Prisoners, or our love for the guilty

“I was a prisoner, and you visited me.”

I know an old, wise man who often says regarding modern Law Enforcement that we “do not have a justice system, but a penal system.” His point is one indirectly identified by G.K. Chesterton, that in the absence of societal adherence to the Golden Rule, we do not get anarchy and no rules, but millions of little ones in an attempt to prevent complete chaos. One thinks of the flourishing of the bureaucratic state and its laws precisely as morals and shared principles begin to break down.

Concomitant with the rise of the “little rule” society, is a loss in big-picture justice. The insistence on rules and formalism destroy the humanitas at the heart of Law. We may agree with Aristotle that law is reason without passion, but even he would advocate epikeia precisely because it guards against an inhuman tendency to compulsively, even obsessively, focus on rules and Law apart from people and their circumstances. While not denying moral goods, epikeia is essentially an attitude of humility in light of the fact that human justice is in principle inadequate.

Why do I say this?

Let’s assume in most of the Western world, everyone in prison today is in fact guilty as charged and merit their sentence. Let’s assume that human justice, albeit imperfect, is in fact accomplishing at least a part of its purpose. Let us assume that prisons are full of the ranks of the morally guilty, as distinct, but not necessarily separate from the legally guilty: that these people have done moral wrong, not just legal wrong.

Then comes the words of Christ, which unequivocally say, “I was in prison, and you visited me.” What are we to make of this?

Many scholars have remarked on the purpose of Law to protect the innocent and punish the wicked, all for the maintenance of the commonweal. All that is, for the vast majority of the history of Law, indisputable. The Church would in principle support imprisonment as a salutary penance, even something meritorious in the right conditions. Why then does Christ enjoin the visiting of prisoners, granted that many merited their punishment, and if they accept it with contrition, may even make amends and grow?

The posture of mercy

I’d like to suggest this in light of, and as a corrective somewhat to, yesterday’s essay on a clerical #MeToo movement. I say this, because as I have observed, many people make a living (or not) condemning and judging Priests and Bishops. While their indignation on most issues is largely merited, I fear no solution will ever emerge as long as their passion is not tempered by their reason, and both by charity. This is why I proposed solutions which, although they may be incomplete, I tried to permeate with the rational and the theological. Anger may move us to act, but we must remember the words of the Epistle of James, that the wrath of men does not accomplish the righteousness of God.

What does all this have to do with prisons and Christ’s commandments? Let’s say every prelate who abused his power was removed from office. Should we assume that their replacements would necessarily be better? What about those removed? Would we be willing to give disgraced Bishops the benefits and charity we would bestow upon broken Priests? Do we love our Fathers as much as we demand they love us, their Sons?

The Prophet Malachi identified the turning of fathers to their sons and sons to fathers as one of the signal graces which announce the advent of the Messiah. The result of this not happening, he warns, is that the Lord would “strike the land with doom.” Can we say then that Christ, in his “intermediate/middle” coming and presence among us, is truly manifest as long as the Priest/Bishop rift endures?

Let us pray that justice, truth and charity prevail, but also mercy; mercy which we have received, and freely hope to give. I know that many Priests are angry. I am too. Yet nothing will ever be accomplished as long as “mercy and truth” have not met, nor have “righteousness and peace” kissed (Psalm 85:10).

If we are going to reform the Church, and heal our rift, it cannot be done unless we have the attitude of Christ for one another, and return to our first love. Unless he rebuild our house, we labor in vain who build it.

And at the end of the day, without a posture of “malice toward none, with charity all”, a house divided cannot stand anew. That means that even toward our hierarchs who have violated both human and theological virtue, we must not fail in exercising the charity which we and our brothers have not received.