Judgment
Stories
Object:
Contents
"Judgment" by Craig Kelly
"Into Perspective" by Peter Andrew Smith
* * * * * * * *
Judgment
Craig Kelly
1 Corinthians 4:1-5
They say you never get a second chance at a first impression.
Those are probably the truest words I've ever heard.
The next truest words I've heard are, "We find you did not commit the crime of which you were convicted."
Too bad it was five years too late.
For a time, I thought I was agoraphobic, because I never wanted to leave my small, dingy apartment. It was not so much that I liked it there -- I wasn't crazy about having a rat for a roommate -- but I was so afraid of what waited for me outside the door. The looks of contempt, the shudders that they thought I couldn't see, the remarks they thought I couldn't hear... I hated it all.
Whenever I opened the door to go outside, the hallway would quickly empty for me, followed by a series of slammed doors. I'm sure that behind those closed doors, the other tenants made yet another call to the manager, wanting to know why I was allowed to live in the same apartment building as they were. If there happened to be a straggler left in the hall, perhaps fumbling for their keys while holding a bag of groceries, I was met with an icy, steely gaze, monitoring my every step, lest they get distracted and I do something horrible to them. If, heaven forbid, they had a child with them, they huddled them close, holding them with an iron grip, the look in their eyes a mixture of concern and revulsion. I could tell that a lot of them clenched their teeth, ready for anything, like a mother lion protecting her cubs. I suppose, if I was in their place, I would react the same way. They were just doing what they were supposed to do: protecting their children.
Today, I decided to brave the front door once again. I needed to go for a run, a walk, a stroll... anything that would clear my head and give me a moment's escape from my life. As I walked down to the front entry door of the apartment building, however, I was reminded again of reality. On the bulletin board next to the door was that same blasted sheriff's notice, complete with my picture. In bold letters on the top of the page was my life reduced to three words: "REGISTERED SEX OFFENDER." It had been over three months since my conviction was overturned, and that notice was still there. I may have been exonerated in the court of law, but the court of public opinion still condemned me. I could scream from the top of this building that I was innocent, but I know it wouldn't have done any good. Once a "predator," always a predator.
My curse in life was that I was the same height and build of whoever had raped an eight-year-old girl ten years ago. My second curse was that I just happened to be walking in the same part of town where the rape occurred that same night. My third curse was that I was the one ID'ed by three witnesses who were on that street that night. They weren't able to get a good DNA sample from the crime scene that night, and add three witnesses and I was out. The more I protested my innocence, the more the jury was convinced of my guilt.
So after being whisked away to prison, I served three years of a ten-year sentence, being paroled on account of good behavior and with the condition of registering as a sex offender. So instead of the prison inside, I was condemned to the prison outside. Very few places want to hire a sex offender, and I wasn't exactly welcome at social gatherings, either. It wasn't until two years later that I was finally exonerated, thanks to help from Project Innocence.
I sighed heavily as I pushed open the door and made my way out onto the sidewalk. Once I got walking, slowly accelerating into a jog, I felt a small measure of peace. It was just me, no judges, no juries, no sheriff's postings... just me and my thoughts.
I jogged my way down to the local park where I could enjoy nature for a while. However, my life seemed to follow me today. I could see people looking at me as I was running, trying nonchalantly to cross to the other side of the street, creating as much distance as possible between them and me. Thanks to my botched conviction, I had become a leper, a pariah, an outcast. It was as if I had some deadly plague that people would catch if they got too close. It was as if I was an exile while still at home.
I needed to catch my breath, so I made my way to a park bench along the walking path to sit for a few minutes. I just kept my eyes down, gazing at my Reeboks. If I can't see them, they can't see me, right? They wanted to leave me alone; that was fine with me.
I had just started breathing normally again when I noticed some movement off to my right. Without thinking, I looked up, and looking back at me was a small boy, probably no more than five years old. His face was covered in freckles, and I could see the tips of fire red hair making their appearance from underneath his Cincinnati Reds baseball cap. Coupled with a black UC Bearcats T-shirt, it made a nice ensemble for the young sports enthusiast.
The young fan didn't say anything. He just kept looking at me while the stick from a lollipop kept working its way from one side of his mouth to the other. For the first time in a long time, I didn't see judgment or condemnation in his eyes. Just curiosity. He just kept studying me, as if I were a painting in a museum or a strain of bacteria under a microscope.
Wow. To just be looked at as another person, not viewed with contempt as a monster. It was an amazing feeling. I found myself smiling in spite of everything. In fact, I think a chuckle may have escaped my lips.
However, like all respites, this one was gone too soon.
"JOEY! JOEY!"
Farther up the walking path, I saw a woman sprinting in desperation toward my observer. In her eyes was a look of utter horror. I could tell what that look meant. The monster was too close to her baby.
"COME HERE! COME HERE! NOW!"
The boy turned around to see his frantic mother running toward him. He turned back to take one last look at me, and without a word, he turned around and walked calmly toward his mother, a sea of tranquility compared to her storm of anxiety.
She quickly crouched down and pulled her son tightly to her chest, looking at me with that familiar combination of relief and contempt, as if I'd been two seconds away from dismembering her child and she had arrived just in the nick of time. My smile gone, I quickly averted my eyes and started staring at my Reeboks again. My oasis of human interaction had evaporated back into a desert of isolation.
As they walked away, I could hear the mother starting to scold her son: "How many times have I told you not to...."
I didn't understand it. Was I wearing a sandwich board that said, "Sexual Predator" on it? Had the Sheriff's Department sent my picture to everyone in the city? What was it about me that said, "Keep away"?
As I rose to resume my run, I noticed a community bulletin board farther up the walkway. As I approached it, I found out why that mother was so frantic.
Another sex offender notification, with my face on it.
Even out here, I had no escape from my fate. Here I was, an innocent man, cleared of any wrongdoing, given a second chance at a normal life, and yet I could not escape from this label, from this stigma.
Even now, I'm still standing here looking at it. It's probably been at least five or ten minutes since I first saw it. I'd love to punch a hole in that board right now, crushing that cursed paper into dust.
Even if I did that, though, the damage is already done. That sex offender notice may disappear from bulletin boards, but the image will be seared in the memories of everyone in this community.
As I look farther down the walkway, I see a man walking up toward me. He's holding a black, leather-bound, gold-edged book -- a Bible, by the looks of it. I also see the white collar of a pastor around his neck.
I never understood Christians. They talked so much about forgiveness of sins, of reconciliation and restoration, and maybe that's how Jesus was, but I rarely saw it from any of His followers. They were no different from anyone else, in my experience.
And yet, this one seems to have a real peaceful look on his face. He looks different, somehow, from a lot of other people I've seen. Of course, appearances can be deceiving.
He's stopping to look at the bulletin board. Great, he sees the notice. I see him looking over at me. I don't see the same malice in his eyes, but could that just be a front, too?
I see him getting ready to speak.
What's he going to say?
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio.
Into Perspective
Peter Andrew Smith
Matthew 6:24-34
"Do you think they are okay?" Marge said folding her napkin again. "The weather isn't the best."
John didn't look up from the morning newspaper. "Why wouldn't they be all right?"
"When they are driving I just can't get settled until they call and tell me they got home safely," she said. "I just imagine all the things that could go wrong every time they leave."
John turned the page. "Joan is a good driver I'm sure they are fine."
"Of course she is a good driver but you know how dangerous it is on the road nowadays."
"You do have to be careful," John said.
"It is not just that."
John lowered the newspaper. "Well, what is it then?"
"I just can't shake this feeling," Marge replied. "I picture them broken down by the side of the road or off in a ditch somewhere hurt. It just tears my heart in two."
John resumed reading. "Joan has a cell phone if they get into trouble and it is not like they are that far away from help."
"So you think there is something wrong too?"
"No, I'm sure that they are fine." John put the newspaper down and tried not to sigh too loudly. "Why are you fretting about them?"
"Well," Marge said. "I care about them."
"Are you suggesting I don't?"
"No, but it's not the same for fathers as it is for mothers."
"Oh really?" John said. "You think I don't want the best for our children?"
"No, of course you do. That is not what I mean --"
The phone beeped to signal an incoming text message.
"Who is it?" John asked.
"Timmy forgot his MP3 player and was wondering if we could bring it on the weekend," Marge said. "At least I know they are okay."
"For now."
"Why would you say that?" Marge said. "I was worried and now I'm not."
"Is that really true?" John asked.
"What?"
"Are you not worried that something might happen on the rest of their trip?"
"Well, it is still on my mind," Marge said. "I won't be really calm until Joan and the boys get all the way home."
"Uh-huh," John said. "What happened to our morning together?"
"Nothing happened."
"Exactly. We finally get some time to ourselves and you spent the whole morning fretting and fidgeting." John looked at his watch. "I'm going to have to go into work soon."
"Gracious," Marge said. "Where does the time go?"
"That was my question. The morning was wasted."
"Wasted? But we spent it together."
"We spent it in the same room but you were off worrying about Joan."
"I was concerned," Marge said.
"So was I but I made breakfast, tried to spend some time with you, and ended up reading the newspaper instead."
Marge opened her mouth and then closed it.
"Marge," John said. "You spend all your time worrying and it does nothing to help you or Joan or us."
"But I get so concerned about them. What else can I do?"
"Pray."
"What?"
"When you start to worry, pray for them. Tell God what you are worried about and then leave it with God."
"But --" Marge paused. "That's what you are doing when you close your eyes every so often isn't it?"
John nodded. "I'm telling God my fears and finding peace."
Marge took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment.
"Feel better?" John asked when she opened them again.
"A bit," she said.
"Good." John smiled. "I should get on my way."
Marge got up with him. "I'll walk you to the bus stop."
"Really?" John said looking out the window. "The weather isn't all that great."
"I think it has been too long since we walked together in the snow," Marge said. "Besides weren't you reminding me that we don't get that much time together?"
John nodded and closed his eyes for a moment.
"Worried about Joan and the boys?" Marge asked.
"No," he said with a smile. "Thankful for you."
Peter Andrew Smith is an ordained minister in the United Church of Canada who currently serves at St. James United Church in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. He is the author of All Things Are Ready (CSS), a book of lectionary-based communion prayers, as well as many stories and articles, which can be found listed at www.peterandrewsmith.com.
*****************************************
StoryShare, February 27, 2011, issue.
Copyright 2011 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
"Judgment" by Craig Kelly
"Into Perspective" by Peter Andrew Smith
* * * * * * * *
Judgment
Craig Kelly
1 Corinthians 4:1-5
They say you never get a second chance at a first impression.
Those are probably the truest words I've ever heard.
The next truest words I've heard are, "We find you did not commit the crime of which you were convicted."
Too bad it was five years too late.
For a time, I thought I was agoraphobic, because I never wanted to leave my small, dingy apartment. It was not so much that I liked it there -- I wasn't crazy about having a rat for a roommate -- but I was so afraid of what waited for me outside the door. The looks of contempt, the shudders that they thought I couldn't see, the remarks they thought I couldn't hear... I hated it all.
Whenever I opened the door to go outside, the hallway would quickly empty for me, followed by a series of slammed doors. I'm sure that behind those closed doors, the other tenants made yet another call to the manager, wanting to know why I was allowed to live in the same apartment building as they were. If there happened to be a straggler left in the hall, perhaps fumbling for their keys while holding a bag of groceries, I was met with an icy, steely gaze, monitoring my every step, lest they get distracted and I do something horrible to them. If, heaven forbid, they had a child with them, they huddled them close, holding them with an iron grip, the look in their eyes a mixture of concern and revulsion. I could tell that a lot of them clenched their teeth, ready for anything, like a mother lion protecting her cubs. I suppose, if I was in their place, I would react the same way. They were just doing what they were supposed to do: protecting their children.
Today, I decided to brave the front door once again. I needed to go for a run, a walk, a stroll... anything that would clear my head and give me a moment's escape from my life. As I walked down to the front entry door of the apartment building, however, I was reminded again of reality. On the bulletin board next to the door was that same blasted sheriff's notice, complete with my picture. In bold letters on the top of the page was my life reduced to three words: "REGISTERED SEX OFFENDER." It had been over three months since my conviction was overturned, and that notice was still there. I may have been exonerated in the court of law, but the court of public opinion still condemned me. I could scream from the top of this building that I was innocent, but I know it wouldn't have done any good. Once a "predator," always a predator.
My curse in life was that I was the same height and build of whoever had raped an eight-year-old girl ten years ago. My second curse was that I just happened to be walking in the same part of town where the rape occurred that same night. My third curse was that I was the one ID'ed by three witnesses who were on that street that night. They weren't able to get a good DNA sample from the crime scene that night, and add three witnesses and I was out. The more I protested my innocence, the more the jury was convinced of my guilt.
So after being whisked away to prison, I served three years of a ten-year sentence, being paroled on account of good behavior and with the condition of registering as a sex offender. So instead of the prison inside, I was condemned to the prison outside. Very few places want to hire a sex offender, and I wasn't exactly welcome at social gatherings, either. It wasn't until two years later that I was finally exonerated, thanks to help from Project Innocence.
I sighed heavily as I pushed open the door and made my way out onto the sidewalk. Once I got walking, slowly accelerating into a jog, I felt a small measure of peace. It was just me, no judges, no juries, no sheriff's postings... just me and my thoughts.
I jogged my way down to the local park where I could enjoy nature for a while. However, my life seemed to follow me today. I could see people looking at me as I was running, trying nonchalantly to cross to the other side of the street, creating as much distance as possible between them and me. Thanks to my botched conviction, I had become a leper, a pariah, an outcast. It was as if I had some deadly plague that people would catch if they got too close. It was as if I was an exile while still at home.
I needed to catch my breath, so I made my way to a park bench along the walking path to sit for a few minutes. I just kept my eyes down, gazing at my Reeboks. If I can't see them, they can't see me, right? They wanted to leave me alone; that was fine with me.
I had just started breathing normally again when I noticed some movement off to my right. Without thinking, I looked up, and looking back at me was a small boy, probably no more than five years old. His face was covered in freckles, and I could see the tips of fire red hair making their appearance from underneath his Cincinnati Reds baseball cap. Coupled with a black UC Bearcats T-shirt, it made a nice ensemble for the young sports enthusiast.
The young fan didn't say anything. He just kept looking at me while the stick from a lollipop kept working its way from one side of his mouth to the other. For the first time in a long time, I didn't see judgment or condemnation in his eyes. Just curiosity. He just kept studying me, as if I were a painting in a museum or a strain of bacteria under a microscope.
Wow. To just be looked at as another person, not viewed with contempt as a monster. It was an amazing feeling. I found myself smiling in spite of everything. In fact, I think a chuckle may have escaped my lips.
However, like all respites, this one was gone too soon.
"JOEY! JOEY!"
Farther up the walking path, I saw a woman sprinting in desperation toward my observer. In her eyes was a look of utter horror. I could tell what that look meant. The monster was too close to her baby.
"COME HERE! COME HERE! NOW!"
The boy turned around to see his frantic mother running toward him. He turned back to take one last look at me, and without a word, he turned around and walked calmly toward his mother, a sea of tranquility compared to her storm of anxiety.
She quickly crouched down and pulled her son tightly to her chest, looking at me with that familiar combination of relief and contempt, as if I'd been two seconds away from dismembering her child and she had arrived just in the nick of time. My smile gone, I quickly averted my eyes and started staring at my Reeboks again. My oasis of human interaction had evaporated back into a desert of isolation.
As they walked away, I could hear the mother starting to scold her son: "How many times have I told you not to...."
I didn't understand it. Was I wearing a sandwich board that said, "Sexual Predator" on it? Had the Sheriff's Department sent my picture to everyone in the city? What was it about me that said, "Keep away"?
As I rose to resume my run, I noticed a community bulletin board farther up the walkway. As I approached it, I found out why that mother was so frantic.
Another sex offender notification, with my face on it.
Even out here, I had no escape from my fate. Here I was, an innocent man, cleared of any wrongdoing, given a second chance at a normal life, and yet I could not escape from this label, from this stigma.
Even now, I'm still standing here looking at it. It's probably been at least five or ten minutes since I first saw it. I'd love to punch a hole in that board right now, crushing that cursed paper into dust.
Even if I did that, though, the damage is already done. That sex offender notice may disappear from bulletin boards, but the image will be seared in the memories of everyone in this community.
As I look farther down the walkway, I see a man walking up toward me. He's holding a black, leather-bound, gold-edged book -- a Bible, by the looks of it. I also see the white collar of a pastor around his neck.
I never understood Christians. They talked so much about forgiveness of sins, of reconciliation and restoration, and maybe that's how Jesus was, but I rarely saw it from any of His followers. They were no different from anyone else, in my experience.
And yet, this one seems to have a real peaceful look on his face. He looks different, somehow, from a lot of other people I've seen. Of course, appearances can be deceiving.
He's stopping to look at the bulletin board. Great, he sees the notice. I see him looking over at me. I don't see the same malice in his eyes, but could that just be a front, too?
I see him getting ready to speak.
What's he going to say?
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio.
Into Perspective
Peter Andrew Smith
Matthew 6:24-34
"Do you think they are okay?" Marge said folding her napkin again. "The weather isn't the best."
John didn't look up from the morning newspaper. "Why wouldn't they be all right?"
"When they are driving I just can't get settled until they call and tell me they got home safely," she said. "I just imagine all the things that could go wrong every time they leave."
John turned the page. "Joan is a good driver I'm sure they are fine."
"Of course she is a good driver but you know how dangerous it is on the road nowadays."
"You do have to be careful," John said.
"It is not just that."
John lowered the newspaper. "Well, what is it then?"
"I just can't shake this feeling," Marge replied. "I picture them broken down by the side of the road or off in a ditch somewhere hurt. It just tears my heart in two."
John resumed reading. "Joan has a cell phone if they get into trouble and it is not like they are that far away from help."
"So you think there is something wrong too?"
"No, I'm sure that they are fine." John put the newspaper down and tried not to sigh too loudly. "Why are you fretting about them?"
"Well," Marge said. "I care about them."
"Are you suggesting I don't?"
"No, but it's not the same for fathers as it is for mothers."
"Oh really?" John said. "You think I don't want the best for our children?"
"No, of course you do. That is not what I mean --"
The phone beeped to signal an incoming text message.
"Who is it?" John asked.
"Timmy forgot his MP3 player and was wondering if we could bring it on the weekend," Marge said. "At least I know they are okay."
"For now."
"Why would you say that?" Marge said. "I was worried and now I'm not."
"Is that really true?" John asked.
"What?"
"Are you not worried that something might happen on the rest of their trip?"
"Well, it is still on my mind," Marge said. "I won't be really calm until Joan and the boys get all the way home."
"Uh-huh," John said. "What happened to our morning together?"
"Nothing happened."
"Exactly. We finally get some time to ourselves and you spent the whole morning fretting and fidgeting." John looked at his watch. "I'm going to have to go into work soon."
"Gracious," Marge said. "Where does the time go?"
"That was my question. The morning was wasted."
"Wasted? But we spent it together."
"We spent it in the same room but you were off worrying about Joan."
"I was concerned," Marge said.
"So was I but I made breakfast, tried to spend some time with you, and ended up reading the newspaper instead."
Marge opened her mouth and then closed it.
"Marge," John said. "You spend all your time worrying and it does nothing to help you or Joan or us."
"But I get so concerned about them. What else can I do?"
"Pray."
"What?"
"When you start to worry, pray for them. Tell God what you are worried about and then leave it with God."
"But --" Marge paused. "That's what you are doing when you close your eyes every so often isn't it?"
John nodded. "I'm telling God my fears and finding peace."
Marge took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment.
"Feel better?" John asked when she opened them again.
"A bit," she said.
"Good." John smiled. "I should get on my way."
Marge got up with him. "I'll walk you to the bus stop."
"Really?" John said looking out the window. "The weather isn't all that great."
"I think it has been too long since we walked together in the snow," Marge said. "Besides weren't you reminding me that we don't get that much time together?"
John nodded and closed his eyes for a moment.
"Worried about Joan and the boys?" Marge asked.
"No," he said with a smile. "Thankful for you."
Peter Andrew Smith is an ordained minister in the United Church of Canada who currently serves at St. James United Church in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. He is the author of All Things Are Ready (CSS), a book of lectionary-based communion prayers, as well as many stories and articles, which can be found listed at www.peterandrewsmith.com.
*****************************************
StoryShare, February 27, 2011, issue.
Copyright 2011 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
