Judge Eternal

A Sermon by Revd Dr Sam Wells

There’s an improvisation game that actors play, called Headteacher, which goes like this. The teacher arrives late carrying the register and a pair of glasses. He starts to quieten down the class, but when he puts his glasses on he sees not a class but the school governors. He rapidly heads to the door, but the door sticks and he struggles to open it. Eventually he escapes, but re-enters the room a short while later, taking it to be the staff room. He says ‘You’ll never guess what happened. I thought I was in front of a class but the rooms must have been changed and it turned out I was sitting in front of all those governors we all hate.’ Then he puts on his glasses and is horrified to find it’s not the staff room – he’s surrounded by the governors again. Consumed by horror, he screams, again struggles to get out of the door, and runs off stage. A little later enters the room yet again, this time taking it to be a psychiatrist’s office, but yet again when he puts on his glasses he finds himself in front of the governors. Next time he thinks he’s in front of St Peter at the pearly gates but again it’s the governors. The game continues until the actor is a crumbling wreck. (Keith Johnstone, Impro: Improvisation and the Theatre London: Routledge 1981) 48-9.

That game more or less sums up our fears about judgement. Most people carry a secret; some people have several. Sometimes those secrets begin to come out. Other times things we wish could be kept secret are there for all to see, and we have no way to hush them up. Then all our fears come true. We face the scrutiny of unsympathetic eyes perusing the worst side of our character, inevitably drawing the wrong conclusions or imputing the worst interpretations. We anticipate rejection, as those we scarcely know dismiss us as failed, feckless, foolish or embarrassing, and those we do know question the regard they once had for us. We brace ourselves for shame and humiliation, as we transition between doing something wrong and being something wrong, and wonder whether there will ever again be a time when we are not branded as damaged, unworthy, broken or despicable. In an age of social media these judgements are instant and universal. Something comes to light: a chorus of condemnation rises up like huge wave about to crash or rears high like a cobra about to strike. Social media turns everyone from an engaged participant to an opinionated observer, and the axe of denunciation falls before the balm of compassion can intervene.

After this sequence of scrutiny, exposure, shame, humiliation and rejection comes, like lightning after thunder, the prospect of punishment. Punishment means loss, cost, a cloud of gloom glowering like a mobile prison that skulks around with you wherever you go. And a dread lies behind punishment: permanent retribution, that sense of savage amputation or perpetual banishment that threatens a future forever mutilated or inhibited by this unforgiving past.

When we think of the Last Judgement it’s hard not to get in touch with this lurid exposure of secrets, ghastly disclosure of doleful deeds, and the almost gleeful dissection of honour and reputation. But an even deeper fear attaches to the prospect of eternal punishment. In Michaelangelo’s fresco at the east end of the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican, we see punishment as sudden, desperate, horrifying and agonising. The damned are despatched downstairs with Christ looking furious and unrelenting. It’s a grim spectacle, designed to make the viewer ponder deeply whether it might be wiser to live a life without secrets that offers more hope of avoiding perpetual regret. But for almost everyone beholding the warning, there must be a lingering fear that it’s already too late.

For all these reasons the traditional depiction of the Last Judgement seems like a ghoulish horror show, more resonant with Hallowe’en than the earthly ministry of Jesus. But for all this tradition of terror and deep psychology of trepidation, I believe it’s still important for us to contemplate judgement as an integral part of what it means to have faith, however uncomfortable it may make us feel.

If we look at judgement in a simply human realm, we quickly see how crucial it is that a body exist, that has the trust and respect of all parties, and a fair and transparent process be developed, by which disputes can be adjudicated and a conclusion reached, whereupon the ruling can be appropriately enforced and the case closed. The scriptural stories we’ve read tonight are all accounts that emerge in a context where none of these crucial criteria apply. The story from Genesis is a notorious instance of collective punishment. In the absence of any due process, it’s down to Abraham to bargain for the survival of the innocent. In the story from Numbers, Miriam gets a sudden, savage and merciless, if time-limited, punishment for a quite reasonable question about the rules and conduct of the community. In the more celebrated Matthew parable, both the righteous and the unrighteous are in complete ignorance about the grounds on which the judgement is made. And in the Acts of the Apostles Herod Agrippa is struck down and killed simply for not giving God the glory. In these stories there is no court of appeal, tariff of appropriate punishments, or consistent logic at work: it’s a scary world in which arbitrary vengeance can be sudden and permanent.

Without these four elements – a universally respected body, a fair, independent and transparent process, an appropriate system of enforcement, and a genuine guarantee of closure – judgement parts company with justice, and punishment turns into a display of power. Miscarriages of justice can still occur, but if the four elements are in place then these miscarriages are unusual, exceptional, and troubling – and thus more likely to be rectified. We could even go so far as to say that when our dark secrets are revealed, and we are truly held to account for our misdemeanours, we are the better people for it, more able to live in honesty and truth, more able to be humble and forgiving – provided, that is, that we haven’t been mutilated by shame and humiliated by condemnation.

With this in mind let’s return to the notion of the Last Judgement, to establish why it’s a genuine part of the gospel and truly good news. Consider these words from Isaiah 11, which we often read at Christmas carol services: ‘He shall not judge by what his eyes see, or decide by what his ears hear; but with righteousness he shall judge the poor, and decide with equity for the meek of the earth.’ The first half of that prophecy is easy enough to understand: it means the judge will not rely on first impressions but will take evidence and discern wisely. But what of the second half: ‘with righteousness he shall judge the poor.’ Doesn’t that sound like punishing the poor for being poor?

Not if you carefully re-examine what the word judgement really means in this context. ‘Judgement’ doesn’t mean ‘arbitrary and humiliating decision by the powerful and unforgiving.’ It means vindication and rectification. To do justice does not mean to decide who is to be rewarded and who punished, and to enjoy dishing out the praise and blame. It means restoring to dignity and establishing equity. It entails taking away all that hinders flourishing and hampers healthy living. The Last Judgement will be the moment when the unequal society of earth will finally be measured against the true sociality and relationality of the Holy Trinity and its shortcomings put to rights. Everything evil will be excised from the earth and all will finally be redeemed. So the words, ‘with righteousness he shall judge the poor, and decide with equity for the meek of the earth’ mean ‘those that have been downtrodden in this world will be upheld and the earth will come to inhabit the perfect relationship of the persons of the Trinity.’

After the final judgement, death and sin will be no more. Jesus’ resurrection shows us the way that death will be finally undone; and sin, which brought about Christ’s crucifixion, is dismantled also, with the result that human beings can no longer sin. This isn’t a reduction of our freedom, but an expansion of it; for what currently limits our capability is not our mortality and finitude, but the fact that every endeavour is scarred, circumscribed or poisoned by sin. We shall be set free to love: for what inhibits love in this world is precisely the sin and death that will be gone from the next.

This vision of the Last Judgement transforms it from a day of dread and cruelty to a moment of fulfilment and glory. It renders all human distinctions irrelevant besides one. No longer does it matter who is rich or poor, white or black, male or female: the only distinction that matters is between those who are longing for this transformation and those who are desperately clinging on to the inequalities and injustices of this world and dreading the alternative. This in the end is the only question that matters: are we among those who long for the day of judgement, when vindication and rectification happen – or are we resisting its coming with all our strength? If judgement is fundamentally about empowerment and liberation, then we shouldn’t be dwelling in introspection, brooding over our mistakes and failures, but should be celebrating the coming kingdom in joyful anticipation.

And that leaves us with a simple, but perhaps uncomfortable question, this Advent Sunday. Our lives display what we believe about the Last Judgement. We spend our lives today with those with whom we anticipate spending eternity. Who are we spending our time with? Are we spending our time with the downtrodden, the oppressed, and those who long for the Last Judgement? Or with those who doing the treading and the oppressing, who are dreading that Last Day? Those in the parable of Matthew 25 said, ‘We had no idea. We hadn’t been warned.’ But we do have the idea made clear, and we certainly have been warned. Judgement will not be arbitrary: the face we have seen on the cross will be the face we see on the throne: a face scarred through struggle, compassionate to the last, utterly poured out in love for others. On the last day this is what God will want to know: does our face look the same?