I couldn’t resist! I hadn’t read Shakespeare, it
seemed forever. So I downloaded his works
on my iPad for three dollars and have started wading through the The Merchant of Venice. I wade because the elder in me hasn't taken the time over the years to practice the "elder English language. There is a passage that I had learned in Ms. Chaffie‘s
1962 senior’s English class at Rawlins High School that broke forth on my
memory like it were only hours ago. I
think it is probably one of Shakespeare's most known and loved passages, when the
young heroine, Portia, urges Shylock, the moneylender, to show the kind of
mercy that "droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven," that "is
enthroned in the hearts of kings," and "is an attribute to God
Himself." The more I arrested (a new way of using the word) this image, I began looking for other media
where mercy has been expressed in nobility, to find Caravaggio's painting
entitled: The Seven Acts of Mercy" in which an
angel's outstretched hand reaches over seven scenes of mercy: burying the dead,
feeding the hungry, refreshing the thirsty, harboring the stranger, clothing
the naked, visiting the sick, and ministering to prisoners. Six scenes are based on the words of Jesus in Matthew 25:35-36: "I was hungry
and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and
you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me,
I was in prison and you came to me." I must note that though Jesus does
not specifically reference burial as an act of mercy, it was deemed merciful by
the church during the time of plague, when care of the dead was literally care
of one's neighbors.
Similar depictions of sympathy, provision, and leniency often come to mind at the mere thought of mercy wherever it's found. As Caravaggio paints it and Shakespeare depicts it, I am finding mercy beautiful these days. Images of quiet humanitarianism never reported by media and heavenly acts of concern, most never reported by a congregant or the church at large, afford mercy a reputation worthy of Portia's words. Yet this is not the only perception of mercy in action. Even Shakespeare reasons in Romeo and Juliet, "Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill." There is perhaps no better representation of this contrasting perception than in the practice of "compassionate release" for convicted criminals. Every year, in each of the countries with compassionate release programs, thousands of requests are considered. Though few are granted, it is typically more than unpopular. At the release of the terminally-ill Abdel Basset Ali Megrahi, who was sentenced to life in prison for the 1988 bombing of a Pan American jetliner, mercy was detested. The LA Times on line, August 21st, 2009, described Megrahi's release as "an ugly act of 'mercy." Is there something wrong at my heart level where mercy is far less beautiful when its recipients spoil or inflict injure on the picture.
Similar depictions of sympathy, provision, and leniency often come to mind at the mere thought of mercy wherever it's found. As Caravaggio paints it and Shakespeare depicts it, I am finding mercy beautiful these days. Images of quiet humanitarianism never reported by media and heavenly acts of concern, most never reported by a congregant or the church at large, afford mercy a reputation worthy of Portia's words. Yet this is not the only perception of mercy in action. Even Shakespeare reasons in Romeo and Juliet, "Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill." There is perhaps no better representation of this contrasting perception than in the practice of "compassionate release" for convicted criminals. Every year, in each of the countries with compassionate release programs, thousands of requests are considered. Though few are granted, it is typically more than unpopular. At the release of the terminally-ill Abdel Basset Ali Megrahi, who was sentenced to life in prison for the 1988 bombing of a Pan American jetliner, mercy was detested. The LA Times on line, August 21st, 2009, described Megrahi's release as "an ugly act of 'mercy." Is there something wrong at my heart level where mercy is far less beautiful when its recipients spoil or inflict injure on the picture.
As I look back at the factual, not rewritten, historical account, reactions to Megrahi's release were understandably intense. Outrage at the thought of compassion for someone who showed no compassion for his 270 victims was readily voiced. Despite religion or creed, cries for justice were heard across the globe. A sense of injustice was palpable, particularly for those who lost loved ones at the hands of the now-freed man. Much can be said in all cases about justice and injustice. For indeed, justice demands that guilt not be swept under the carpet; and yet here, mercy served as the broom. What cannot be said, however, of me, is that I expect anything different from mercy, that I expect mercy to always be beautiful, or somehow easier to swallow. In all my reflection on the matter; mercy is always ugly to someone.
Yet, if I am true to my thoughts I rarely see it this way with any consistency. When demanding justice partial to my personal situations, mercy's ugliness is usually clearer. But I seldom apply the same thunderous demands for justice when it works against me. This is well-illustrated by Orual in C.S. Lewis's Till We Have Faces. Orual, who has spent a lifetime carefully building her case against the gods, meticulously describes each instance where she has been wronged, and demands to be heard by the gods for the sake of justice. But after she has finally had her chance to formally state her case before the gods themselves, she is stunned to hear that it is now her turn to face her judges.
"My judges?" she asks.
"Why, yes,
child. The gods have been accused by you. Now's their turn."
"I cannot
hope for mercy," she laments to the one beside her.
"Infinite hopes—and fears—may both be yours," he replies. "Be sure that, whatever else you get, you will not get justice."
"Are the gods not just?" she asks.
"Oh no, child. What would become of us if they were?"
I don't believe my strong sense of justice is misguided. But justice demands that it will apply to myself as thoroughly as I apply it to others. In the still moments of this early, dimly lit, morning, looking out at the small lake’s shore, tears dripping from my eyes, realizing the gravity of this equation, there is no image except the Cross of Christ that consoles. Where Jesus' death on the Cross became the satisfaction for God's perfect justice, Bill Prather’s guilt was given God's eternal pardon and official release. Mercy is indeed as ugly as it is beautiful. For only here is reconciliation fully achieved and liberation entirely just. Amen and forever amen!
"Infinite hopes—and fears—may both be yours," he replies. "Be sure that, whatever else you get, you will not get justice."
"Are the gods not just?" she asks.
"Oh no, child. What would become of us if they were?"
I don't believe my strong sense of justice is misguided. But justice demands that it will apply to myself as thoroughly as I apply it to others. In the still moments of this early, dimly lit, morning, looking out at the small lake’s shore, tears dripping from my eyes, realizing the gravity of this equation, there is no image except the Cross of Christ that consoles. Where Jesus' death on the Cross became the satisfaction for God's perfect justice, Bill Prather’s guilt was given God's eternal pardon and official release. Mercy is indeed as ugly as it is beautiful. For only here is reconciliation fully achieved and liberation entirely just. Amen and forever amen!
