“Judgement” is a loaded word for us. It conjures images of self-righteous preachers and repressed religious types wagging their fingers and tongues, an image of an angry God, an old guy in the sky with a long white beard, lashing out to punish us for our misdeeds.
Many of us have been on the receiving end of this kind of judgement, told we would burn in hell for loving whom we love in the ways we love. For good reason, “judgement” has become a loaded word for many of us.
But for John in today’s gospel, judgement is something very different. It begins with Jesus, after we’ve completely abandoned him, being lifted onto the cross, completely crushed by the violence and hatred we see all around us and in which we ourselves are complicit.
And in that moment, when he’s lost everyone and everything, when he hangs there tortured, barely able to lift his head, gasping for air, something amazing happens: He keeps loving us, and he doesn’t take it back. No finger-pointing, no condemnation. He just keeps loving us.
And when we encounter this kind of love, when we look on someone we have hurt and who still loves us, it is very unsettling.
There’s a story of a little boy whose dad was putting him to bed earlier than he wanted. The little boy, Benjamin, said, “Daddy, I hate you.” Benjamin’s father, exercising the kind of parental wisdom can only I hope for, replied, “Ben, I’m sorry you feel that way, but I love you.” Benjamin’s response to such gracious words surprised his dad: “Don’t say that!” “I’m sorry Benjamin, but it’s true. I love you.” “Don’t,” his son protested, “Don’t say that again!” At which point Ben’s father said, “Benjamin, I love you…like it or not!”
Love like this is out of our control. We can’t get rid of it, much as we might like to at times.
And sometimes we would like to get rid of it, because it triggers one of those uncomfortable person-in-the-mirror moments. It elicits what some call good guilt--a sadness and shame for the hurt we’ve caused, the evil we’ve done and in which we have been complicit.
I had this kind of experience last Sunday when we took some of our young people to see Selma. The film shows the struggle of the African-American marchers for justice, wanting only to be given the most basic decency and respect. The film also shows the brutal and violent opposition they encountered from larger white society. And it shows how, even as they continued to speak and insist on justice, and even despite the violence inflicted on them, they refused to strike back, refused to return evil for evil.
Seeing that film was a moment of judgement for me: I had to confront my own complicity in the racism of our culture, the ways I have silently contributed to the violence and injustice against them, forgotten that black and brown lives matter.
Notice, there’s no finger-pointing in this dynamic. Jesus and Dr. King issue no threats of hellfire, no condemnations. This kind of judgement just doesn’t do that.
I saw a posting on Facebook the other day about singer Joan Baez. Just before a recent concert, some people showed up with signs protesting her anti-war and pro-choice positions. They were veterans of the Viet Nam war she had opposed, and they were also strongly anti-abortion. They accused her of killing babies and encouraging the shooting of American soldiers--things that were simply not true. Some of their signs said “Joan Baez, soldiers don’t kill babies. Liberals do,” and “JOAN BAEZ GAVE COMFORT & AID TO OUR ENEMY IN VIETNAM & ENCOURAGED THEM TO KILL AMERICANS!"
Before the concert, Joan went out to talk with them. She listened to their stories, and quietly tried to clarify her own positions. She told them that, despite her opposition to that war, she had stood by them from the beginning and that she stood by them now.
Joan's continuing acceptance of their stories and her willingness to hear them out began to melt their anger. In a twist that seems hard to fathom, they then asked her to SIGN THEIR POSTERS! She replied that she would not sign the front of "those horrible things", but she would sign the back. She wrote "All the very best to you, Joan Baez." Then she gave them copies of her book, and offered tickets to the show, which they did not accept.
During the concert, Joan dedicated a song to the protesters and said "You know, they just wanted to be heard. Everyone wants to be heard. I feel like I made four new friends tonight."
It’s as though people like Jesus and Dr. King and Joan Baez have a freedom that we often lack: They don’t feel the need to prove themselves right, or to have the upper hand, or to even the score, or repay evil with evil. They live by a different logic. So different from the logic we’ve grown accustomed to, that we take to be business as usual, as just the way things are.
John says that, after gazing upon the man we have betrayed and tortured and lifted up on the cross--the one who kept on loving us through all of that--we are confronted with our own darkness. The judgement lies not in someone pointing a finger at us and condemning us, but rather in our own coming to see that we have not lived up to what we can be, that we’ve blown it, gotten things seriously wrong.
This creates the conditions for a decision, a choice we must make either to return to the darkness, back to business as usual, or to turn a new way, living as free people who are not condemned and therefore do not condemn, living the compassionate life of sinners who know they are forgiven.
That’s the choice we have before us this Lenten morning, and we have all the grace we need to make it.
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