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Editor’s
Note: The
Failure of Retributive Justice When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, "Peace be with you." After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, "Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you." When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, "Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained." Today's gospel story takes us back to the evening of Easter Day. The eleven remaining disciples regroup in the upper room, site of the Last Supper. They lock the doors — too many strange occurrences for one day: a missing corpse, a report from the women of a conversation with an angelic-type being at the tomb, even a rumored sighting or two of a living Jesus. These eleven rural Galileans want to be alone, and secure, in the threatening urban environment of Jerusalem. Suddenly, with opening or unlocking the doors, Jesus stands in their midst. Can you imagine how they felt? A man, their leader, whom they knew to be dead is now standing in front of them alive and well. But more than that, remember how this group of supposedly loyal followers have behaved in the last few days. One of their members (Judas) betrayed him to the authorities which led to his arrest. Another one (Peter), his closest companion, denied that he even knew Jesus to protect himself from a similar arrest. And, by the time the verdict was made, and sentencing completed, all of the named disciples had abandoned him and fled the scene entirely. Now, here he stands, living and breathing. They have all behaved shamefully. They all deserve punishment. What terrible things will Jesus do to them in return. Why had he tracked them down to this secluded spot? The locked door might be keeping out the Jewish authorities, but, in all honesty, Jewish punishments might be preferable to the vengeance — the rightful vengeance at the hand of Jesus. If anyone ever deserved punishment, it was this group of disciples. And then Jesus opens his mouth to speak. Here it comes. They are in for it now. We can feel them brace themselves for the consequences of their miserable and deplorable actions. Jesus says... "Peace be with you." ...and then he breathes on them; he passes along some of his spirit. (This is John's "Pentecost" story, the story of transferring the Spirit of Christ to the gathered community.) I have to think that this is not exactly what the disciples were expecting.
Jesus had every right to walk into that upper room and let those cowards have it with both barrels. He would have been perfectly justified exacting any sort of punishment available to him. The disciples deserved harsh and severe treatment. So why did Jesus bring an expression of peace? He did not come to the upper room to say, "Oh gosh, fellas, what you did was fine, really. No hard feelings. I can't blame you for betraying me, denying me, and abandoning me. No big deal." "Peace" does not mean that anything goes. It simply means that we will accept what has happened as having happened. In a way, the disciples' punishment is living with the knowledge of how they behaved, knowing that history can never be changed, just forgiven, or in other cases, celebrated. Jesus knew that he would have a continuing relationship with these disciples. In fact, it will be through them that the gospel is preached, shared, known, and spread. If he destroys them now, the movement has ended, and nothing has changed. If he forgives them now, they will realize that they have been given a new life, and experience that for themselves. So, "peace" he says, then transfers to them the Spirit of Christ, and finally commissions them to proclaim forgiveness of sins, rather than punishment and revenge for sins committed. Without approving of sin, and acknowledging that sin is sin, "forgiveness" enables us to continue to live with each other. It renews us. It gives us a new way of living; a new life. It changes everything. This past April, Fr. Michael Lapsley preached here at Christ Church. For those who did not meet him, let me say that he was active in the ANC (African National Congress) and while living in exile received a letter bomb from the South African government which blew off both of his hands and blew out his right eye. The bomb was intended to kill. The South African government had expected the bomb to end their relationship with him, but it failed, and so they would continue to live with each other, but on what terms?
When apartheid fell and a new government was formed, immediately cries for "justice" arose all over South Africa. Not in his sermon, but in a lecture delivered at Vassar College, Fr. Lapsley distinguished between "retributive" and "restorative" justice. "Retribution" is when someone gets what they deserve at last. "Retributive justice" is when the state gets your revenge for you. The bad guys are made to suffer for all the suffering they caused, and the rest of us (the good guys) feel both smug and superior about it. Retributive justice does not think about the future. "Restorative justice" on the other hand, needs to occur when we will continue to live with each other. Restorative justice is forgiveness and peace. It is the justice Christ brings to the upper room. Clearly in our day and time, retributive justice is favored. "Soft on crime" candidates do not get elected. More jails are being built all the time. There is an increase in state executions. Movies, TV, and novels thrive on retributive justice, especially, it seems, when it is carried out by a single, strong, determined and "right" individual. Think of Rambo. Think of characters played by John Wayne and Clint Eastwood. Think of Mel Gibson's character in a recent movie entitled "The Patriot." I realize not everyone saw the movie, so let me quickly summarize the plot. A South Carolina farmer watches as two of his sons are shot by a heartless British colonel. He is so enraged that we see him defeat just about the entire army of General Cornwallis all by himself. He becomes, in fact, as brutal and heartless as the colonel who killed his sons. But it doesn't matter because (1) if he is victorious in battle the British will be sent packing back to England and he'll never have to deal with them again, and (2) his brutality is "righteous and just." Oddly enough, in the movie, General Cornwallis understands restorative justice. In one scene, while reprimanding the colonel for his brutal and uncivilized tactics, he explains that, "when this war is over and the colonies are subdued, these ‘rebels’ will once again become British citizens and we will engage them in commerce." Cornwallis considers the future. One of the problems with glorifying retributive justice in the movies is that movies end — life, meanwhile, goes on. An enemy once defeated suddenly becomes a "neighbor."
The apartheid government of South Africa deserved to be punished. The mistreated, abused, and exploited black and "colored" population would have been perfectly justified to drive through white neighborhoods in pickup trucks with AK-47 gunners in the back blasting away at anyone who moved. Perfectly justified - but nothing would have changed. One abuse would have been exchanged for another, and their future would resemble their past. Retribution never brings peace. It only brings revenge by the victim's family or friends, who in turn become new targets of perfectly justifiable retribution, and the cycle continues forever. If you don't think that it continues forever, read the latest installment in today's paper of the 4,000 year-old saga entitled "Middle Eastern Retribution." I haven't even seen the paper yet today, but I guarantee it’s in there. Michael Lapsley and other saints in South Africa have breathed in deeply the Spirit of Christ. What they seek is peace, and they know the only path to it is by taking the painful steps of "truth" and "forgiveness." This kind of justice restores community. It rebuilds and reconstructs community in a new way. It changes things. It makes neighbors out of enemies. The community is given a new life, we might say a "resurrected" life. I don't think I can ever us the word "justice" again without specifying which kind of justice I am referring to: retributive, or restorative. I have Michael Lapsley to thank for that. Which brings me to my final point, spawned by Michael Lapsley's sharp criticism of the United States for allowing the death penalty as a legal structure in some states. The death penalty brings no peace. A week from tomorrow Timothy McVeigh is scheduled to die at a federal prison in the State of Indiana. This act of retributive justice, like all acts of retributive justice, will bring no peace. Timothy McVeigh's friends, supporters and wannabees will gain strength and encouragement at the martyrdom of their hero. They will be even more convinced in the rightness of the beliefs and their cause — that the U.S. government is Big Brother who will destroy anyone and anything that gets in its way. And I predict, and I fear, that the death of Timothy McVeigh will be violently avenged.
Now, some would say that the death penalty is a deterrent to violent crime. But I say we've been executing people for the last thirty years, so if it served as an effective deterrent there should be no violent crime left. What advocates of the death penalty don't realize is that people with strong beliefs are not deterred by the threat of death. Timothy McVeigh is not afraid of dying for what he believes in. He is no different from a soldier going into battle. He is no different from a Christian martyr refusing to renounce the Christ. When we believe in something at the deepest core of our being, death in no deterrent. If it were, there would be no Christian church today. "The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church." People throughout history have willingly faced death for a cause greater than themselves. Death only deters those who do not truly believe, or those who harbor serious doubts. In my opinion, those who advocate in favor of the death penalty as a deterrent carry the same lack of belief and level of doubt. What then do we do with Timothy McVeigh? We are followers of the Christ. We look to him for an example. Like the risen Christ confronting his disloyal disciples in the upper room, we speak peace as truth. We do not pretend that a horrible crime has not been committed. But considering the future, which will include Mr. McVeigh, or McVeigh lookalikes, we breathe on him. Timothy McVeigh probably deserves to die. But I have to wonder (given the fact that we are expecting to have a future) if execution is our best option. Execution seems to be just plain old good common sense. But the gospel, at times, calls us to an uncommon sense. Could that happen? Could Timothy McVeigh receive the Spirit of Christ? Could his life be changed? Renewed? Resurrected? Is the Easter moment available to him? This monster? This cruel and brutal killer of innocent children? What if he did? What if McVeigh confessed, repented, and turned his life around? What if he spoke to his disciples and followers that terrorism and arbitrary violence is not the path to peace, not the way to reform, not a method which is effective in their cause? Isn't it worth a try? If that could happen, everything would change. This part of the world, our part of the world, would become an entirely different place. South Africa is doing it. The process has not been easy. There has been enormous pain unleashed. Some have strayed and resorted to retribution on their own. But the leadership remains clear and for the most part the process is unfolding, and South Africa is being resurrected. It is becoming a new place. That could happen here. It could happen to us. It comes from breathing deeply the Sprit of Christ. Would that all of God's people were prophets — even Timothy McVeigh — and that the Lord would put his Spirit on them! Amen.
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Michael
Phillips is rector of Christ Episcopal Church in Poughkeepsie, New York.
Within the Episcopal Diocese of New York he chairs the Mid-Hudson Region
Latino Ministry Committtee and serves on the advisory board of Episcopal
Charities. Michael is married to Sarah Easton, who like him is a graduate
of the Church Divinity School of the Pacific, and together they have two
children, Michael and Gracie. He can be emailed at