Jury Duty

Photo by Tingey Injury Law Firm on Unsplash

I'm sitting in a room full of seventy-two individuals who look like they want to be anywhere but here.

The styrofoam cups steaming with coffee and the “inspiring” video calling us to our civic duty have done little to stir the crowd.

I’m here by mistake. I got my jury summons a couple of weeks ago and didn't see where to mark that I am the primary caregiver to a child under five. My husband is working from home these days—so here I sit, facing my destiny to serve my country. Meanwhile, he sits (or, more likely, runs) toward his destiny: shuttling the kids to all the places as and ensuring they finish their schoolwork and chores. I’m practically on vacation.

Seriously though, I have to admit I feel “much adult,” as my 11-year-old would say, sitting in this waiting room with my very official “juror” sticker.

And I’d be lying if I said I didn't spend a few minutes envisioning myself in a scene from “To Kill a Mockingbird” or “Where the Crawdads Sing.” Me, the sole unbiased juror, intent on swaying my peers to do the right thing.

But all joking aside, as I wait to see if my name is going to be called—and especially after that video—I do feel the weight of it. The responsibility. I won't pretend to understand the intricacies of our judicial system, but I understand enough: we, the jury, will decide, to a certain extent, the fate of another individual. And I'm not sure I like that feeling.

What if I don't understand everything that is presented? What if my emotions—and I have a lot of those—blind me from making an impartial decision?

And I think what's really bugging me most is this: if I was the one on trial, I wouldn't want a group of strangers, a group of flawed humans, to be the ones to judge me. I would fear that there's no way they could be impartial. They don't know me. They don't care.

I know the right to a jury is a beautiful part of living in this country, and somehow, overall, it ensures justice and fairness.

But this whole experience has made me think of the ultimate courtroom we will all face one day: the moment we stand at the gates of heaven and give an account before the throne of God.

It's terrifying to think about—unless you belong to Christ.

Praise the Lord, it will not be a group of begrudging, flawed jurors that decides my fate—it is a good, impartial, just God who sees all and knows all. And you know what He will see when He looks at my case? When He looks at me?

Jesus.

Jesus, my attorney.

Jesus, my jury.

Jesus, my witness and my proof.

Jesus, who served my sentence for me.

Jesus in my place. Perfect. Without blemish. Paying for all the wrong I’ve ever done.

And because of Him, the good Judge will let me go—let me in to be with Him forever. Even more, that Judge—He knows me.

He has known me from before I was even born and has loved all of me. None of my sins were ever hidden from Him (Psalm 139). And because He wanted me to be set free, He's the one that sent Jesus to fight for me, to take my place.

That’s not just good news for my future. It is good news now. I am no longer condemned. I am fully known, fully loved, fully forgiven. Free.

Well, that's it for now. They are calling names to go back. Wish me luck.