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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Using flashbacks to add a few more episodes to a TV series is a particularly annoying trait.
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As a generalization, that’s wrong. However, he may be responding to your implementation of flashbacks Maybe your FB scenes don’t inform the narrative well.
Each scene should have a purpose, and I thin...
Expand commentAs a generalization, that’s wrong. However, he may be responding to your implementation of flashbacks Maybe your FB scenes don’t inform the narrative well.
Each scene should have a purpose, and I think of flashbacks either answering a question set forth by the previous scene or asking a question that will be answered later.
I love the film Out of Sight, which uses flashback scenes to answer questions about character relationships and set up plot points — at the time we need to know information.
The original Highlander does this as well, revealing the exposition related to immortals a piece at a time.
Someone mentioned Godfather II, which I love, but that’s a bit different. That’s two stories being intercut, not a single narrative. There are thematic ties, but it’s not working the same way.
I believe some flashbacks are needed. You don’t have to get rid of all of them. Wish you luck with your script.
Flash backs, used as lazy writing to “simply inject” a flagging script fails, but I never dismiss them per sae. Flashbacks can work extremely well, in a well thought out script, particularly so in a n...
Expand commentFlash backs, used as lazy writing to “simply inject” a flagging script fails, but I never dismiss them per sae. Flashbacks can work extremely well, in a well thought out script, particularly so in a non linear structure. Flashbacks range from simple to complex in nature. Classic vintage noirs can have dream sequences, or a narrator showing/telling backstories. Any genre can have a parallel narrative, two or more stories, where flashbacks serve different purposes. Eg; One story in the present & one in the past, double relationship line both past & present, to highlight disturbances, crises, or crucial time jumps, or a story in the present solves a mystery of the past. An above post gave a great example with Citizen Kane, the enigmatic outsider is dead, but little by little, the truth is uncovered by a detective asking questions of the living. Later, in Bridges of Madison County, flashbacks used letters to convey the past. Aside many more recent films, there are multiple TV serials where even simple flashbacks, add emotional beats & reveals.
Everyone has their own preferences, and I understand how frustrating or confusing it can be to get this kind of feedback. There are plenty of movies and tv shows that successfully use flashbacks: Meme...
Expand commentEveryone has their own preferences, and I understand how frustrating or confusing it can be to get this kind of feedback. There are plenty of movies and tv shows that successfully use flashbacks: Memento, The Secret Life of David Gale, Arrow, and The 100 just to name a few.
I think the key is ask yourself these questions whenever you get feedback:
- What's the feedback under the feedback? What is this person trying to say to me?
E.G. if you reread your script, looking specifically at the flashbacks, are they organic? Are they fluid and sensical? Are they triggered by something? Are they seamless based on what happened right before? Or are they hard shifts without thoughtful transitions?
- Is this a taste preference or a craft issue?
Taste is a huge part of who we are as creatives, including readers and coverage professionals. It can be difficult to separate feedback between craft and taste. Some people will never like flashbacks. Others will be obsessed. But what matters is the craft feedback and being able to identify where you think the feedback is coming from will help you sort what's helpful.
Not all criticism is helpful. Sometimes, we need to take the harsh criticism to heart so we can grow. Part of our path as writers is learning what to absorb and what to release.