Justice, but on Whose Terms?

THIS SUMMER, THE Biden administration issued an executive order imposing harsh limits on those seeking asylum at the U.S.-Mexico border and intensified deportations of those who no longer qualify to stay in the U.S. In the ensuing debate, many have argued that the new limits violate U.S. laws and treaty obligations. There is genuine outrage about the immorality of denying refuge to those seeking protection on our soil — an act that ignores the role the U.S. has played in fomenting political crises in many of the originating nations. Biden’s immigration policies have been fairly humane; this new policy is disappointing.

Immigration and refugee crises are always subject to becoming weaponized, and they are thus issues of vulnerability for politicians. The former administration demonized immigrants and imposed extremely harsh family separation policies. Refugees and asylum seekers become collateral damage in political partisanship — but these are real families fleeing real threats. Justice should serve the powerless, not the powerful, however well-intentioned the powerful may be. In summer 2013, Congress nearly passed a bipartisan comprehensive immigration reform bill. At the last moment, far-right members of the House of Representatives scuttled years of work. A successful bill would have made immigration far less of a political football and provided immigrants a more stable path to citizenship. Justice should be executed based on the hopes and existential needs of those adversely impacted by unjust structures and policies — both past and present.

October 6

Beyond the Legal

Genesis 2:18-24; Psalm 8; Hebrews 1:1-4, 2:5-12; Mark 10:2-16

MOST OF US have met people who ask questions to which they already know the answers. Mark (10:2) depicts the Pharisees asking Jesus, “Is it lawful for a man to divorce his wife?” They already knew that it was lawful. The first-century divorce process characteristically differed from the modern process, but the Greek word éxesti (“legal” or “lawful”) refers to what was permitted under the law. The Pharisees’ question considers legality of the process but not the plight of women impacted by it. The verb apolyō (“divorce”) has a range of meanings, but in the context of this conversation, it describes sending the woman away in ways that undermined her interests. The Pharisees knew how harmful the process was to the woman and hence the question of whether it was legal. It was indeed legal, but they should have asked if it was moral for a man to exercise such power over a woman. In another Markan story (12:13-17), the Pharisees and Herodians ask if it is lawful to pay taxes to Caesar. Of course, it was legal and — to avoid death — absolutely required, but whether it was moral and theologically just is another matter.

Laws are fundamental to building social trust and protecting the rights of individuals. However, laws must be responsive to change. To build on philosopher Immanuel Kant’s wisdom, what is legal is not always morally sound or just. Laws are often written by and for the powerful. A legal system can be weaponized against those with little power. This dissonance between the legal and the moral exists in our legal system today. It is “legal” to hold thousands of immigrants and refugees in inhumane detention facilities — though it is deeply immoral. Many states “legally” deny women reproductive health care, without acknowledging the moral obligation to each woman and family’s human dignity. Sometimes, a narrow focus on the law undermines our ability to address important moral dimensions in our society. As we approach national elections, Christians can help parse the difference between legal and moral. We can insist that our politicians uphold high moral standards and exercise wisdom when making or enforcing laws.

October 13

Raise the Bar

Amos 5:6-7, 10-15; Psalm 90:12-17; Hebrews 4:12-16; Mark 10:17-31

SEVERAL YEARS AGO, I attended an anti-racism workshop. Many of the white participants called attention to some egregious acts of racism in the U.S. They criticized police brutality against African Americans, denial of housing loans to minorities, and discrimination in the criminal justice system. These Christians were implicitly asserting that they would never engage in or tolerate such blatant acts of racism. But then the conversation shifted toward the issue of reparations. There was an awkward and uncomfortable silence, as if to say: “Who can meet such a high bar?”

The privileged man in Mark 10:17 seems well-intentioned. He wants to earn eternal life by doing the right thing. He’s eager to show Jesus that he’s virtuous, has fulfilled the commandments, and has led a just life. “Not so fast,” Jesus responds. As Jesus lists some of the commandments, he warns against “defrauding” (verse 19) and uses the Greek verb apostereō, a word that connotes depriving others of something significant. The rich man may not have tricked people out of their money, but by hoarding wealth, he defrauded others of the most basic things in life. Accordingly, Jesus asks him to raise the bar: “Sell what you have, and give to the poor” (verse 21). Put your money where your theology is. The bar is too high for this privileged young man, who quietly walks away. He might have been amenable to making some donations, but he wasn’t ready for the deep structural conversion Jesus suggests.

Virtue-signaling is not a Christian attribute; embedding virtues of humility and self-sacrifice into the core of our lives is. Justice, in the biblical tradition, is determined by God, not by power elites. Laws are to limit the excesses of the strong and protect the rights of the weak. When the bar gets raised on what is needed to create justice, Jesus invites the privileged to act courageously, even when it hurts our self-interest.

October 20

Complex Narratives

Isaiah 53:4-12; Psalm 91:9-16; Hebrews 5:1-10; Mark 10:35-45

BARBARA KINGSOLVER'S NOVEL The Poisonwood Bible employs five distinct voices in an engaging manner to weave a family’s difficult story into a complex broader one of mission and colonialism in Congo. In the hands of a skillful writer, this can be done effectively. As we read Psalm 91 this week, let’s pay attention to its narrative structure, the different voices it employs, and how structure and voice engage each other. Hebrew Bible scholar Patrick D. Miller notes that sections of Psalm 91 are narrated in two distinct voices: the voice of the priest (verses 9-13) and the divine voice (verses 14-16). In the first part, the priest’s voice addresses the supplicant in a time of extreme danger and heightens expectation of divine intervention. “If you say, ‘The Lord is my refuge’ ... no harm will overtake you” (verse 9-10). The priest presents God as a reliable refuge and assures the individual of divine protection. Then God’s voice responds, addressing the supplicant directly: “Because [you] love me,” says the Lord, “I will rescue [you].” God’s care, nurture, and protection of the individual stand out as defining features of this psalm. A seamless transition occurs between the two parts and voices. It is as if God is eavesdropping on the priest and the supplicant, and then decides to chime in. The voices reveal a relationship defined by intimacy, absolute trust, and mutuality rather than by servitude. This beautiful psalm showcases divine power in service to a vulnerable individual.

October 27

More Than Bread

Jeremiah 31:7-9; Psalm 126; Hebrews 7:23-28; Mark 10:46-52

WHO IN THEIR right mind would throw away a prized possession? In Mark’s gospel, Bartimaeus, the “blind beggar,” did exactly that when he cast aside his cloak to run toward Jesus (10:50). William Blake’s 1799 painting “Christ Giving Sight to Bartimaeus” captures this fascinating detail. Both the Markan account and Blake suggest that Bartimaeus saw the possibility of a new life with Jesus and opened himself up to it by symbolically throwing away his cloak. He saw his new life before he regained his physical sight.

As a “blind beggar,” Bartimaeus was doubly marginalized. He is one of the very few in the gospels to acknowledge Jesus as son of David; he later calls Jesus “rabboni.” Ironically, Bartimaeus sees Jesus in ways most others do not. In turn, Jesus acknowledges him and invites him on the Way. In Blake’s religious imagination, Jesus stretches out his hand in a gesture of friendship, not yet in healing. Jesus asks, “What do you want me to do for you?” Jesus does not presume to know the answer. He doesn’t assume that Bartimaeus wants charity or even healing. Jesus opens the space for Bartimaeus to decide for himself. As it turns out, this “beggar” can be a chooser. Jesus treats him as a partner in the process rather than an object of compassion. The “beggar” does not ask for alms but rather the ability to see again. Bartimaeus does not want just a slice of bread to fill his belly. He’s looking for something much more profound. Jesus shows that when we have the power to make a difference in others’ lives, we should not drive the agenda, however well-intentioned we might be. Jesus models letting the one with the need decide what they want. Only Bartimaeus knew what was best for Bartimaeus.