I’ve been charged with murder. I suppose I could start with my lesser sins, but they all led up to that one. A lifetime of foolishness and pride led me to murder the Son of God. I suppose that’s not simple “murder.” That’s assassination, espionage, murder with special circumstances. It’s a capital offense.
I’ve spent my life paying preemptively for my sin. Since the age of five, I’ve been slipping every penny I make as a bribe to the judge. Yes, I acknowledge I killed Your Son. Here’s a nice good work and I slapped Your name on it! We still good?
I’ve spent my life composing a defense. I’ve read every word the judge has ever written and I know it backwards and forwards until I can incorporate it into any conversation, any defense, any opening argument, hoping to impress Him with my knowledge of Him.
I’ve spent my life assembling evidence and character witnesses. My church, my family, my godly authorities, my Mom and Dad, all swearing up and down, “She’s innocent judge. It was a mistake, and she’s more than made up for it!” Yeah, right. Video proof of me teaching five-day Bible Clubs and handing a cup of cold water to children I couldn’t stand is not going to stack up well against video of me nailing Jesus to the cross.
You know what they say: he who acts as his own lawyer has a fool for a client. And yet, that’s what I’ve been trying to do. My whole life has led up to this, this moment, when I stand before the judge, and looking into His blazing eyes for the first time, I am tongue-tied, my mind goes blank, and my every good work blows away on the wind.
I love the line of that MercyMe song, “And like a hero, He takes the stage when we’re on the edge of our seats saying, ‘it’s too late.’” Enter Jesus Christ.
If grace were a courtroom, Exhibits A-Z would all spontaneously combust, the witnesses would all get amnesia, and the prosecutor’s notes would find their way to a burn pile, and the Man I killed would be standing there alive and well, giving me a hug, testifying that what they say I did never happened. If Satan is my accuser, he’s now got no leg to stand on and the jury’s beginning to worry for his sanity.
In a courtroom, whenever the lawyer is spoken to, speaking, or in any way doing his job, he stands. Jesus’ death has pled my case, and the moment He finished, He sat down (Hebrews 1:3). At this point, the evidence speaks for itself. Jesus has finished His argument, and with Him as my Advocate, I need never defend myself again.
She stands. She’s mine. And she’s approved. I rest my case.
Excerpt from “Peace and How to Keep It.”