Joel and I recently read the Chronicles of Narnia series with Jasper at bedtime. Last night we finished book number five: The Horse and His Boy. I am going to be honest, after The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, the other books in this series have been very difficult for me to get through. The books lack the compelling storyline that we so greatly loved in the first book of the series.
That is, until we started reading The Horse and His Boy. Typically, we would read a few pages each night (the chapters are long for Jasper), but with this particular book, I found myself wanting to read, read, and keep on reading. It is a book rich with insight and spiritual application.
The following is a brief summary of a moment from this story that struck me as I have wrestled with balancing justice and mercy:
At the end of the book, Prince Rabadash from the kingdom of Tashbaan had been captured and was standing trial for his unprovoked attack on the kingdom of Archenland, breaking the peace agreement between the two nations.
King Lune, the king of Archenland, knew that it was within his rights to kill Prince Rabadash. This execution would be justified by the rule of law. However, King Lune was not at peace with this sentence and proposed to Prince Rabadash a more benevolent plan. King Lune offered to release the prince and send him back to his kingdom, but with the provision that Prince Rabadash would never return or attack Archenland again.
King Lune was offering Prince Rabadash redemption and freedom—a grace and mercy that far exceeded the actions of this evil prince.
Prince Rabadash refused the offer.
Then Aslan entered the picture.
At this poignant moment, everyone in attendance at Prince Rabadash’s trial was moved to silence and awe. Everyone except for the nasty prince. Rather, he grew more hostile and more antagonistic in the presence of the true King of all.
Aslan gave Prince Rabadash multiple opportunities to receive a lesser sentence, but—again—he refused them all. The time had come for Aslan to administer the final judgement for Rabadash.
While screaming out his rage, Rabadash slowly began to morph into the form of a donkey—a donkey that could not speak, unlike the talking animals of Narnia.
As the donkey brayed in shock and confusion, Aslan spoke:
“Now hear me, Rabadash,” said Aslan. “Justice shall be mixed with mercy. You shall not always be an Ass.”[1]
Justice shall be mixed with mercy.
The justice end of Aslan’s judgement was that Rabadash took on the form of an animal—an animal of low regard…an Ass.
The mercy end of Aslan’s judgement was that a way was provided for Rabadash to find freedom from the form of a donkey and to become a human once again. But even his freedom came with a caveat.
Once returned to his human self, Rabadash was forbidden to stray more than ten miles from the great temple in Tashbaan. If he did so, if he so much as placed one foot beyond the boundaries Aslan set in place, Rabadash would instantly become a donkey once again, and this time there would be no chance for redemption.
Prince Rabadash yielded to Aslan’s warning, and he spent the remaining years of his life sequestered within the boundaries of the temple in Tashbaan. He was never remorseful or repentant. While he lived in freedom, he was forever a prisoner locked in the dungeon of his hatred.
C.S. Lewis’s profound understanding of God’s mercy and justice is powerful and palpable. He paints the most exquisite portrait of how both mercy and justice can be mixed together.
I believe that evil requires swift judgment. I have often wrestled with the distorted belief that mercy is giving allowance to bad behavior. But as I read the ending of this intriguing story, I realized that mercy is merely holding the door open for a radical change of heart, rather than shutting it completely—that punishment for wrong actions must be accompanied by hope for redemption.
Mercy and justice come as a package deal. You can’t take one and leave out the other. They are bundled together. Mercy alone will not foster repentance or redemption. Justice alone will do more harm than good; it is punishment without love and concern and can easily spin into retaliation.
However, when mercy—the opportunity to repent and find a new pathway forward—is coupled with justice—the concise and deliberate judgement that I tend to lean into—hope breaks through the hard places. Church hurt will be remedied when justice and mercy are mixed together in an attitude of hope for redemption. This packaged deal, all rolled into one great big bundle, is a reflection of the nature of Christ, both loving and just.
This is a lesson that I have tucked into my heart. It is like a light went on when I read the story of Prince Rabadash, King Lune, and Aslan. I needed that visual to understand the magnitude of what mercy and justice are supposed to look like. When we approach God with all of our ugliness and sin, the appropriate consequence is always death. Romans 6:23 tells us, “For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Jesus Christ our Lord.”
Justice demands a death sentence for our sins. And yet, God mixes justice with mercy in such a beautiful way. If we choose to repent, turn from our sin, and surrender our lives to Jesus—this gift from God—we step into the hope and the assurance of eternity with Him.
I really do believe we will be on a much steadier pathway to working through the mud and muck of church hurt when we operate and handle these situations with both justice and mercy.
I was at a conference recently, and the speaker was telling the story about her sister who was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. I can’t recall all the details about the diagnosis and prognosis of this young woman, but what I do remember clearly is that the speaker’s sister had to undergo a serious surgery. Due to the nature of this cancer, the surgeon had to make an incision from under the ear of one side of her face, down and across her throat, all the way to the side of the opposite ear. Coupled with the urgency of the surgery, this young patient was preparing for her wedding, which was a not too far away from this current crisis.
Her wedding day came, and she bore the scar of the surgery that removed the cancer that had metastasized in her thyroid. The speaker referred to this scar as a healing scar.
When we have been knocked down by church hurt, in whatever form it takes, we are often left with a wound. Sometimes those wounds are deep and invasive. Sometimes it takes a kind of spiritual surgery in the hands of a skilled counselor to extract the cancer and disease that has metastasized around the heart. Eventually, these wounds do heal over time. Some more quickly than others. But for a time, we bear a healing scar—a visual reminder of what we have been through. Even those scars will fade, but they will never disappear forever. And some of us will walk with a limp for the rest of our lives. However, we will walk in the truth that even these scars will be redeemed.
[1] Lewis, C S. The Horse and His Boy (Adult). Harper Collins, 1 June 2005.
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