It’s Christmas Day, 1868. A day that should have been about joy, about peace, about celebrating the end of a long and painful year. And for many Americans, it was. But for others, it was something more: the day President Andrew Johnson signed an unconditional pardon for all Confederate veterans. Every single one. The men who fought against the Union, who took up arms in the deadliest conflict this country has ever seen, were forgiven—no strings attached.
And with the stroke of a pen, Johnson effectively said: “We’re letting this go.”
Now, let’s back up for a second. The Civil War—America’s great, bloody reckoning—had officially ended three years earlier in 1865. And if you think the war was bad (it was: 620,000 dead, towns destroyed, families shattered), the aftermath was no picnic. Imagine two roommates, one of whom burned down half the house, now being told to shake hands and live together like nothing happened. That was post-Civil War America.
The Union had won, slavery was abolished, but the wounds were still wide open. Former Confederate soldiers—men who had fought for four long years to defend a system built on enslaving human beings—were now expected to reintegrate into the very country they had tried to leave. And let’s just say, the North and South weren’t exactly sending each other Christmas cards.
Enter Andrew Johnson.
Andrew Johnson was a complicated man. He was a Southern Democrat who had stayed loyal to the Union during the war. But once he became president after Lincoln’s assassination, his loyalties became… murky. He believed in preserving the Union, sure, but he also believed in letting the South off the hook. Johnson’s idea of “reconstruction” was simple: bring the Confederate states back into the Union as quickly as possible, and don’t make the Southern elite pay too steep a price for rebellion.
This was not a popular stance. Republicans in Congress wanted justice. They wanted accountability. They wanted the South to acknowledge that slavery had been wrong and that secession was treason. Johnson, however, wanted to move on. He saw punishing the South as pouring gasoline on an already smoldering fire.
So, on Christmas Day, 1868, Johnson issued a blanket pardon to all former Confederates. All of them. No exceptions. He had already issued smaller pardons over the years, but this was the big one. It was like telling a kid, “You’re grounded forever,” and then handing them the car keys three days later and saying, “Let’s just forget about it.”
In the proclamation, Johnson framed it as an act of mercy, of reconciliation:
“Unconditionally and without reservation, a full pardon and amnesty for the offense of treason against the United States.”
And just like that, the war was officially forgiven—at least on paper.
Now, let’s talk about the ramifications. Because this was not just a pardon; it was a reset button. It was Johnson saying, “We’re moving forward as a country, and we’re going to pretend like this whole rebellion thing was just a misunderstanding.”
For the South, this was a gift. Confederate veterans—men who had led armies, burned cities, and fought to keep millions enslaved—were now free to reclaim their place in society. Many of them quickly found their way back into positions of power: in state legislatures, in business, and yes, even in Congress.
For Black Americans, the ramifications were devastating. By pardoning the Confederacy, Johnson effectively handed the keys of the South back to the very people who had fought to keep slavery alive. It emboldened the old guard. It gave them permission to say, “See? We’re not traitors. We’re patriots who fought for our way of life.”
The result? Reconstruction—a period that could have brought real justice, real healing—was undermined at every turn. Laws that protected newly freed Black Americans were stripped away. White supremacist groups like the KKK terrorized Black communities. The South became a place where progress was rolled back, where the dream of equality became a nightmare of Jim Crow laws and racial violence.
And the country would feel the weight of Johnson’s Christmas pardon for generations.
This isn’t to say that forgiveness is a bad thing. Forgiveness can be powerful. Forgiveness can be healing. But forgiveness without accountability? That’s a free pass. And Johnson’s blanket pardon was exactly that—a free pass for men who had committed treason against their country.
Now, imagine this scenario in modern terms. Picture a kid who punches a hole through the living room wall. You sit him down, you tell him what he did was wrong, and then, without asking him to fix the wall or even apologize, you say, “It’s fine. Go play outside.” What happens next? The kid punches another hole.
Because that’s what happens when actions don’t have consequences.
And that’s the story of Andrew Johnson’s Christmas pardon. It was a moment when the country could have said, “Never again.” Instead, it said, “All is forgiven.”
To the former Confederates, it was an act of mercy. To Black Americans, it was a betrayal. To the country as a whole, it was a missed opportunity.
So on this Christmas Day, as we sip eggnog and celebrate peace on Earth, let’s remember what happened on December 25, 1868. Because while forgiveness is important, accountability matters too. Without it, history doesn’t heal. It repeats.
