The Judge
“The hairs of his head were white, like white wool, like snow. His eyes were like a flame of fire, his feet were like burnished bronze, refined in a furnace, and his voice was like the roar of many waters.”
Revelation 1:14-15
The accuser sat down and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and shooting you a smug look from across the aisle. A hush had fallen over the gallery, long before he’d finished making his case. The weight of the charges hung upon the room, a threatening suspense, as if the air itself was burdened by the guillotine’s blade. There’d never been such a thorough and compelling prosecution in the history of the court. The adversary knew it, the observers knew it, you knew it. More than anyone, the judge knew it.
The arbiter turned to you with an inscrutable expression. Not because he was difficult to read–he wasn’t the kind of judge who hid his opinions behind a curtain of aloof stoicism. Rather, his look was perplexing because it was an ensemble of extremities. The more you stared, the less it looked like an expression and the more it looked like a renaissance painting, or rather like it was turning the room around it into one. The awesome spectacle of unadulterated and righteous wrath was radiating from his face like a firestorm. Here was a look that really could kill; you saw red hot flames falling from heaven, consuming mighty cities in a moment. Meteorites streaked across a bloodied sky, fragmenting into orange and white sparks. Swirling within this inferno, mingling with it yet never abating, was another storm. Hurricane Mercy, throwing strongholds into the ocean, prostrating ship masts with the strength of its winds, showering your cheeks with the spray of seawater—or were those tears? There were floodwaters lifting houses like vessels and carrying them far from the coast, only to be thrown back against the shore by towering tsunamis. So went that storm Mercy, the unabashed tempest that indefinitely postpones every market and masquerade, the mercy that supplants pleasantries and delicacies and leaves only the necessity of an immediate response.
Flashes of red and blue, circling each other, waltzing around the courtroom in an epic dance. Where they coalesced was the deepest purple, a kingly purple, the violent violet of a union you could not fathom. It was a preposterous expression, as Shakespeare is preposterous to a canary. It was confounding, all at once slamming the door on any hope you’d get off easy and cracking open another door down a hall so bright that your eyes hadn’t adjusted to see what was there yet. Waves of imperial purple were washing over the room, upon everyone who was looking at the judgement seat. In the gallery someone kept repeating the word holy— wait, everyone was saying it. An impromptu chorus had begun, and you noticed even the prosecutor, though his eyes were downcast and he was sunk deep down into his chair, had not been able to restrain himself from echoing the praises.
After some time (it was difficult to discern how much time, given that it felt like both 5 minutes and 5 billion years all at once) the judge rapped his gavel and restored order. The floodgates slammed shut in obedience, although it was clear that the torrent of majesty still threatened to spill over the top of the dam at any moment. Only the will of the judge himself could restrain the eminent glory, and this he did for now in order that the business at hand might proceed without further delay. Turning to you, he spoke.
“You’ve heard the prosecution. What do you have to say?”
If his expression was like fire and storm, his voice was like the sun. Suddenly all the excuses you had been concocting, the justifications and misdirections, seemed to evaporate before his nuclear tenor. Occasionally part of a response would condense, only to sizzle out of existence even quicker than it formed. You were acutely aware that, even if you could bring yourself to say something, it wouldn’t be of much persuasive use. What could you say to this man that he hadn’t heard before? What could you offer that would be both helpful to your cause and sufficiently vindicating?
Another eternity was passing. This one was a different kind of forever than the one before, the kind that’s definitely closer to 5 minutes. You remember it now as the final gasps of a dying man.
You stole one more glance at the face of the judge. You saw the same royal violet, and hastily averted your gaze. You didn’t need to, though, for your vision was obscured through eyes already heavy with tears. To your knees you fell, hard enough to scrape them on the well-worn mahogany floors. At last you managed a word.
“Please” you croaked. You couldn’t manage to say more. No matter. Surely if all your life was laid bare before the judge, it must be a trifle for him to read the apologetic volumes swimming beneath that syllable. So you left it at that and wept there before him, on your knees, empty hands lifted up to the judgment seat, your body heaving and shaking as you sobbed. The courtroom echoed with your coughs and sniffles, bouncing off mahogany boards and gold ornamentations. You’d normally be embarrassed for such a pitiful appearance, but there was no space for shame or self-conscious restraint in a head so filled with dread, a heart so hungry for pardon.
The crack of the gavel gave you a start, and the blood fled from your still downcast face. You heard the word “guilty” confirm what the population of the court found unanimously obvious, followed by the chuckle of the prosecutor and the shuffle of his files as he consolidated the many documents of your lengthy rap sheet. Then a sound you didn’t expect: the creak of the swinging wooden half door upon its hinges, the one that leads to the seat of justice. And another curiosity: the gentle thud of a robe falling to the floor.
And at last, the final sound, the fateful words. Words too sweet to be possible, far too good to have been uttered. The royal purple broke the dam at the sound of the words of the judge, and cries of glory erupted from the gallery. Dumbfounded, your brain was already hard at work reimagining— surely you misheard this good man, for the phrase you thought you heard was simply too incredible to be realistic.
You looked up. Your heart leapt for its new Lord, imitating fetal John in the womb of Elizabeth. The whole court was stamping and clapping and shouting in ecstatic revelry. Yet the voice, that nuclear voice, and once more those words, the words that ring in your heart to this day, the words that still seem far too good for a wretch like you, and there was no sound in all of creation that could prevail over this declaration.
“I will take your place”.
