Forgiveness Behind the Badge

There’s a unique burden that comes with wearing the uniform.

For those of us in law enforcement, we’re trained to run toward danger, to keep calm when chaos erupts, and to protect others—even at great cost to ourselves. But what we’re rarely trained for is something even harder: how to forgive.

Forgiveness isn’t in the policy manual. It’s not on a use-of-force continuum. It doesn’t show up in tactical scenarios or courtroom debriefs. And yet, it may be one of the most important—and most difficult—calls we’ll ever answer.

I learned that not from a course, but from the pavement.

It was during the COVID-19 pandemic. We were attempting to arrest a suspect. He was young, strong, and running with full momentum. I wasn’t braced when he grabbed my body armour and drove me hard to the ground. I remember the impact—the ripping pain in my right shoulder as my rotator cuff and ligaments tore. I remember the muscle damage in my back, the other injuries that flared up in the hours and weeks to follow.

I was laid up for 82 days. For the first 30 of those, I couldn’t even get off the couch.

But it’s not the pain I remember most. It’s the sky.

Lying there on the ground, bleeding and broken, I looked up. The sky was blue, streaked with scattered clouds. And in that still, quiet moment—despite the chaos that had just occurred—I knew what I had to do.

A homily I had recently given came to mind. It was on forgiveness. I had preached that we’re not just called to believe the Gospel, but to live it. And in that moment, God gave me the opportunity to do just that.

So I began to pray. Not for myself—but for the young man who had just injured me. Right there on the pavement, I forgave him.

And somehow, despite the searing pain and the uncertain road ahead, I felt peace. Real peace. The kind only Christ can give. The kind that doesn’t make sense unless you’ve tasted it yourself.

When help arrived and I was placed in the police car, still bleeding, I wasn’t thinking of justice or charges or payback. I was thinking of Jesus. And I was grateful—because for once in my life, I wasn’t just talking about the Gospel. I was living it.

⸻

Forgiveness in our line of work is complicated. We see humanity at its worst. We get spit on, lied to, swung at, insulted, resisted. People blame us for their problems, then call us to fix them. We go from domestic fights to fatal crashes, from violent arrests to comforting the dying. It’s not easy to carry all that—and then be asked to forgive the people who cause it.

But forgiveness isn’t about pretending something didn’t happen. It’s not weakness. It’s not letting someone off the hook.

Forgiveness is setting someone free—and realizing the one being freed is you.

I could’ve carried resentment for that suspect. I could’ve let the Attorney General’s refusal to prosecute fester into bitterness. But what would that have accomplished? Would it have healed my shoulder? Strengthened my back? Brought me peace?

No. Only Christ could do that.

And He did. Because I let Him.

⸻

Now, at age 70, I look back over a career full of both meaning and hardship. I’ve been assaulted more times than I care to count. But when I think about it, very few of those incidents felt personal. They weren’t about me. Most of the time, I was just the uniform in the way of someone else’s pain, addiction, or desperation.

And I also realize—I’ve offended others. Sometimes through mistakes. Sometimes through stubbornness or pride. I’ve hurt people too. And if I hope to receive Christ’s mercy for my many transgressions, how can I possibly withhold that mercy from others?

Jesus said: “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” That isn’t a suggestion. It’s the heart of the Gospel.

If we’re to walk with Christ, we must also walk the road of forgiveness. Not once. Not twice. But again and again.

⸻

To my brothers and sisters in law enforcement: I know how hard it is. I know how much you carry. The bruises, the moral injuries, the emotional scars. It’s tempting to put up walls, to shut down our hearts, to see forgiveness as something for other people.

But we weren’t given these hearts just to enforce the law. We were given them to live in truth and mercy—to be people of justice and compassion.

Forgiveness doesn’t make us soft. It makes us strong in the way that matters most.

The world sees your badge and your duty belt. But Christ sees your heart. And He knows that every time you forgive, you draw closer to Him—closer to the cross, closer to the resurrection.

So today, if you’re carrying anger… a grudge… a story that still haunts you—give it to Him. Lay it at the foot of the cross. Let the healing begin.

And know this: you are not alone.

You walk in the company of Christ. And you are never more like Him than when you forgive.

⸻

Christ, forgive me, a sinner.

And help me to forgive others—just as You have forgiven me.

Amen.

— Deacon Dan Ritchie