On December 27, 1983, Pope John Paul II walked into a prison cell at Rebibbia and sat down across from the man who had tried to kill him. Not from a pulpit. Not through a letter. He crossed the floor of a concrete room, took a chair beside a cot and a radiator, and spoke quietly to Mehmet Ali Ağca for twenty-one minutes. When he left, he told the press he had forgiven him.
But forgiveness wasn't the radical act. The radical act was showing up.
I've been thinking about that photograph for most of my adult life.
I grew up in rural Virginia, in a world shaped by church and mountain and the particular silence that settles over small communities where everyone carries something they don't talk about. Forgiveness was a word I heard every Sunday. It was something performed to settle a spiritual debt. You said the words. You moved on.
Then, in my twenties, I went to Southeast Asia. In December 2004, I was in Thailand when the Indian Ocean tsunami hit. I spent weeks working disaster response alongside people who had lost everything and everyone. I watched human beings — broken, hollowed, standing in wreckage that used to be their lives — choose to help strangers. Not because they had processed their grief. Because something in them moved toward life instead of away from it.
That changed every assumption I had about what mercy actually is.
Mercy isn't a feeling. It's not a moral posture. Mercy is a force — as real and as structural as gravity. It is what happens when a person, standing in the full weight of what has been done to them, chooses to build forward instead of burn backward. It is the most radical act available to a human being, because it refuses the logic of destruction without pretending destruction didn't happen.
The Pope didn't pretend Ağca hadn't shot him. He carried those bullets in his body for the rest of his life. But he walked into that cell anyway. He didn't forgive from safety. He forgave from proximity. He sat close enough to touch the man, and he did touch him. That's not weakness. That's a force of nature.
I've spent twenty years building stories around this idea. It's the engine of everything I write. And I didn't arrive at it in a classroom. I arrived at it standing in mud and salt water, watching people who had every reason to collapse choose instead to carry someone else.
We're living in a time when the dominant currency is punishment. When strength is measured by the willingness to destroy, and forgiveness is framed as surrender. We're told — daily, loudly — that the appropriate response to being wronged is to hit back harder. That mercy is naivety. That compassion is a vulnerability to be exploited.
I want to push back on that. Not with an argument. With a photograph.
Look at that prison cell. Two chairs. A cot. Barred windows. A radiator. Two men sitting close enough to whisper. One of them nearly killed the other. And the other came anyway.
Years later, after serving his sentence, Ağca traveled to the Vatican. He laid white flowers on John Paul's tomb. Whatever you believe about the sincerity of that gesture, something moved in him. Something the Pope set in motion by walking into that cell.
That's what mercy does. It doesn't guarantee a result. It changes what's possible.
I've been hurt in ways I don't discuss publicly, and I've had to make the same choice the Pope made — not once, but over and over — to walk into the room instead of away from it. I don't say that to claim any kind of moral high ground. I say it because I know what it costs. And I know it's worth it. Every time.
Mercy is not the absence of anger. It is not the denial of harm. It is the decision — made with full knowledge of what has been broken — to build something that wouldn't exist if you chose vengeance instead. It is the most creative act I know.
In a country tearing itself apart over the question of who deserves to be punished, I think it's worth remembering that the most powerful man in the Catholic world once sat in a plastic chair in a prison cell and held the hand of the man who shot him.
Not because he had to. Because mercy is what he was made of.
We are all made of the same thing, if we choose to be.
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Laquan Copeland Thank you for the quick response and for taking action on this—I really appreciate it.
Glad to hear the account has been removed and that steps are being taken to prevent similar situ...
Expand commentLaquan Copeland Thank you for the quick response and for taking action on this—I really appreciate it.
Glad to hear the account has been removed and that steps are being taken to prevent similar situations. It definitely helps make the community safer for everyone, especially newer writers.
Thanks again to the team for handling this so promptly.
— Chass
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Appreciate your efforts, Chass Chen!!! Thanks for looking out!!!
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Thx, have also had several of these "collaboration" or "partnership" contacts of late.
I’ve gotten a fair amount of these impersonators too. I always look them up now because of the first one
Perhaps professional industry people who are interested in developing or working with new and experienced members could register with Stage 32, by providing a company domain email verification , which...
Expand commentPerhaps professional industry people who are interested in developing or working with new and experienced members could register with Stage 32, by providing a company domain email verification , which would give them a badge.
This would help protect members as well as Stage 32 reputation with industry professionals who would keep getting inquiries from members into nefarious activities done in their names.
Badges are not a replacement for due diligence, but it is a responsible first step to ensure member safety.