Thoughts on my fellow Memphis area pastor, Andy Savage

For the last several days I’ve been wrestling with what is appropriate for me, as a pastor in the Memphis, TN, area, to say publicly and openly about the situation involving Andy Savage, Highpoint Church, and Jules Woodson. After members in my congregation asked me about my perspective Wednesday night, I’ve come to the point where I feel compelled to offer some thoughts. 

For starters, let me deal with the log in my own eye: 20 years ago, I too was a young youth minister while finishing college, and I remember (sometimes with an accompanying facepalm) plenty of foolish mistakes and times when I sinned against those in my youth group or congregation. Throughout my adult life I’ve also faced my share of temptations toward sexual sin and other sins, and have failed in succumbing to those temptations more times than I wish were true. And, again thinking back to my late teens and early 20s, I remember times when, even as a Christian, I was inappropriately physical with women I was dating. 

Which is to say: I don’t believe that sexual sin is unforgivable, nor is the truth of sexual sin in a man’s past an automatic disqualification for ministry. And I do believe that every pastor fails his congregation, sometimes makes grievous mistakes, and sins against them. I’m certainly example #1 of all of these.

But the situation with Andy Savage is different.

I don’t know Andy personally, and frankly had never heard of him before very recently. I don’t know all of the circumstances or details of the history of what happened in Texas 20 years ago, nor do I know all of the details or circumstances about how things have unfolded in the last few weeks at Highpoint Church. I don’t profess to be an expert on sexual abuse or the abuse of power. (My brief account of events below can be supplemented easily by articles in the Kansas City Star, CBS News, and the New York Times, among others.) 

But from what I do know, I can tell you that the situation with Andy Savage is different. It’s not just a case of a pastor involved in an “unfortunate incident” that can be easily reconciled or dealt with “internally.” And it’s not just a case of past sin, even sexual sin. There’s a difference between sexual sin and predatory sin.

Andy Savage, taking advantage of his position and authority as a pastor in a church, drove a 17-year old girl under his pastoral care into the woods and sexually assaulted her. Afterward she spoke to another pastor on staff, Larry Cotton, about the assault; instead of pastoring her well and seeking justice and healing, he instructed her to keep silent about it and, by all appearances, he and the rest of the staff sought to cover it up. Andy Savage was gradually relieved of his responsibilities and allowed to leave to serve another church. Nothing to address this abuse and assault directly was ever done, as far as I can tell, until very recently. And for the most part what action has been taken is as frightening as it is disappointing. 

While Jules Woodson has had to deal with almost two decades of shame, nightmares, and PTSD from being sexually assaulted by her pastor, that pastor has been allowed to continue in a long career of ministry, eventually co-founding a megachurch, publishing several books, and hosting a radio show. And for most of those 20 years, Jules Woodson remained silent—until sharing her #MeToo testimony on a website in early January. She also posted a copy of an email she’d sent to Andy Savage in December.

Following this, Andy Savage first responded by Twitter and a statement on his blog (neither of which is available to the public any longer). I had a chance to read his statement before it was taken down, and was disappointed by the subtle gaslighting, deflection, and downplaying I read there. He referred the an “unfortunate sexual incident” that he “regretted”—with no mention of his failure to be truly accountable for his actions, or of the other pastor’s neglect to provide protection and support of Savage’s victim.

For reasons I don’t know (but I speculate that it was because it became clear to the leadership of Highpoint Church felt that the blog statement was not going to make it all go away), Andy Savage presented an “admission” to his congregation this past Sunday after a lengthy, qualifying introduction by co-pastor Chris Conlee (it was live-streamed; click here to see the “testimony” on YouTube). In it, he did not recount anything about his assault of a teenager, but claimed that “in agreement with church staff, I took every step to respond in a biblical way” and that he “accepted full responsibility for [his] actions.” He asserted that “this incident was dealt with in Texas 20 years ago” and claimed that he believed everything had been done that was needed. When he was done with his statement, the congregation rose for a standing ovation, and Chris Conlee spoke further about how grateful he and Andy were for the support of the congregation, then he prayed for Andy, the Savage family, and for Jules Woodson.

To be fair, Andy Savage’s statement on the video seems utterly sincere and he apparently demonstrates what can only described as remorse. And, giving all benefit of doubt to Savage, it may indeed be that he did everything that he was counseled to do by his fellow staff and the pastors he served under—which casts troubling light back on Larry Cotton and the others on staff, at very least. On the other hand, according to my fellow pastor Mike Sloan, outward sincerity is something that abusers can summon at will—and given the facts that Andy Savage has at various times changed his story, hidden his Twitter feed from public viewing, taken down his initial blog post, rationalized his actions and response, and blamed Jules Woodson for being complicit, this may be exactly what he is doing.

Even if he is utterly sincere and remorseful, the situation is still troubling. So what is so troubling about this? What makes this situation different?

First, Jules Woodson should have been supported, protected, loved, and encouraged by her church family—especially by the pastoral staff. She should never, ever have been made to feel that she was at fault or complicit in any way; they should have believed her, disavowed any shame on her part, and offered counseling and pastoral care. The way that she has been dealt with, then and now, is generally shameful and embarrassing for the church.

Second, let’s acknowledge plainly that, whatever happened in the moment or in the wake of Andy Savage’s sexual assault of Jules Woodson, no true justice has been sought for this. Final justice, of course, belongs to the Lord—and yet Christians are also commanded to seek justice in the world as faithful living in the Kingdom. Jules Woodson is the victim of assault, and deserved to have justice pursued on her behalf instead of what she received.

Third, this was not simply “sexual sin”—which, as a pastor, would have been similarly troubling and threatening to his ministry—but was a clear case of abuse of power and assault. In some states there are laws that categorize any sexual contact between a pastor and someone under his care as sexual assault, regardless of age or consent, because of the recognition that pastors are people in positions of authority. Add in the fact that she was still 17 and under her parents’ care and authority, and (regardless of what Texas law may stipulate about ages of consent) it was also a clear breach of ethical boundaries. Nothing about this “sexual incident” was okay or “normal” or anything like that.

Further, it raises the honest question: “Who else?” Andy Savage claims there has never been another incident like this one in his life. Let’s hope and pray that is true. But there are markers, as Mike Sloan pointed out to me, of the traits of an abuser. If that’s the case, there may be other victims as well who, like Jules Woodson, have been shamed and guilted into lonely silence. And if that is the case, it’s fair to say that those victims too have been robbed of pastoral care, mercy, and justice.

Also, Andy Savage, Larry Cotton, and the rest of their staff sinned and erred by not dealing with the situation publicly, openly, and decisively. He shouldn’t have been allowed to resign, but should have been fired. It should have been announced to the congregation that he was fired for sexual impropriety with a member of the youth group for whom he was given care. And he should have been placed under the public discipline of the church, and not simply allowed to “move home” to avoid continuing to deal with it.

Next, it appears that the leadership of both churches (though Highpoint perhaps less so) are caught up in a pattern of self-protection, more concerned about avoiding controversy than about addressing sin in a biblical way. This is evident, among other things, in casting Andy Savage as a “victim” in this whole situation alongside the true victim he assaulted. I can appreciate Chris Conlee’s attempts to be careful with how he worded things and also to speak of the need for support and healing for Jules Woodson, there were many statements that he made which made me feel like he was downplaying the reality of things and trying to separate what Andy Savage did from the fallout that it wreaked in Jules Woodson’s life. If anything (and again, giving as much benefit of doubt as possible), it almost seems like Andy Savage realizes that, then and now, there are far more consequences to his sin against her than anyone else will acknowledge—or possibly even than anyone else will allow him face. Once more I’ll reiterate that I don’t know the circumstances intimately, but I could totally believe a situation where, as a twenty-something, he wasn’t permitted to speak as freely or accept the consequences as fully as maybe even he himself felt was right.

Finally, the response of Highpoint Church as a congregation is disturbing. I’ve been in congregations where one person starts clapping and everyone else, not knowing what’s appropriate or not, just follows along. And I certainly recognize that having one of your pastors stand up and make a statement (however devoid of details) confessing to serious sin in the past would make for an awkward moment. But whatever the right response to this situation is, a standing ovation isn’t it. I know someone would say, “They weren’t applauding sin; they were applauding God’s grace which is big enough for any sin.” Still, it doesn’t feel right to me.

Where do we go from here? I’ll simply speak pastorally in a few directions.

To Jules Woodson: I am so, so sorry that you have faced all that you have. I’m sorry that someone you trusted and relied upon took advantage of that and abusively assaulted you sexually. And I’m sorry that others whom you trusted afterward betrayed you the way they did. You’ve never received the justice that your assault deserved, or the support and love that your church congregation had pledged to you. You’ve had to face two decades of pain, suffering, shame, loneliness, and false guilt because of the abuse of power and sexual violence of a pastor. My heart aches for you, and I pray that somehow you will find the true peace that Christ offers to sufferers.

To Andy Savage: I recognize that you saw the grievous nature of your sin almost immediately and owned that before Jules, and I acknowledge the remorse that I heard in your words as you spoke to Highpoint Church recently. I pray that those were truly sincere and not merely an abuser’s façade. I acknowledge that you simply may not have known what to do 20 years ago, and thus may have relied too heavily upon the counsel and guidance of men you trusted and who failed you. But your conscience, then and now, were and are telling you what was right, and you have followed the wrong path instead of heeding it. A video live-stream with a brief apology is not sufficient for the suffering your sin brought to another’s life. The apparent efforts made by you and others to minimize and cover up this sequence of sins appears manipulative, not repentant. As a fellow pastor and your brother in Christ, I would urge you to step aside from your leadership in the church, seek counseling and come to real terms with what havoc you brought into Jules Woodson’s life, and open yourself up to hearing from her directly about the pain you caused, admitting it and seeking true forgiveness.

To the leadership of the congregations involved: I appreciate that Larry Cotton has been put on leave of his current congregation in light of how he failed to act appropriately years ago. I urge Highpoint Church to take this matter at least as seriously, and not present abuse and assault as something applaudable or as an opportunity for an object lesson. Don’t downplay the severity of your pastor’s sins, or cast him as a victim in this scenario. Be willing to speak boldly and frankly about sin, even if it risks bringing controversy or makes your congregants ill-at-ease. Please, don’t protect or shelter abusers and give them the cover of the leadership dealing with matters “internally”—handle them with appropriate transparency and in accordance with the law and with the ethics that Scripture demands of treating those who are vulnerable and victimized with dignity, respect, and justice. Be bold and faithful enough to practice biblical discipline even (especially!) when it comes to the leadership of the church. 

To believers in the Memphis area and elsewhere: please, demand of your church that they treat sexual abuse and child victimization as seriously as they possibly can. Ask them if they have child protection policies in place, and if they do not then ask why. If they are dismissive or flippant about the issue, then it is likely time to find a new church. And if you need to talk through this topic and don’t feel you have someone to talk to, feel free to reach out to me—if I don’t know the answers, I can put you in touch with someone who will.

Resources that are worth your time:

GRACE (God’s Response to Abuse in the Christian Environment) ministry

FaithfulProtection.org—a turn-key guide to child protection policies and practices for the local church

Race, Racism, Culture, and Problems

In my small and relatively insignificant corner of the world, topics of race, racism, white culture, black culture, and the problems related to all of the above have been on my mind and heart heavily for the last few weeks. This has been a topic within my church (the Presbyterian Church in America), where it was the center of many conversations at our annual General Assembly last week. It has been a topic in the national news, when—as you already know, unless you’ve been out of touch with any news whatsoever—an avowed white supremacist entered an African Methodist Episcopal church in my home state and gunned down nine members of that congregation. It has been a topic within my own family for other more personal reasons. 

It’s a topic that I cannot avoid—not that I’m trying to avoid it, nor am I interested in doing so. Nevertheless, I’ve been reluctant to enter the fray regarding this topic, not least because I’ve felt that anything I may have to say about it is probably already being said much better by someone else, and on the other hand my own words about it would likely get drowned out by the many, many voices speaking up about it. 

But it is an important topic, and one that has rightly come front and center for the last year (beginning with the events and injustices in Ferguson, MO—another place and event that was close to me, as I called St. Louis home for longer than anywhere else other than my hometown. It has also been on my mind for the last year because, last summer, my family moved back to the Memphis, TN area, and as we re-acclimated to the culture here I’ve been reminded more times than I would like just how deeply Memphis and the Mississippi Delta region have been in the thick of racial tension for the last half-century and more.

As much as I’ve read about this vital issue, there are some things that I have yet to see someone articulate—or state in the way I would, from the perspective that I have—that may be worth hearing/reading. So I have set out to put a few thoughts into words and sentences, which hopefully will add to the many well-stated articles and blog posts out there as a voice of harmony: not singing the same “melody" as the rest, but also not so dissonant that it undermines the important words of others either.

(I’ve put these in “bullets” not because they are all that brief but due to the fact that the paragraphs below are related only loosely to each other.)

• The last day of General Assembly for the PCA (and particularly from about 7pm on) was incredibly moving, humbling, and, overall, a powerful and large step in the right direction. I am grateful that my denomination seems poised to take real action, from the highest levels on down, to make confession of our sins regarding racial injustice, inequality, and indifference. It is encouraging to see those who sometimes (and even frequently) disagree come together in unity to act on this. Yet I find myself wrestling with temptation to be pessimistic, and even cynical, about the possibilities of how this will play out: too many times, an action like this one (where something substantial happens at a denominational level) can serve as an excuse or even cover for local congregations that need to do much, much more than just pass resolutions to simply give a nod toward the denomination’s action and little or nothing more. I pray that the small part of me that doubts will be astounded by how wrong I am.
• Like many others, I applauded the words of one of the founding pastors of the PCA, Jim Baird, when he stood and gave assent to his own participation in racial injustice in the denomination’s early years. Like others, I recognized this publicly by posting a photo of him on Facebook and Twitter, calling his action “brave, humble, and heroic.” I stand by my claim that this was indeed a powerfully humble thing; however, after being checked by my friend Jeremy, I have reconsidered whether it was truly “heroic”—and I think now I must say that, as great a moment as that was, it fell short of true bravery and heroism. In re-reading the transcript of what was said, there were ways in which Dr. Baird hedged his words a little too much, and qualified his positions and actions too frequently. I’m certain that saying what he did took great humility and no small amount of courage, but it also strikes me as falling short of what we needed to hear from one of our remaining founding fathers: that the actions of many PCA churches were not just indifferent but aggressively (even if often passively) racist, that we need to repent of that as a denomination, and that local churches need to repent of that as congregations. Given the context—where he was in perhaps the very most favorable of all circumstances to make such a public confession—he would have had nothing to lose, and everything to gain, in making such a statement. It is impolite, I admit, to critique another man’s public confession of sin, and I apologize for that; but I feel the need to say it, as much to recant my own public statement as anything.
• There’s something to be said for giving people credit for “progress” when it comes to growth with regard to their worldview and cultural mindset, such as how they think about racism and those of other races. I’ve heard, and said myself, qualifications like, “…considering that they grew up in a racially segregated culture…” But let’s keep that in check; the American Civil Rights movement began over 60 years ago, and even the oldest generations among us have lived more than two-thirds of their lives under its influence. It’s time to stop giving a pass to people who persist in racist behavior (even—and especially—when it is more subtle and passive) just because they are old. I know a man who, in his 50s, decided to stop going by “Dick” and start self-identifying as “Richard” because he recognized that the former made some people uncomfortable. If he can change his very identity for something so relatively insignificant, who among us is unable to strive to change something that is as important as racism?
• I’ve heard and read the words of a number of people criticizing public officials for “politicizing” the shooting at Emmanuel AME Church of Charleston, SC. This doesn’t make any sense to me; isn’t this precisely what we both need and expect our civic leaders to do in a moment of local, national, and cultural crisis? It may be idealistic and even naïve of me, but I think that is actually what they are there for. Politicians are put into office to serve their constituencies, and service to them at this moment should look like a compassionate display of commitment to stand against such acts, as well as the motivations that beget such acts. Or, put another way: if circumstances like what we’ve seen this week are not the very reason for our civic leaders, then we actually have a very low view of the offices they hold (and should cease complaining when they “don’t lead” in other occasions).
• One thing that has struck me is just how deep the racist divide goes in terms of an “us vs. them” mentality, and how this affects the way people speak. At General Assembly, I heard someone say that they hoped that the African-American pastors in the PCA could/would “teach us” (my emphasis) how to relate to “them” more inclusively. I’ve read, in response to the Charleston shooting, that “we” (referring, of course, to white people) need to see this as the racially-motivated crime that it is. If true racial reconciliation is going to occur culturally—within the church and/or outside of her—then white people have to stop talking like this! “We” includes black people and white people, as well as hispanics, asians, and other ethnicities and/or races. Do I think about the fact that every time I say “we” or “us” and mean white people, I may be inadvertently setting up my black, asian, or other non-white brothers and sisters as outsiders? (I do now.)
• The shooting at Emmanuel AME was unquestionably a racist act, and as such fits the bill as a “hate crime.” It was a crime that was deeply rooted in sin and specifically in the disregard for the lives of others. Yes; AND, it’s also an act that should call us to consider how guns come into play in crimes like this. Sure, he could have used a knife, an axe, or a match—but he didn’t. (And can we agree that he probably would have been subdued without killing as many, at least, as he did, had he been using a knife or an axe?) We have sin problems in our culture, we have race problems, and we also have gun problems. Arguing that “guns are not the issue” is simply a false dichotomy and, in my opinion, willfully turning a blind eye to one of the pressing matters that also needs to be addressed, along with race and sin. Can we quit treating these as if they are simple “either-or” issues? (I say this as a gun owner, by the way.)
• It so happens that I am preaching tomorrow; I seriously considered setting aside the sermon I was planning to preach, and instead turning to Scripture to exhort the congregation about race and racism. I’m not going to, because I’m not the pastor of the congregation I’m preaching to and that is really his ministry to them, not mine. That said: if your pastor hasn’t seized upon the many cultural moments that have presented opportunity to preach about the problems of race and racism in our world, perhaps you should ask him why he hasn’t. The reconciliation of the gospel is not only about racial reconciliation (and some pastors err in seemingly trying to make it so), but it certainly does include racial reconciliation. You—and me, and all of us who sit under the preaching of God’s Word—both need and deserve to be taught and ministered to on that topic, especially when the topic is so pressing culturally.

Well, that’s all I have to say for now. Thanks, as always, to my tens of readers (if you’ve made it this far) for checking in.

How Grand Juries Work

In 2013, I was called to serve on a federal grand jury for one of the Arizona districts. This meant that I was called upon by the government to appear every other week for one year, unless circumstantially hindered, each time for a full day of hearing cases. As a consequence of my service on a grand jury, I find myself informed and understanding of circumstances related to recent events in ways that many of my family and friends are not. I thought it would be worth some time to reflect a bit on how grand juries work.

How a grand jury is formed

Grand juries are called by random selection, like normal juries. When I was called, I was one of more than 40 people who appeared; from the 40 of us, 22 jurors and 10 alternates were chosen, again at random. There were a few who were asked to serve and were dismissed because of a hardship (in one case, the woman was the primary caregiver for an aging parent and could not afford to be gone every other week) or circumstance (in another case, the potential juror worked for a law firm which sometimes represented federal cases, and it was deemed a conflict of interest). No one was dismissed because of their profession, age, gender, political views, race/ethnicity, or for any other subjective reason. 

Obviously different grand juries are constituted of different numbers of people (the grand jury in the Michael Brown shooting in Ferguson, MO was a twelve-member jury)—in my grand jury, the minimum number of jurors to constitute a quorum was 17. But grand jury members are not picked in the way that a lot of people think of juries being chosen by the attorneys, where the jurors are selected based on a hoped-for outcome.

The duties of a grand jury

Grand juries are brought cases in the form of “proposed bills of indictment”—that is, a case is made that a crime has been committed, and the evidence in support of that case is presented. Then the grand jury must decide whether a crime has, in fact, been committed, and if so then whether there is sufficient evidence to proceed to trial charging the person or persons named with the crime. If the grand jury determines that both are true of a case, then they submit a “true bill of indictment”—and if not, then they submit a declaration of “no true bill."

A grand jury may take as long as they like to determine whether or not there is a true bill; however, they are dependent, to a degree, on the prosecuting attorneys (whether they be district attorneys, state’s attorneys, or U.S. attorneys) to present the case and all of the relevant evidence pertaining to it. In other words, while a grand jury has the power to subpoena evidence or witnesses of its own accord, the members of the grand jury wouldn't know how or what to subpoena apart from the facts of the case offered to them by the prosecutors. In my experience, the extent to which the attorney was able to lay out a thorough, well-evidenced case was often the difference between whether the indictment was clear or whether it was up for debate.

Once a case has been presented, the members of the jury may deliberate about the case before voting on its outcome. They may amend the charges presented on the proposed bill and vote for the amended charges, or they can vote it up or down as-is. A majority of a certain number of jurors is required for the indictment to be voted a true bill; for the grand jury I sat on, it was a two-thirds majority of the quorum (which meant a minimum of 12 votes in favor were required). 

How a grand jury works

Before any case can come before a grand jury, the members of the jury must be instructed on the laws that govern the crimes in question. With the grand jury I served on, we saw a number of cases that were similar in nature (being southern Arizona, it may not surprise you to know that we saw a lot of immigration and smuggling-related cases), so we became pretty familiar with the laws about these kinds of crimes. But most weeks there was something new, and we would receive new instruction. The grand jury may ask questions of the attorney(s) who are instructing them, until everyone is satisfied that they understand the laws that are relevant to the proposed indictments.

Next, the case is presented. At minimum, this will involve an attorney interviewing a law enforcement officer who is familiar with the facts of the case; it may include more than one officer, other witnesses, and/or the presentation of other evidence. The grand jury may examine the evidence as much as they wish, and they may ask questions of the officers and/or witnesses. There is no judge present to preside over the proceedings; instead, a foreperson leads the jury proceedings both during the presentation of the facts of the case and in the deliberations. Once all of the facts are presented and questions asked of the witnesses, then the jury may also ask further questions about the law of the attorney(s).

Having completed the gathering of all of the information that they can, then the grand jury goes into deliberation—meaning, they will discuss, debate, and sometimes argue about whether a crime was committed or whether there is sufficient evidence that this person committed it. During this time, the attorneys and the stenographer leave the room and only jurors are allowed to be present. Deliberation may take as long as the jury needs, after which they vote. 

When all of the cases before a grand jury have been presented and voted upon, the foreperson takes all of the proposed indictments before a judge and testifies under oath about the findings of the grand jury, presenting the true bills and the no true bills accordingly.

The role of the attorneys

The attorneys play a crucial and central role in the grand jury process. Not only do they present each case and all of the facts related to it, but they are also the guides and teachers of the grand jury with regard to the law itself and what constitutes a crime under it. 

In my experience, these attorneys wield this power with great trepidation. First of all, everyone I encountered, from top to bottom, in the grand jury system exuded a sense of respect and even reverence for the importance of the grand jury process; they did not take for granted a single piece of it, even when we were on the 18th immigration case of the day (which was almost exactly like the other 17 cases). Not only so, but they regularly reminded us—the jurors—of the gravity of each case and of the process as a whole. Every case mattered, because every case was about someone and their standing before the courts.

Secondly, they were also aware that the proceedings of the grand jury would be the basis upon which any future trial would stand or fall—so they were vigilant to protect their cases from even a suggestion of mishandling. For example, if a juror asked a question about a matter that was irrelevant to the facts of the case (and perhaps could be seen as prejudicial), they would instruct the witness not to answer the question. They knew that they would be accountable for the outcome of the grand jury proceedings, and they didn’t take that lightly.

The difference between justice (according to a legal system) and ethics

All in all, my experience on a grand jury served to give me a greater appreciation for the justice system and how it works, and for how much those involved in the system took it seriously and treated it with respect. It made me trust the system more, and to feel more at ease that, insofar as our system allows, “justice" according to the law is served—even in a case like the Michael Brown shooting in Ferguson. Those members of the grand jury who have seen all of the evidence and heard all of the testimony know better than I do about whether a crime was committed.

What I also saw, and what comes to mind again tonight after the Ferguson grand jury returned “no true bill,” is that there is often a gap between “justice"—according to our judicial system—and ethics. There were times when, as a member of the grand jury, I had to vote in favor of an indictment because, according to the law, a crime had been committed; nevertheless, I was equally convinced that it was a waste of time, money, and other resources (not to mention a life-changing matter for the indictee) to prosecute the crime that was before us.

Likewise, even though I trust the system that returned no true bill against officer Darren Wilson, I cannot help but believe that his actions were unethical. And that leaves me wondering: what is broken in the whole of it all? Is it the legal and judicial system? Is it the law itself?

In the end, my theology and my instincts tell me that the problem isn’t so simple or so singular as either of those. Rather, the problem is the fallenness of humankind—so it’s me. And it’s you. But it may be more me than you—because I’m a part of white, middle-class culture that accepts privilege and ignores racial sin and can turn off the TV when we’re tired or overwhelmed or frustrated with the news about grand jury returns and the reactions to them. I haven’t spent much time in Ferguson, but I still have a part in what led to both the shooting of an unarmed teenager and the riotous reactions to it. And I need to confess that, as do all of us who are part of the corporate racial sins of our culture.

Don’t blame the grand jury. Blame me. Blame us.

Inconsistency and Justice

Thanks to the generosity of friends, Marcie and I saw the new production of Les Misérables last Tuesday night. One of the first scenes reminded me of a topic that I've been thinking through a bit lately, so I thought this was as good an opportunity as any to consider it.

In the second (or third) scene, the main character, Jean Valjean, has been paroled after spending 19 years serving time, chained to a galley ship, for stealing a loaf of bread. He finds work as a field-hand, but the foreman interrupts his labor and dismisses him early (because of his status as an ex-convict). The foreman says, "I will pay you for the work you have given" but only gives him half-pay. When Valjean protests the injustice of this shortage of pay, an argument and scuffle ensues. Toward the end, another worker comments, "why should you receive the same as an honest man like me?"

Keeping that in mind, let's jump back to a couple of weeks ago: Michael Vick, quarterback for the Philadelphia Eagles, had just signed a $100 million contract, and an acquaintance of mine was ranting on Facebook about how wrong this is/was. His point was simply this: no one who did what Vick did should be favored with such a wealthy deal.

In case you don't know, Michael Vick (at that time the quarterback for the Atlanta Falcons, and one of the presumed emerging stars of the National Football League) was arrested in 2007 for being involved in the operation of an inter-state dogfighting ring; he pleaded guilty to both state and federal charges, and was sentenced to 23 months in maximum security prison, which he served 21 months of (and was released early for good behavior at the discretion of the court).

My friend's rant was based on these facts. No dog-fighter should ever be allowed to work in the NFL again, he opined. Based on some of the comments his post received, it was clear to me that many believed he shouldn't be allowed to hold any job of substance or worth, let alone garner a lucrative contract like the one he recently signed.

Mr. Vick is Jean Valjean in our modern day. Not because his sentence didn't fit the crime— the ordinary and expected penalty for the charges Vick faced was apparently between 8 months and five years, and Vick was pretty well near the middle of that— but because, upon his release, there is no prevailing sense of justice served for his crimes.

By definition, "justice" is that a penalty is waged for a crime that is understood to be fair and right "payment" for that crime. That is, either there is an understood penalty that everyone receives for the committing of certain crimes, and that penalty is meted out; Or, there is a trusted system by which each crime is assessed and (based on the crime, as well as precedent from previous similar crimes) a penalty is assigned to it on a case-by-case basis.

When I was in seminary, Dr. Dan Doriani suggested to our class once that Exodus 22:4 is an example of perfect justice; regarding when a man steals an ox or a sheep, "If the stolen animal is found alive in his possession—whether ox or donkey or sheep—he must pay back double." Dr. Doriani explained thus: a man who has stolen a sheep to keep for himself (i.e., it is found alive) must give back what he took (one sheep) as well as forfeit from his own possession what he stood to gain (a second sheep). Perfect justice.

In our country, we have a justice system like I described above. By constitutional right, everyone who is charged with a crime is a) presumed innocent until proven guilty; b) has a right to have their case tried in court; c) has the right of the decision of their guilt or innocence determined by a panel of jurors; and d) must be believed by those jurors to be guilty beyond reasonable doubt. This is not a perfect system, and there are a lot of mistakes made (witness the release of the "Memphis Three" as perhaps only the most recent example). But it is our system, and the one both established by our constitutional government and agreed-upon by us.

But when we have a case like Michael Vick's, many of us are willing and ready to ignore that system completely. When my friend posted his Facebook tirade, I commented, "Wait a minute. He served his time, and fulfilled what justice required for his crimes. (In fact, it's generally agreed he got a harsher sentence because of his celebrity status-- to 'make an example of him'.) Now he's as innocent as you or me. If not, then justice means nothing."* I confess I wasn't too surprised when another commenter offered in response, "Yeah, I'm more an eye for an eye kind of guy."

I didn't bite (unless you count this blog post). But had I, I might have said: first, no you're not. No one is, consistently. Second, you should hope the Assistant Prosecutor trying your next traffic ticket, or the insurance adjustor assessing your next wreck, doesn't find this Facebook post of yours. And third, if this keeps up we're all in trouble.

Why the last comment? Because the erosion of trust in our justice system is a huge step on the path toward one of two likely ends: either anarchy, where no one follows any order, or a vigilante state, which eventually amounts to totalitarian rule.

We're already on the way. The manner with which our society treats sex offenders, for example, speaks to the general doubt and mistrust of our justice system. The response to the exoneration of Casey Anthony in Florida does, too. (Once again on Facebook, I lost count of how many people I knew who were convinced that their understanding of that case, by way of the coverage on Court TV, was clearly better and more objective than the jurors or actual court!) If the response to the Casey Anthony case is any measure, it looks like the United States will prefer the vigilante/totalitarian path.

Or we could start thinking and acting with greater consistency. If the length of sentencing and/or rate of recidivism of sex offenders is wrong, then there is room for changes in the system to accommodate those; the solution isn't, however, that we ignore the fundamental ideas of justice because of those. And we need to quit believing that our "armchair juror" pseudo-participation in the process counts as much as we think it does.

What is justice to you? Does it mean anything? If so, it must (by definition) mean that objectively and consistently. Otherwise, we really are in trouble.



*I was tempted to add to my comment, but refrained, something regarding the fact that, at the same time Mr. Vick was coming under fire for even being allowed back into the NFL, another prominent quarterback was facing several accusations of sexual assault; yet by and large, the media focus was on Mr. Vick's dogfighting (for which he had just completed the sentence assigned to him by the courts) instead of the under-the-table deals that were alleged to be going on to keep the other guy from having to deal with the possibility that he may be a serial-abuser of women.