The Trial

The prisoner’s shackles clanked to the floor, echoing in the courtroom. Buzzing of conversation ceased and all eyes turned to examine the prisoner. There I sat, in a room filled with scoffing faces. All watching. I turned and looked at all of the eyes around the room. Eyes that belonged to friends, coworkers, and schoolmates. Eyes that now looked on with pity and scoffing. Hundreds and hundreds of eyes. Probing. Questioning. Jeering—all here to behold the fate of one unlucky individual. Or perhaps lucky, should the judge determine their innocence.

I had been to this very room many times before. I had watched as dozens had been tried and sentenced. I had seen thieves and murderers and liars and cheats. And had felt little to no pity as they had received their dues. Neither had the rest of the crowds and a trial such as this always turns up a crowd. Always. Maybe it’s kind of morbid, but I think it’s human nature. Who doesn’t get curious when someone’s life is on the line? And let’s not forget the scoffers. Amongst a crowd this size, they were sure to be here, and cause the most intimidation possible to whatever poor soul’s life hung in the balance. Let’s be honest, I’d done it. Many times.

But not today.

Today was different.

Today it was my life.

A fly buzzed around my head in the sweltering heat, taunting. My hands were immobilized or I would have tried to swat it away. I shook my head, to no avail. Oh, what was the use? It would all be over soon anyways.

I turned my eyes away from the crowd and sunk down into my chair. There I was, in the middle of the room—vulnerable and scrutinized. I knew that all around me, people were placing bets on the outcome of today’s trial. I had a feeling there weren’t a lot of bets in my favor.

Then, the sound that I had been dreading: the two large oak doors at the front of the room opened and the judge entered. His grandeur was overwhelming; one glance and I was terrified, convinced that he knew EVERYTHING. My body was awash in hot and cold flashes, and I started to sweat.

The worst part about this whole ordeal? I wasn’t being tried for petty crimes. No, all my crimes were heavy. Not only that, they were committed directly against the judge. Let me restate—against the judge’s son. I gulped, taking the majesty of the judge. There was no way I was making it out of here alive.

Then, the prosecutor entered. He was handsome man, stunning really. Tall and well-muscled, with striking eyes, it was almost impossible not to look at him when he spoke. I was always amazed at the eloquence and passion in his voice; and his persuasive powers were overwhelming. When he spoke, the whole world stopped to listen. It was apparent to all who bothered noticing that he took his job very, very seriously and would do everything in his ability to make certain that lawbreakers received their just reward.

Lawbreakers like me. It was at that moment that I wished with everything in me that he wasn’t quite so good at his job.

As he began to list my crimes one by one, I found all shreds of hope shrinking, before disappearing altogether. Slowly, methodically, spitefully, he toyed with me, reeling me (and everyone else) into his tale of deception and trickery. The story he wove was stunning. It was impossible not to hate the criminal. If only that criminal wasn't me. He knew I didn’t have a chance, as the evidence against me was overwhelming. And every accusation was accurate. Painfully accurate. Besides, how could the judge—against whom I had done so much wrong—not sentence me heavily?

As I felt myself succumbing to the depths of despair, I heard the sound of another voice—one that I hadn’t expected. At his voice, a sob caught in my throat. Why was he here? I could have handled anyone—and I mean anyone—seeing me before him. I was certain that he had left, given up on me, forsaken me…after what I’d done. You see, he was the one against whom I’d committed so much wrong. All of my spiteful anger had been taken out on him. All of my hate and hurt and disgust had spewed fiery coals onto him. This man infuriated me and yet, more than anything, I wanted to please him. I don't know why I cared, I just didn't want him to see my shame.

I guess I should back up. This man had once been my closest friend. More than that, even—my husband. But when I made my vows, I never expected to fall for a handsome, doting coworker whose voice dripped flattery and empty promises. One thing led to another and the next thing I knew, I was in way too deep. My insecurities, fears, and guilt all came out on my husband. It became my life goal to spite him. Why? Because he kept loving me. After all that I had done to him, he never stopped loving me, which created such passionate fury inside of me, I could hardly contain myself. And, well, didn’t. Sometimes, I just wished he’d retaliate. I had broken him, and I knew it. God, how I knew it. I guess it goes without saying that that was the start of all my other crimes.

And now, as I was being tried for these crimes, I realized why he was here. He was here to retaliate. What more perfect moment to spite me than in front of everyone?

Oh, God, why did he have to be here?

When he spoke, his was soft, yet passionate—not exactly what I expected. Then again, he never did what I expected.

“The evidence against her is overwhelming. Your Honor would be a fool not to condemn her for such horrific crimes."

Yep. He still loves me. Knew it.

"Your Honor is no such fool. According to the law, there is only one payment for crimes such as these.”

Say it. Just say it.

“Death.”

I clenched my teeth, waiting for him to gloat, to tower over me, to rub it in that I would finally get my just reward.

“Your Honor, the law states that judgment must be executed. It also states that another can take the punishment of one condemned. There is one who has offered to take her punishment.”

My head jerked up at this statement.

“Therefore, I plead for mercy. My life for hers. Let me take her place.”

At this, my whole body started shaking. I was quavering all over. He couldn’t be doing this. Surely he couldn’t. Not for me. Not after what I’d done. My head spun, and I struggled futilely to grasp onto a reasonable thought.

The crowds began to stir. This wasn’t what they had expected and they were quick to voice their protestations.

My poor forsaken husband caught my gaze and looked at me with the most powerful gaze of love I had ever seen. In his eyes were forgiveness and mercy and sorrow. No hate. No anger. No rejection. Just...love. I didn't understand, and knew that I couldn't. And perhaps never would. I shook my head, "no," but his face was set.

His voice cut through the crowds, murmuring, pleading—ever so quiet: “Please. Pardon her.”

Deafening silence filled the room.

"You would do this? For her?" The judge voiced the question that was on everyone's mind.

The man nodded, soberly.

The judge perused the face of my once-husband, searching, as if to see if he genuinely meant what he had said. His eyes scanned the room and the crowds and then fell on me. Up and down, he looked me over. He looked at his son and back at me. A mixture of sorrow and pride filled his face. He nodded, slowly. Once more he looked at me, with eyes of intensity and seriousness.

"You've been offered a second chance at life. Don't waste it."

And then the judge looked out over the crowds and spoke one word—one simple word that changed everything: “Pardoned.”

It is God who justifies. Who then is the one who condemns? No one. Christ Jesus who died—more than that, who was raised to life—is at the right hand of God and is also interceding for us.
Romans 8:33-34

The Room

I carelessly tossed the piece of trash on the ground, as I disparagingly made my way through the piles of garbage. What had I gotten myself into? Surely...surely, he wasn't really going to come...here. After all, what was the point of trying to clean up a pigsty like this anyways? I had to think. I slowly made my way to the couch in the center of the room--if you could call it that. The thing was older than time, covered in a pattern long outdated, and with the springs poking through the ripped and faded fabric. It was both an aesthetic disaster and highly uncomfortable, but it didn't matter. No one was here but me...and I was used to it.

I tried to ignore the reeking and rotting mounds of junk--boxes filled with random trinkets, meals that never got finished, trophies from preschool, yesterday's homework. Half of the room was enclosed in a curtain--well, a sheet, that is--to make it look like less of a chaotic mess. It was the same with the piles, they were covered in various colored sheets, so that you couldn't really see what was underneath. Nevertheless, each sheet was labeled, so that I had an idea of what was there. Yes, this was my junk room. The room no one EVER came in. At least, no one ever had.

As I sat in the middle of my disastrous--yet oddly comfortable--room, I thought about what I'd gotten myself into. It had started with a conversation I'd had earlier that day, a conversation with a very dear friend. My friend had asked about this room of mine, that I never let anyone enter. I'd talked about it many times before--often flippantly, as if it wasn't a big deal. But there were a few times that I'd mentioned it not so flippantly. And he'd noticed. He tends to notice stuff like that. So, he brought it up. He asked if he could come see it. And if I'd wanted, he could help me clean it.

"Oh no." I'd responded, "You wouldn't possibly want to go in there."

"I think I would," He'd responded.

"But it's a mess! I mean...believe me when I say, it's a disaster."

"Oh, I believe you. I still want to come." Then--teasing, "you'll still be my favorite." He's been saying that to me for as long as I can remember. He says it whenever he's talking about someone he really likes...and he makes a point to always say it to me. But if I let him into that room, things might change.

I tried to convince him to give up on the idea, but when he gets an idea in his head, it's really hard to get it out. And somehow--after a momentary lapse of reason--I'd agreed. I'd agreed to let him in. Feeling sick to my stomach, I got up and paced, and attempted to make clean. But it was useless. Even if I managed to get all the trash out, there was still the matter of the broken rafters, the sagging walls, and the boarded up windows...not to mention the bathroom. We're not even going there.

And then, the sound that I had been dreading.

Knock. Knock.

Maybe if I waited, he would change his mind. Maybe he'd think I wasn't here. Maybe...

Knock. Knock.

Reluctantly I moved towards the door. "What am I doing?" I think to myself, "Surely this isn't necessary. He'll never want to be with me once he sees this. He'll hate me. If I let him in, he's just going to leave. He'll..."

Knock. Knock.

Gulp.

I open the door.

And there...there he is. And he is smiling. Oh that smile. Now I remembered, that smile was the whole reason I'd agreed to let him come. When I see that smile, I go senseless. In one hand he was holding a large black sack. With the other, he reached out and grabbed my hand, as if to assure me that everything was going to be okay. Then, he entered. He looked at the catastrophe. I mean, really looked at it. He walked around, perusing the whole thing.

And then he did something that I really didn't expect him to do. He began uncovering the piles. He pulled off the sheet "Busyness" to reveal a pile of loneliness and an old dresser whose drawers were overflowing with dreams I'd tried to forget. He pulled off "False Confidence" to reveal box after box of insecurity. He stripped off the one labeled, "Happy." Underneath were all sorts of sorrows and unhealed hurts, along with mounds of dirty gauze and band-aids that I'd used to cover up old wounds. Problem is, most of those wounds never fully healed...so the pile of band-aids just keeps growing.

With each pile I grew increasingly uncomfortable. And then he went to the side of the room that I was hoping he wouldn't--the curtain.

"No...please." I thought, "Anything but that."

If he went in there, he would see the one thing that I would worked so long and hard to hide. I hated--nay despised--this part of the room with an intense passion. Nevertheless, I couldn't get away from it. Going in there was like this neurotic compulsion for me--it was the only part of the room that was at all neat. Probably, because this was where I had spent the most amount of time...and now...now he was going to see it.

He looked long at hard the curtain. This curtain was the prettiest of them all and gave some semblance of order and beauty to the room...or so I told myself. It was labeled, "Perfection." He slowly but surely pulled it back to reveal just one old cardboard box, bland and boring. No big deal, right? On this box was the label, "Failures." He opened it. I couldn't watch. Now, he would see. He would see every time I'd hurt someone, every time I'd cursed someone under my breath, every time I'd let down myself and others, every time I'd sinned in my heart and with my hands...every one was in that box. I know, because I'd been through them over and over and over again.

And now, he'd seen them. He'd seen my room. He'd seen everything. There was no way he was going to stay, now that he knew how much work it was going to be.

He beckoned for me to come next to him, to where he was now sitting. He pulled out a failure and showed it to me. I choked back tears...I remembered that one as if it was yesterday. In fact, the page on which it was written was tear-stained, crumpled, and covered in shame. I had tried to throw it away many times before, but never could. It always ended up back in my box. Every. Single. Time. Throwing it away was pointless. Forgetting, impossible.

He then opened the large black sack, that he had carried in with him. I had forgotten about it until now.

"May I?" he asked.

"Oh you don't understand. I've tried...it never works."

He just grinned, crumpled the page, and tossed it in there. He didn't get it, did he? I opened my box, to show him that it would still be there, but when I looked for it, I discovered it wasn't. Stunned, I then opened his sack, to pull it back it. It wasn't there either.

"What...what's going on? How did you do that?"

"Do you remember that conversation, when I asked if you'd trust me?"

I nodded.

"Well, then, trust me."

I choked back tears as he pulled out another. This memory was more painful, the failure more apparent. We read over it and once again, he crumpled it up and tossed into his sack. Once again, it simply disappeared. Memory after memory, failure after failure went into that sack, and disappeared into the abyss. With each one, I could feel myself getting lighter and growing freer. As we went through them, I noticed, that some of the other piles of things began growing smaller, too. My insecurity pile was no longer as towering, my unhealed hurts were no longer as overwhelming.

Before I knew it, we had been through the whole box. I was unsure how to feel...I felt both exhausted and energized; terrified and terrific; free and frightened. In some ways, I felt frightened by my freedom. I had grown so used to the contents of that box, that now that they were gone, I didn't know what to do or how to feel.

He then turned to me and looked into my eyes--in the serious, probing way that only he can. "It's done," he said, "they're gone. You won't be able to find them again. So, don't try looking, because they won't be there. Forget about them. It's done."

I nodded, unable to speak. I looked around at the room, which was still messy, but different. I could see that the sun was shining through the window, as it set on the horizon. Spring flowers were starting to spring up outside that I hadn't noticed before.

Then he spoke again, lightly this time, his face breaking into a huge grin. He leaned in close and whispered, "And guess what? You're still my favorite."

Isaiah 43:18
Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. Behold, I am doing a new thing. Now it springs up, do you not perceive it?

Psalm 103:12
As far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us.

Forgiveness

Confession #1
I have a problem with forgiveness.
Now, this problem doesn't manifest itself in the way forgiveness usually does. Most people have hard time forgiving others. For me, that's not usually the case. Rather, I struggle with forgiving myself.
For as long as I can remember, I have had impeccably high ideals. From the kind of person I would be to the kind of things I would do to the kind of man I would marry, I never once wanted to settle for second best. And while this--to some extent--caused me to strive for the best, it also had the opposite of the intended effect. When my striving didn't immediately attain the desired outcome, I'd throw up my hands and give up. And sabotage all the efforts I just went to.
As a perfectionist, that wasn't particularly beneficial.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that, the perfectionist in me refuses to die and let myself make mistakes. And the sluggard in me refuses to step up and let myself give my best. And I'm stuck in the middle somewhere, in this deadly mix of anger at myself and an overpowering desire to give up. Did I mention that this combination also knows just how to send myself esteem to the sewers?
So here I am with my sky-high ideals, disintegrating motivation, and vanishing self-image: your very own walking contradiction.
Now what? Shall I continue wallowing in the pit that I have dug for myself as I so often have done before? A lovely mixture of self-pity, self-loathing, frustration, and overall agony?
No thanks.
Been there. Done that.
It sucks.
I think it's time to step out of the slums and the best way I know how to do that is through Scripture.

Psalm 103:8-17

The LORD is compassionate and gracious,
slow to anger, abounding in love.
9 He will not always accuse,
nor will he harbor his anger forever;
10 he does not treat us as our sins deserve
or repay us according to our iniquities.
11 For as high as the heavens are above the earth,
so great is his love for those who fear him;
12 as far as the east is from the west,
so far has he removed our transgressions from us.
13 As a father has compassion on his children,
so the LORD has compassion on those who fear him;
14 for he knows how we are formed,
he remembers that we are dust.
15 As for man, his days are like grass,
he flourishes like a flower of the field;
16 the wind blows over it and it is gone,
and its place remembers it no more.
17 But from everlasting to everlasting
the LORD's love is with those who fear him

I struggle with forgiving myself, yet the Lord forgives me. His Word says "He does not treat me as my sins deserve." Why should I hold against myself what God does not? Am I above God? God remembers that I am dust...why can't I?
He forgives me. Am I greater than God that I should dangle sin over my head, that I should withhold the grace of God from me? It does nothing but hurt me.
Jesus has chosen to forgive me. To love me. To continue loving me even when I do stupid things. And make choices that I know I shouldn't. As long as I wallow in unforgiveness, I'm blocking the work of the Holy Spirit in my life. Not cool.
So, Daddy, I'm sorry for the mistakes I've made and for choosing to sin. Forgive me, Lord. Help me have a new start. Help me walk in freedom and forgiveness. You forgive me, therefore I will forgive myself. It's a choice.