In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus says, “Judge not, lest ye be judged.” That saying highlights what I like to call the “paradox of judgment.” We cannot avoid judging. From day to day, we make hundreds of critical evaluations and decisions. Yet the paradox is that in the very act of evaluating we subject ourselves to evaluation; in the very act of judging, we subject ourselves to judgment.
There’s a story of a brash American tourist who went into one of the famous art museums in Italy. In less than an hour he breezed through all the rooms containing medieval and renaissance paintings that often occupied other visitors for days. On his way out, he remarked to the guard at the door, “Well, I certainly don’t think much of your old masters.” The guard replied calmly, “Yes, sir. And they don’t think much of you either. But unfortunately for you, it’s not the old masters who are on trial here, but the viewers.”
The former Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, writes that the word “trial” signifies an event (or even an ordeal) designed to reveal the truth. The purpose of a judicial trial in particular is to find out the truth of an accused person’s guilt or innocence. But in the process the trial typically lays bare many other truths as well – the honesty and reliability of the witnesses, the competence of the lawyers, the impartiality of the judge, and the wisdom of the jury.
In other words, many others are on trial than just the accused. In a real sense, the entire system of justice is on trial. When the courts find guilty and sentence someone who’s innocent, and who’s later exonerated by new evidence; or, conversely, when they acquit and set free someone who’s guilty, who then goes out and commits more crimes, then the judicial system itself stands judged by its own false judgment.
In every act of judgment, then, we subject ourselves to judgment. The judgment may be for us or against us. The crucial point is that we have no privileged vantage point from which to evaluate and judge without being evaluated and judged at the same time.
So, it’s a bit surprising that so many people today seem to think that they have the luxury of critically examining the claims of Christianity, and effectively standing in judgment over God himself, without any corresponding sense of their own accountability. In his famous essay “God in the Dock,” C.S. Lewis describes the difference between previous generations and us in this regard:
“The ancient man approached God (or even the gods) as the accused person approaches his judge. For the modern man the roles are reversed. He is the judge: God is in the dock. He is quite a kindly judge: if God should have a reasonable defense for being the god who permits war, poverty, and disease, he is ready to listen to it. The trial may even end in God’s acquittal. But the important thing is that Man is on the bench and God in the dock.”
But what would it really look like to put God on trial? The answer is that almost two thousand years ago, we did put God on trial. When God came among us as a human being, we arrested him, put him on trial, and executed him.
What stands out in the Passion according to Saint Luke is the depiction of the different ways in which the characters in the story respond to Jesus. Luke seems acutely aware that it’s not Jesus who’s really on trial here, but everybody else.
In the course of the story, a number of the characters reach their own verdicts concerning Jesus. The chief priests, scribes, and rulers of the people seem to have their minds made up from the beginning; and they press relentlessly for Jesus’ condemnation, thus securing their own condemnation.
Representing the powers that rule this world, Pilate and Herod find nothing to condemn in Jesus. Pilate even declares Jesus innocent three times; but then demonstrates the sheer bankruptcy of his system of justice by condemning Jesus to death anyway.
The crowds are a bit harder to pigeonhole. At least some of them go along with the chief priests and scribes in crying, “Crucify, crucify him.” But Luke is careful to tell us that the crowds watch the crucifixion itself in silence, not joining in the taunts of the rulers and soldiers. And then, once Jesus has died, the crowds return to their homes beating their breasts – a gesture of sorrow and perhaps even repentance.
The starkest contrast is that between the two thieves crucified with Jesus. The one thief joins in the executioners’ mockery and abuse. The other thief, against all expectations, puts his faith and trust in Jesus – saying “Remember me when you come into your kingdom” – and in turn receives the promise, “Today you shall be with me in Paradise.” There’s no clearer instance of the point that Jesus is not really the one on trial here; in reaching the true judgment about Jesus the good thief has gained his own acquittal.
We may well say the same of the centurion who renders the verdict, “Certainly this was a righteous man!” In so saying, he acknowledges the guilt of his complicity in a wrongful execution and yet, paradoxically, emerges as a righteous man as well – as does Joseph of Arimathea, the member of the Council who demonstrates that even the rulers are not unanimous in their condemnation of Jesus.
In all these different ways, the characters reach their various judgments concerning Jesus, and, in so doing, find themselves judged accordingly. The same is true for us today. As we question, probe, and evaluate God, we are really the ones being questioned, probed, and evaluated. As we render our verdict, verdict is rendered on us.
The trouble is that none of us can stand up to that kind of scrutiny. None of us has clean hands. Throughout our lives, so many of our judgments are misjudgments; so many of our decisions are so deeply flawed. So often, we’re at our worst precisely when we’re trying to do our best.
But notice that the characters who come off best in the Passion narrative are not those who are beyond reproach – for, besides Jesus, there aren’t any – but rather those who accept responsibility for their actions and repent of their sins: the thief who acknowledges that he’s suffering the due reward of his deeds; the centurion who admits his complicity in a wrongful execution; the crowds who go home beating their breasts.
Our only hope lies in repentance. Yet, once we’ve put God on trial and condemned him to death, what possible hope can remain for us? For the answer to that question, come back a week from today.
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