to rediscover the art of forgiveness. We live in an age of cancel culture, in which differences of opinion often quickly swell into shunning and boycotting. Social media has magnified the ghettoization and weaponization of public discourse, amplifying the phenomena of echo chambers and cyberbullying—especially, of all places, on college campuses. Even Pope Francis has weighed in, condemning a culture of “ideological colonization” that “leaves no room for freedom of expression.” In too many cases, critics of political candidates, such as Biden and Trump, seem not merely to disagree with them but also to demonize and hate them.

　　Of course, rancor and vilification are not new to American life. In his 1796 Farewell Address, US President George Washington counseled against a similar spirit by a different name, writing:

　　Let me now warn you in the most solemn manner against the baneful effects of the spirit of party. It serves always to distract the public councils and enfeebles the public administration. It agitates the community with ill-founded jealousies and false alarms, kindles the animosity of one party against another, foments occasionally riot and insurrection. A fire not to be quenched, it demands a uniform vigilance to prevent its bursting into flame, lest, instead of warming, it should consume.

　　If we have come to prefer the circuses of shouting matches and character assassination to reasoned dialogue and deliberation, democracy’s goose may well be cooked.

　　As the old saying goes, holding a grudge is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.

　　How might we defuse the situation? I believe that part of the answer lies in fostering forgiveness, a habit of the heart that has found practical expression in American public and political life on many occasions.

　　Perhaps the most vitriolic presidential campaign in US history took place in 1800 between two former allies who had become bitter political enemies. Supporters of incumbent John Adams labeled Thomas Jefferson “a mean-spirited, low-lived fellow, the son of a half-breed Indiana squaw, sired by a mulatto father,” accusing him of fathering multiple children by one of his slaves. Jefferson’s supporters called Adams “a hideous hermaphroditical character, which has neither the force and firmness of a man, nor the gentleness and sensibility of a woman.” Yet, thanks to the peacemaking efforts of Benjamin Rush, the two founding fathers eventually reconciled. They died on the same day, July 4, 1826, Adams’ last words being something to effect, “Thank God, Jefferson still lives.”

　　Perhaps the greatest expression of forgiveness in US history is found in Abraham Lincoln’s 1865 “Second Inaugural Address.” Anticipating the end of what remains by far the nation’s bloodiest war, Lincoln called for both sides to collaborate in knitting the riven nation back together again:

　　With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nations wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow and his orphan—to do all which may achieve and cherish a just, and lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations.

　　Lincoln’s pleas for forgiveness extended beyond his opponents in the Civil War. In his 1863 “Proclamation for a National Day of Fasting,” he wrote, “It behooves us to humble ourselves before the offended Power, to confess our national sins, and to pray for clemency and forgiveness.” We need, in other words, not only to forgive but to seek forgiveness. Lincoln’s humility is almost diametrically opposed to the hubris of many self-righteous contemporaries, who exhibit little appreciation of the need for rigorous self-examination and self-criticism. They have failed to heed the Biblical warning not to focus so intently on the splinter in our neighbor’s eye that we fail to notice the log in our own.

　　As the old saying goes, holding a grudge is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die. Yet before we can forgive someone, we must first recognize, listen to, and gain some understanding of them. Instead of reviling them, we need to connect with them, to realize that we share many of the same fears and hopes in life. In this sense, forgiveness is not so much an occasional attitude as an enduring disposition—a tendency toward curiosity and, yes, compassion toward others. It transforms personal relationships and public discourse from a zero-sum game, in which one person’s victory requires another’s loss, into one from which both parties can emerge enriched.

　　To cultivate forgiveness, we need to start early. When I was a fifth grader at Ralph Waldo Emerson Public School 58 in Indianapolis, a select group of students whose parents had granted permission would rise one morning each week and walk in a group to a nearby church, where we participated in Weekday Religious Education. Among other Christian teachings, we learned about the value of forgiveness. Such programs have long been subject to close scrutiny, and one 1948 Supreme Court ruling found them an unconstitutional violation of the separation of church and state, although they were later permitted if not held on school grounds.

　　If we aspire to be a society that spurns rancor and vilification, we must do more to foster understanding and practice of forgiveness. And these efforts must be grounded not in legislation or civil legal action, but in the education of character. Weekday religious education may or may not be the solution, but at a time when Americans have become more isolated and less engaged in religious and civic life, the need for voluntary associations to step forward is acute. Democracy can only survive where the people are well prepared to govern themselves, and in a culture where shouting heads too often serve as models of public discourse, each of us can lead by practicing and promoting the art of forgiveness.