I am sharing a sketch I wrote a few weeks back, one that is very close to my heart. At times, I have found myself stuck in figurative “court room.” Along with the enemy’s condemnation, I have condemned myself and rejected grace. At another’s wise suggestion, I have outlined what my “thought-based” court room would look like–and reconstructed what it should look like. There is only one who has the final say–and He has already rested our case.
Court day. I look around, but I seem to be the only one in the room. The judge’s seat is empty, my attorney is nonexistent, and the prosecutor is late. Slowly, I wander over to the judge’s seat. I sink into the lofty seat; after all, the place has to be filled. Here I can make my final ruling.
Now, if only I had a good defender. Well, since I am the judge, why can’t I also be my own attorney? There. A defendant, an attorney, and the judge. Now, where is the prosecutor? Pondering my roles in court led me to the conclusion that I would also make a good prosecutor. Besides, I know the case well.
As I stand from my judge’s seat, suddenly, the door swings open. A dark figure takes his seat as a prosecutor. Finally. All is set; the proceedings can begin.
I run over to the defendant’s seat, but before a word can leave my mouth, the prosecutor rises, his eyes searing into my soul. All at once, the room is filled with accusations. I had no time to call for order; besides, I was the other protector. I knew in my heart all the claims were true. So, I take his side and begin hurling insults. Curiously enough, he sat down with an eerie smile, pleased that I had taken my stand.
Once my energy was expended, I slink over to the judge’s seat. Frantically, I looked to my left; no jury. The case is closed; my fate is sealed. As I choke down sobs, a shining figure appears in the back of the room. My prosecutor flees from the court and in confusion, I look at the newcomer.
His face is scarred and blood drips from his temples. As the brightness fades, and I see the holes in his hands and side. I try to meet his gaze, but his eyes, his eyes are a mystery to me. His being, so haunted, yet his eyes hold such care. He sees; I know he sees. He sees me, just as I am, my loveless careless heart. I hide my face to cover my tears.
He makes his way over to the prosecutor’s seat. Still in a daze, I lift my feeble voice, “The case is closed.” He meets my eyes, but this time, will not let my gaze drift. In a calm, yet firm manner, he commands me to step down from the judge’s seat; the rebuke startled me, yet I sink once more into the defendant’s seat.
As he rose, my heart pulsed louder and every part of me longed for him to leave; yet, I could form no words. He looked at me and pronounced, “Daughter, lift your head and look at my wounds.” Stunned, I slowly looked up and my hear is overwhelmed. Why, I ask, as tears flow down my cheeks.
He moves closer, and soon, I feel his gentle hand upon my shoulder. “For you, my daughter. For you. Why do you reject me, and reopen a case already closed?”
Amid my tears, I look up at the empty seat and reply, “But the judge…?” Suddenly, glory filled the court. The figure beside me held me close until I crumbled to the floor in remembrance; yes, I am free. I am free. Amen.