We usually tell ourselves that forgiveness is a gift we give to the person who hurt us. It’s an act of grace, right? A final "I let it go" that clears the air. And while there is something to be said for personal release, the Bible offers a far stranger, more unsettling truth.
Forgiveness isn’t just about letting go. It’s about keeping the door open for God to move in history.
When you look closely at Joseph, you realize that his "victory" was actually a setup. The brothers who threw him into the pit didn’t just wound his heart; they engineered the exact trajectory that would save their own lives. This is where the story gets weird for us modern readers. We want Joseph to be angry. We want him to take the brothers down with him when he has the power. But instead, we get tears. We get a hug.
Let’s walk through this, because I think it changes how we view our own "pit moments."
The Pit Was Not an Accident
It is early autumn. The air has that crisp, biting quality to it. You’re probably juggling new routines—maybe a new job, or back-to-school chaos, or the quiet realization that another year is slipping by. It’s a season of harvest and reckoning.
I’ve been thinking about Joseph lately, and honestly? I used to skim over his story in Genesis. It’s long. Fifty chapters of backstory before he even meets the Pharaoh. But I stopped skipping it after a particularly rough Tuesday last month. My boss had criticized my work, and an old friend had ghosted me over a minor disagreement. I felt small. I felt like I was in a pit—dark, damp, and smelling of old resentment.
I reread Genesis 37-50, and the narrative hit me differently this time.
Joseph was sold by his own brothers. This is the inciting incident. It wasn’t a random disaster; it was targeted. They stripped him of his coat, the symbol of his father’s favor, and threw him in a cistern. Then they sold him to Ishmaelites.
Here is the theological tension that keeps me up at night: God allowed this.
— "You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives."
Read that again. "You intended to harm me." Joseph acknowledges their malice. He doesn’t minimize it. He doesn’t say, "Actually, I kind of wanted to be an Egyptian slave." He admits they meant evil. But then he pivots: "But God intended it for good."
This is the crux of providence. It doesn’t mean everything that happens to you was planned in a vacuum by God. Sometimes, human sin is just... human sin. Messy, reactive, and ugly. But God takes the raw material of our suffering—our betrayal by those we trust—and He refines it. He turns the coal into diamond. Or, in Joseph’s case, he turns a pit into a palace.
The Coat of Many Colors Was a Trap
Think about the coat. Jacob gave it to Joseph because he loved him more than his other sons. That love was specific, intense, and frankly, a bit unfair to the brothers. They saw that coat and they hated it.
— "When his brothers saw that he was dead, they took off his coat of many colors. They went and sold him to the Ishmaelites for twenty pieces of silver, and they brought him down into Egypt."
The coat becomes the object of their envy. It triggers the sale. Without that specific gift from Jacob, Joseph might still be in Canaan. He might have stayed safe. But the "good" gift became the vehicle for the "bad."
This is where I struggle. I’ve had moments where a blessing from God—a new opportunity, a relationship, a spiritual gift—became the thing that led to my greatest trial. A new job that seemed like a promotion became a source of anxiety and isolation. A ministry calling that felt like joy turned into burnout.
It’s easy to look at those moments and ask, "Did God really want this?" And the honest answer is often: We don’t know. But we do know that God is big enough to redeem the mess.
Joseph didn’t understand it in the pit. He didn’t understand it in Potiphar’s prison. He spent thirteen years in a hole, or a cell, waiting for the plot to make sense. And it didn’t. Not until he was standing in the throne room of Egypt, looking at his brothers, bowing to him.
The Reunion Was Not a Victory Lap
When the brothers return, they don’t know who Joseph is. They are terrified. They assume he’s going to get revenge.
But Joseph doesn’t speak at first. He sends them back for their father, Jacob. Then he breaks down in front of one brother, Simeon. And finally, before the whole group:
— "Then Joseph could no longer control himself before all those who were standing with him; he cried out, 'Bring in my brothers!' And Joseph wept so loudly that the Egyptians heard. And Pharaoh’s court heard."
He didn’t monologue. He didn’t list their crimes. He wept.
This is the part that breaks me. We think forgiveness is a speech. A well-rehearsed declaration of "I forgive you, brother." But Joseph’s forgiveness was physical. It was involuntary. It was the release of a pressure valve that had been closed for decades.
And then he tells them what happened. He interprets the dreams. He explains that God sent him ahead of them to preserve life.
— "God sent me before you to preserve for you a remnant on earth and to save your lives by a great deliverance."
Notice the shift in agency. The brothers think they are victims of fate, or perhaps even divine punishment for their jealousy. But Joseph corrects them. It wasn't just "fate." It was God’s design working through their failure.
This is a hard pill to swallow. It means our suffering has purpose, even when it feels pointless. It means the people who hurt us might be part of the very puzzle piece God needs to keep you alive—literally or spiritually.
So What Do We Do on a Tuesday?
You don’t have to be in an Egyptian throne room. You’re probably sitting at a kitchen table, or in a car, or staring at a ceiling fan.
Here is the practical application for this week. It’s not about forcing yourself to love your abuser. That’s often impossible, and pretending it is can be toxic.
- Name the Intent. Like Joseph, acknowledge what happened. "You intended to harm me." Don’t spiritualize the pain away. If someone betrayed you, say it out loud to God. Let Him hear the grit in your voice.
- Stop Trying to Solve It. Joseph didn’t solve the mystery of his suffering in the pit. He just survived it. When you’re in a "pit" moment, stop trying to figure out why this is happening. Just stay in it. Trust that the plot is continuing.
- Wait for the Reversal. Providence isn’t instant. Joseph waited thirteen years. Sometimes, the answer to "why?" is simply time. The pieces will eventually fit together in a way you didn’t see coming.
I’ll be honest: I still don’t fully understand this. There are seasons where God feels silent, and the "good" hasn’t shown up yet. I’m still in the pit of my own life, some days. But I find comfort in knowing that Joseph was there too. He wasn’t praised for his patience because he was a saint. He was praised because he trusted that the One who started it would finish it.
You don’t have to have it all figured out this autumn. You just have to keep the door open.
Maybe that means sending a text you’ve been avoiding. Maybe it means forgiving yourself for not being stronger. Or maybe it just means sitting in the quiet, breathing out your resentment, and whispering, "God, I don’t get this yet. But I’m trusting You to make it right."
That’s enough. That is the start of the harvest.
