“Jesus wept, but He never complained.”
– Charles Spurgeon –
This is my eleventh hour entry for the Fictioneers "Man vs Society" Contest.
Submitted with a big shout out to @jrhughes and to all the kind and incredibly instructive folk at @thewritersblock. Thanks for a challenging contest and for your strong, indispensable editing support.
Can you make Jesus cry?
Image courtesy of Eran Menashri and http://unsplash.com
"Jesus Wept"
~by Duncan Cary Palmer~
“The lesson Jesus imparts here, we now call ‘The Golden Rule.’”
I pause to let that sink in.
“What rule is that, you ask? ’Love your neighbor as yourself.’ Jesus considers love so important—he says it sums up the whole bible. But, what does he mean?
“Let me spell it out for you. Picture how you would want to be treated. Then treat your neighbor that way. That’s what love is."
The congregation is rapt. I hope they aren’t just longing for a quick finish.
“Love... Let’s go out and live it this week.”
Sunlight on fresh snow lends our stained glass windows startling brilliance. Intermittent gusts of cold air tug at my pant legs. Ellen stands beside me in the narthex as more congregants than usual pay their respects.
“Excellent sermon, Pastor Mike.” Offering his arm, Judge Holloway escorts his wife to the door. The chill draft grows momentarily stronger as the self-closing portal pauses, then chuffs shut.
“Jesus’ words—absolute wisdom!” Bailiff John Daley shakes my hand.
“Thank you, John.” His teenage daughter and son pause to greet my wife. Not every villager stops to prattle, but those who do seem impressed by the message.
“I’ll keep this in my heart all week.” Mildred, a homemaker.
“Your sermon—uplifting.” Joan, math teacher.
“Thanks for opening the scriptures to us, Mike.” Randall, insurance sales.
Hallelujah! I think I’ve really reached them. The midnight oil I burned wasn’t for naught.
With each handshake, each greeting, the receiving line shrinks. Councilman James and his family, Detective Roberts, Chief Walters—all compliment my homily.
I’m getting hungry. As the entry door closes behind the last worshipper, a few snowflakes whoosh in on a final swirl of icy air. Locking up, we retire to the rectory, where Ellen fixes lunch.
TV news is on. “Illegal immigration and homelessness plague small town America.”
“I think they should deport those people, don’t you, Michael? Our taxes keep going up.”
I murmur something around a mouthful of sandwich.
“You’d better get to bed early. You have jury duty tomorrow.”
“Make me proud!” Ellen sends me off with a kiss.
The jury lounge is full. I’m reading my bible, but as a small town pastor, I recognize most voices nearby. At nine A.M. sharp, courtroom doors open and we file in.
Judge Holloway clears the docket of a few minor cases before the trial. Some are continued. A few defendants can’t raise bail. One by one, the bailiff takes each loser into custody.
Voir dire begins, and several parishioners, including myself, are empaneled. We have a jury before lunch.
From the outset, the judge’s instructions are crystal clear. “I’m the judge of the law. You may only judge the facts.”
Since the shoe factory closed, it’s become a haunt for the unemployed homeless. Detective Roberts collared the vagrant immigrant now standing before us.
“How do you plead?”
“La ashm.” The translator clarifies: “Not guilty.”
Asked to speak on his own behalf, the defendant stands mute. Long hair and stained, unstylish clothing elicit little compassion. His pro forma public defender isn’t much help. By 3:15, we’re off to the jury room to deliberate.
The facts are plain:
- City Ordinance C183—Occupying a Condemned Building—unarguably violated.
- No approved toilet facilities on the premises.
- In this country illegally.
- Not part of the workforce.
- Refuses to answer.
Chief Walters—our jury foreman—polls us, starting with himself. “The law’s the law. I know my civic duty.”
Mildred—housewife and mother—“I feel badly for the man. But I have to follow the law.”
Randall, insurance broker: “He ought to be working and paying taxes.”
The second time around the room, a couple of wobblers change their vote.
Is life purely binary? Are innocent and guilty really our only options?
I’m the final holdout. According to the judge, we must apply the law to the facts. By that definition, the man is guilty as hell…
What would Jesus do?
If I remain stubborn, I'll hang the jury.
The unrest in the room is palpable. I remember Ellen’s comments yesterday. Harsh looks of eleven jurors, thinking of home and dinner, further weaken my resolve.
I fold. “Judge Holloway said a mistrial would be bad.” I equivocate. “Guilty.”
The final case of the day now ended, Bailiff Daley deposits his last distasteful perp in lock up. Time to go home. Thank God we're civilized.
Gazing silently through the bars, feeling the cold, Jesus weeps.
FIN
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