In an upstairs classroom at Stanford University, 35 men and women from the surrounding community silently focus on their breathing, learning the rudimentary steps of meditation as part of an evening continuing-education class on forgiveness.
Fred Luskin, co-founder of the Stanford Forgiveness Project in Palo Alto, has abandoned the research laboratory for another calling. Instead of studying the effects of forgiveness, Luskin now devotes much of his time to teaching people how to forgive. He works in classrooms and businesses, nationally and internationally.
It is a new frontier for a new science: how to actually teach forgiveness. Don't look for a national curriculum anytime soon. Even in the growing library of self-help books, there is a wide array of approaches. Most settle on a process generally ranging from acknowledging the hurt, trying to understand it, perhaps feeling some compassion and then letting go and moving on. Some experts suggest journaling throughout the process; many suggest a group setting or one-to-one coaching to work through it.
The contemporary version of forgiveness may be difficult to embrace, because the concept is still evolving.
In his continuing education class, which was filled long before the first session in June, Luskin is trying to get his adult students to understand that there is a gap between what you wanted at one end and what you got at the other end. In that gap is where bitterness and anger linger, bringing both emotional and physical consequences, particularly if you dwell there too long or too often.
Bridge that gap, he tells them. Don't let it bury you. “We don't determine what other people do,” he told them. “We don't determine how long we live, how our bosses act, the weather… As long as you're arguing with it, you're trying to make believe that somehow it's going to change, and the sad reality for many of us is that it won't change.”
Luskin is convinced that part of the future of this contemporary forgiveness movement lies in the teaching of it. “The thing that is going to make a difference to the world is people becoming more forgiving—and that's an educational process.”
It's also a daily practice. “You've got to forgive the little things; that's where I want us to go,” Luskin says. “It's not just that you were abused or somebody ran over your kid, but life is constantly disappointing us.”
Luskin says he is disappointed with religion's lack of response to the explosion of research. Churches, synagogues and other houses of worship are missing a great opportunity, he says. They could become more than places where forgiveness is preached. They could also become community centers where it is taught.
For now, however, much of the how-to of forgiveness is taking place in forums like this one at Stanford and in a growing library of self-help books.
Azim Khamisa of La Jolla joined this movement after his son was murdered by a teenage gang member in 1995. He founded the Tariq Khamisa Foundation in memory of his son to teach forgiveness and nonviolence. Khamisa is coming out with a book early next year detailing what he has learned.
“I teach (that) forgiveness is when the person you've forgiven has a safe passage through your mind,” he says.
Khamisa has given Tony Hicks, his son's killer, more than a safe passage. He has offered him a job with the foundation when Hicks is eventually released from prison.
Like so many others, Khamisa believes forgiveness is more for yourself than the offender. “I did not want to go through life on crutches,” he says.
Last year, Khamisa spoke in 70 venues around the world. He is convinced that if he and others can teach enough people how to forgive, we will reap what we sow. “Then,” he say, “we will have a real shot at world peace.”