I’ve spent some time over the years pondering the biblical notion of judgment day. As I grow older and more mature and my imagination of what such an event will involve changes, I find myself longing for a sermon I’ve never heard. It goes something like this:
We are all both victims and victimizers. We’ve done things to harm others and grieve God, and others have done unwarranted things to us that have harmed us and grieved God. When Jesus Christ returns to judge the living and the dead, as the creed says, this should be cause not just for fear and wariness over what we’ll be judged for, but also hope and relief that God will plead our cause and right the wrongs that have been done to us. He will come heal our wounds by untangling the vexing mess of how we’ve been victimized by others and perpetrated injustice ourselves. How sweet that will be.
To affirm one piece of my fundamentalist Christian upbringing, yes, I’ll think we’ll be surprised by the gravity of what we’ve done wrong. It won’t be a pleasant experience.
I remember a moment in therapy last year. My wife at my time and I had just separated. I had been exposed in the most deep and shameful way I’d ever experienced. She was unspeakably hurt by what I’d done—and understandably so. It was a toxic collision of hearts. We had triggered each other’s past wounds. There would be forgiveness, but not marital reconcilliation. We ended up getting divorced.
Even in the midst of this brokenness and undoing, however, my therapist observed something profound. He said I looked relieved, as if this big, oppressive thing had somehow come out of me, as if I’d just been dragged out into the light after years of hiding in a hole. It didn’t feel like it at the time. It hurt like fucking hell. But like the dragon Eustace in Prince Caspian, who was only able to shed his scales when cut to the core by Aslan’s claws, it turned out to be the beginning of a profound seasion of growth and movement towards health.
My own movement from this moment towards healing, however would not have been possible without what I believe is the other equally (if not more) important facet of judgment day: the naming of our own wounds and hurts inflicted by others. Seeing our sins will be shocking, but I think we’ll be even more surprised by the sweet relief of our heavenly Father and Brother tending to our wounds and binding them up. Like Matt Damon’s character in the film Good Will Hunting, I think we’ll weep in the arms of God as he whispers with a sweet, tender firmness over and over again: “It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.”
It makes me sad that can’t remember ever hearing this in church. I’ve never encountered God this way until recently. I’ve never had this kind of hope and peace that all will be well, and all manner of things will be well. For most of my life I have not felt safe naming the ways that I’ve been mistreated and victimized, because I was warned so frequently that doing so was probably a way of justifing and downplaying my own sin that I alone was responsible for.
This is a narrow truth. And a narrow truth is no truth at all.
“You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free,” Jesus said to his followers. For most of my Christian life I understood this truth primarily as theological beliefs about salvation, the divinity of Christ, and so on. But I think it encompasses something much broader, deeper, and more personal and intimate. Knowing and naming the truth about ourselves is freedom. Contrary to what I’ve long believed and heard from certain church traditions, this does not begin and end with affirming our sinfulness and having faith in penal substitutionary atonement. It begins and ends with the deep bodily and heartfelt knowledge that I am loved. It continues with naming, in the safe and secure presence of another, how I’ve been wounded and hurt, the most shameful things I’ve done, and what I mostly deeply long for.
I like how Brennan Manning put it. When we arrive at the gates of heaven, he says, Jesus is only going to have one question for us: Did you believe that I loved you? If I can begin and end with that fundamental, heartfelt conviction, then by all means bring on judgment day. Come quickly Jesus, because I know your coming only ends with healing. It has to. It must.
I find a profound biblical precedent for this at the end of the book of Revelation, where the Apostle John describes a great vision of “the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb through the middle of the street of the city; also, on either side of the river, the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, yielding its fruit each month. The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.”
A river of life watering trees for the healing of the nations. The healing of the nations! We’re talking about not just individual wrongs here, but corporate, systemic wrongs that we as individuals feel so powerless against. I see here the exposure of unjust systems, the generational trauma of disenfranchisement and war and racism brought to light and healed one person at a time, one story at a time, complete with all their perplexing nuance and complexity. The macro and micro come together in this great healing crafted ever so personally by a God who reigns over multitudes yet calls each one out by name and does not let a single person go missing, as the prophet Isaiah so marvelously says.
Interestingly, John’s revelation goes on to describe those outside the city as “everyone who loves and practices falsehood.” This is a powerful way to sum up sin. The practice of dishonesty and disingenuousness binds us—and those we’ve hurt—in our wounds, like a father who abuses his daughter and several decades later shames her for her infidelity and relational woes while touting his own stable marriage. If we are to bear the great weight of glory, we must bear the awful, healing truth about ourselves and our stories. A family, church, or society with such wounds may be able to function at a superficial level, but until those abuses are named it will not be whole. It will not be well.
In other words, I’m starting to realize that judgment day, as best I can imagine and anticpaite it, will basically be a big, intense therapy session that comes with an epic release—tears of relief and rest and longed-for healing. In this sense I think the Catholic church might be on to something with its idea of purgatory. It seems there must be some sort of process of personal growth and healing that must be undergone as we enter fully into relationship with God. I don’t imagine it as a punitive process. But it also doesn’t seem just for one person to spend decades laboring at the emotionally painful task of healing and reconciling their story and growing into their calling, while another proceeds through life in deadened ingnorance and suddenly—boom—dies of a heart attack and without any further friction immediately knows perfect love, joy, and peace. I can’t extrapolate anything from my human experience (or the the experience of Jesus, for that matter) from which that would make sense at an emotional and embodied level.
Yes, I know what the Apostle Paul says in 1 Corinthians, that we will all be changed in “a moment, in the twinkling of an eye.” That sounds instantaneous. But could it be that with the Lord one moment is as a lifetime, and a lifetime as a moment? Could it be that what we do not address and heal from in this life will be—every so tenderly and lovingly—addressed by our Father in the next? Could it be that there are no shortcuts to redemption, but that in the end we will bless God that it is so because the long, agonizing process of our healing will be the very thing that makes us strong, solid, and whole enough to bear the eternal weight of glory?
I’m still pondering these things. But I’m pondering them less with fear and more with curiosity, anticipation, and wonder. The great final healing is still a mystery, one we glimpse only dimly, as if through a mirror. Yes, I am afraid of the pain and difficulty that will come with judgment day. I feel this every time I brace myself for a difficult, conflict-filled conversation with someone. But I am also not afraid of judgment day, because I’ve tasted of the healing that’s on the other side, and I want more.