Luke 23:33-43
When they came to the place that is called The Skull, they crucified Jesus there with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. Then Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”
And they cast lots to divide his clothing. And the people stood by watching, but the leaders scoffed at him, saying, “He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!” The soldiers also mocked him, coming up and offering him sour wine and saying, “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” There was also an inscription over him, “This is the King of the Jews.”
One of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding him and saying, “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!” But the other rebuked him, saying, “Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong.”
Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come in your kingdom.” He replied, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.”
In fifth grade, my house was toilet papered. Waking up that morning, it looked like there had been a blizzard—but only at my house. And the worst part is it took a solid two hours to clean up.
We got word the perpetrators were coming back, so my brother made a plan. We hid in the bushes with the hose, firecrackers, and an air horn at the ready. As soon as the first roll hit the tree, we unleashed it all. It was some of the sweetest revenge I’d ever tasted.
But here’s the thing—I wanted more. Now I am not proud to admit this, but for the next two years, I was a serial toilet-paperer. I went TP-ing with my friends every chance I got. I don’t think to this day my parents know this. Finally, one fateful night a police officer stopped our fun and we dropped our rolls of toilet paper for good. He could have called our parents, ordered community service. But he just made us clean up the mess, giving us mercy we didn’t deserve.
If I asked you what the most deadly addiction is, you might say smoking, alcohol, fentanyl, or maybe Facebook. But no, it’s none of that. This addiction is far more common and not a substance or drug at all. The deadliest addiction is revenge. That’s the argument put forth by James Kimmel Jr., a professor at Yale. He says nearly every form of violence childhood bullying, domestic violence, police brutality, war—begins with someone convinced they’re a victim seeking justice.
And for the first time in human history, we have some scientific insight into how we can stop this deadly addiction. Revenge is that feeling, sometimes subtle, sometimes intense, to return the pain someone first gave you. Through scans and research, Kimmel and his team have found that a brain on revenge looks a lot like a brain addicted to drugs.Grievances of any kind—real or imagined, disrespect, betrayal, shame— they all light up the brain’s pain center.
Our brains don’t like that and so it quickly starts reaching for pleasure.
We could reach for anything after we’ve been wronged—a tub of ice cream, an intense workout, a few drinks—and those might help for a moment. But the uncomfortable truth is that we humans get the most satisfying pleasure from hurting the very person who hurt us. It’s not our best trait.
Neuroscientists have shown that when someone wrongs us and we even imagine retaliation, the brain’s reward centers wake up. The parts tied to craving and habit-building fire just like they do when addicts feel stressed or see something associated with getting a fix. Revenge isn’t just an idea; it’s an addictive action. Yet, unlike other addictions, revenge is addiction turned outward. Instead of harming ourselves to get a fix, we harm someone else. And like any addiction, the thrill is short-lived, the pain returns leaving one feeling even worse, and the craving only grows.
Perhaps you know how this feels. As a kid, it’s the punch you throw when the roughhousing gets too rough. In marriage, it’s the sentence you say that you know will cut deeper than any knife. As an adult, it’s the desire to slash the tires of the buffoon who cut off everyone in the school pickup line. We all know that impulse. It’s part of being human.
And it certainly isn’t limited to individuals. Right now, it feels like our whole nation is running on it. Childish name-calling, dangerous threats, the endless churn of angry rhetoric: vengeance seems to be the most animating force in public life. It shows up across the political spectrum, where the goal is clearly not about solving problems but more about scoring points or making “the other side” hurt.
I see it too in the Christian Nationalist movement, which grows out of a perceived assault on Christianity, by which they mean a very narrow version of Christianity defined as white, straight, and evangelical. The response is to attack back through laws and power in public life. We’ve built a society—a kind of kingdom—where hurt is expected to be met with greater hurt, and the loudest voices insist the only way to win is to strike back harder.
Christ the King Sunday, which began 100 years ago today, was created to celebrate a king and kingdom that operates in the opposite way. If there was ever someone innocent who endured great harm—someone who could have, maybe even should have, returned the pain—was it not Jesus Christ, the King of the Jews? The one crucified between criminals while the very people who once followed him stood by and watched?
Surely he had every right to act with vengeance, to call down the wrath of God, to save himself from that cross and rule like every other king tries to do. That’s exactly what the crowd urged him to do. Three times people said to Jesus, “Save yourself.” It’s what we humans know best.
But that’s not the kind of King Jesus is. His first words from the cross were not a declaration of innocence or a plea for pity, but a favor from his Father: “Forgive them.” It’s fascinating that Jesus speaks to God in this moment. He doesn’t say I forgive you to the ones nailing, flogging, and scoffing at him. That wouldn’t have made any sense.
They didn’t think they were doing anything wrong. In their minds, they were doing exactly what they should be doing: executing a sentence of execution for a man charged with treason.
And here’s the part that always stops me: Jesus isn’t only speaking about the people at the foot of the cross. His words reach beyond that moment.
It’s as if Jesus is saying, Father, please forgive them—because I already have. And the “them,” the object of that forgiveness, is me and you. Jesus came preaching and presenting a different way to be in the world, an alternate kingdom to reign over our lives—one of mercy, kindness, forgiveness—and we killed him for it.
And every time we long for revenge, every time we save ourselves, every time we reject mercy, we put him back on that cross, crucifying the voice that tells us there’s another way.
Yet just like he did then, he says to us again, “Father, forgive them; they don’t know what they are doing.” God, in Jesus, meets our violence with grace; our anger with forgiveness; our revenge with reconciliation. Always and only.
The way of Jesus and his kingdom is what neuroscience now tells us is the best way to stop the dangerous, deadly pull of revenge: forgiveness. Research shows that even picturing yourself forgiving someone triggers something powerful: the brain’s pain center settles, the craving for revenge loosens, and the part of your mind that helps you think clearly and choose wisely lights back up.
Forgiveness is not saying what happened was okay or pretending the wound never happened.
It means letting God begin loosening revenge’s grip on your mind but more importantly on your heart. In other words, forgiveness acts like a kind of wonder drug. It eases the hurt, dead-ends the desire to strike back, and breaks the hold pain has on you.
And best of all, it’s free, always available, and you can take another dose whenever needed.
Try it this week. Call to mind one person who has hurt you and, in prayer, quietly just begin to imagine forgiving them. You don’t have to tell them. You don’t have to have it all figured out. Just imagine it, and let Christ the King meet you there.
You can do this. We can do this. We don’t have to keep hurting each other. You don’t have to live with the pain someone else has inflicted on you. We can drop our rolls of toilet paper or whatever your retaliation is, once and for all, and stop the harm being done, big or small.
There is a way out of this addiction and we didn’t need scientific research to prove it.
Christ the King has been showing us how all along, giving us a mercy we don’t deserve.
Amen.
