I asked him a question that had been sitting uneasily inside me for a long time. The Qur’an tells us to forgive others, “Do you not wish that God should forgive you?” I understand the verse. I believe in it. But when someone hurts you, disrespects you, or damages your dignity, forgiveness does not come naturally. So, I asked him plainly: What does this actually look like in real life? How does one change the inner construction that makes forgiveness possible?
He paused, as he often does, and then said, “The first thing is to stop treating forgiveness as a single, flat concept.”
He could see the confusion on my face.
He explained that what we casually call forgiveness actually includes different inner responses that must be clearly distinguished. Confusing them is what creates emotional turmoil. “There is,” he said, “a difference between overlooking a mistake and fully forgiving someone.”
Overlooking, he explained, is often the first and most necessary step. It means choosing not to condemn, not to keep rehearsing the other person’s fault in your mind, not to keep building a case against them internally. Sometimes a person does not even realize they are wrong. Sometimes they sincerely believe that they are justified. In such cases, demanding remorse is unrealistic. “In those situations,” he said, “your responsibility is not to fix them. Your responsibility is to protect your own moral standard.” Overlooking does not mean approving. It means deciding not to descend to their level. I will not react with retaliation, bitterness, or inner contempt. It is a conscious choice to remain gentle without becoming naïve.
Then he moved to the second layer. “True forgiveness,” he said, “belongs to a different situation altogether.”
This applies when the other person recognizes their mistake, feels remorse, and comes forward to seek forgiveness. At that point, forgiveness is not partial. It is not conditional. It is not ‘I forgive you, but I will keep this on record.’ It is a clean release. He said something that struck deeply. “When someone asks forgiveness sincerely, they are doing exactly what you do when you stand before God.”
When I ask God for forgiveness, I do not hope for a half-erasure. I hope to be washed clean. I hope the burden is lifted, not merely reduced. And if that is the mercy I seek for myself, how can I justify offering a lesser version to others?
That question stayed with me.
He clarified something else that I had been carrying incorrectly. “Forgiveness does not cancel accountability,” he said. If someone knowingly commits wrong, they will answer for it before God, and sometimes in this world as well. Forgiving them does not mean denying justice or pretending harm did not occur. It means refusing to harbor hatred, vengeance, or a sense of moral superiority in your heart.
Then he brought up the Qur’anic context that gives this command its emotional weight. He reminded me of the verse in Surah An-Nur revealed after a deeply painful incident: the false allegations against Aisha (ra). The damage was not abstract; it was personal, social, and humiliating. Some of the people involved were not strangers. They were relatives. They were beneficiaries of kindness. Abu Bakr, who had been financially supporting one such relative, felt understandably wounded. His instinct was human: Why should I continue helping someone who harmed my family’s honor? It was then that the Qur’an asked a question that cuts straight through moral defensiveness: Do you not wish that God should forgive you?
The instruction was not naïve. It did not deny the pain. It redirected the heart. “Forgiveness here,” he explained, “was not weakness. It was moral elevation.”
What struck me was how the inner posture needed to be separated from external consequence. Abu Bakr was not told to deny wrongdoing. He was asked to rise above it and to keep his own soul aligned with mercy.
He then said something that quietly shifted how I see relationships. “Never deal with people according to their standards,” he said. “Deal with them according to yours.”
That sentence stuck with me. If I lower my standard every time someone else behaves poorly, then my morality becomes reactive. But if I hold my standard steady, overlooking where ignorance exists, forgiving where remorse appears, I remain anchored.
He warned me about something subtle but dangerous. “When you focus obsessively on the other person’s behavior, you start wanting control. And control is not available to you. That’s where frustration is born.”
I recognized myself immediately. The anger, the irritability, and the inner arguments were not coming from the act itself. They were coming from my insistence on a particular outcome: They must understand. They must change. They must behave differently. But that insistence was never my responsibility to begin with.
“My task,” he said gently, “is not to force reform. My task is to respond in the way that brings me closer to God.”
That reframed forgiveness not as a favor to the other person, but as fidelity to my own test. Overlooking becomes a way of refusing to poison my inner world. Forgiveness becomes a way of aligning my heart with the mercy I hope to receive.
By the end of the conversation, I realized that forgiveness is not a dramatic act. It is quiet inner labor. It is choosing—again and again—not to let someone else’s mistake decide who I become. And perhaps that is why the Qur’an asks the question the way it does. Do you not wish to be forgiven?
Because, in the end, forgiveness is not about them. It is about the kind of heart I am carrying forward.
