The hearing ended and the hearing officer turned off the tape recorder that had been silently but obviously witnessing the proceedings. Parole had been denied. Again.
And he didn’t understand. Certain that he would be out of prison in short order, plans had been made, jobs acquired, and the hopes of three little boys elevated to heights from which they would now free fall. More damage to already tenuous relationships. How was he going to explain another delay? What was the reason for this latest setback?
Raised by a wonderful set of parents who had hardwired a basic sense of fairness into him, his outlook had always been optimistic and upbeat. Throughout his life, a life more characterized by blessings than merely punctuated by them, that sense of fairness planted by his folks had been cultivated into a mature organism. It simply did not occur to him that there were others for whom fairness was a completely foreign concept. And the thought of others acting, or, in this case, reacting, to him in any manner inconsistent with that basic idea of fairness never crossed his mind.
Until now…
The docket for today’s hearings had been full and, of the even dozen brought before the board for review on this rainy Monday, all had been recommended for the coveted prize except him. Several had served a smaller percentage of their sentence and one man was working on his seventh trip to the penitentiary.
He stood, slump-shouldered, and turned to face the small group of supporters in attendance. A childhood friend who had graciously held a job position with his company on the assumption that freedom would be realized for his friend. His eyes revealed something of the depth of the pain shared with his friend who would not be released, would not be allowed to return to society, would not be permitted to once again be productive and provide for his family.
An uncle, estranged for so long, but who had been such a blessing and prayer partner during the previous months leading up to this day – a day that faith said would be the glorious day of release and restoration so long awaited.
Finally, the woman he loved. The one with whom he had promised to share the remainder of his life. The one that he had planned to wed early the following month – a wedding that would now be delayed….again. The look in her eyes broke his heart. The look composed of hurt and love, pain and forgiveness, empathy and promise.
It was too much to bear. Embracing his loved ones, the man turned and left the room and the building, to return to his cell – the only home he had known for the past fifty-eight months. He was discouraged, disillusioned, hurt. He felt abandoned, alone and hopeless.
He realized that a crime had been committed, a terrible act of selfishness and stupidity. He knew he deserved punishment and had patiently and quietly served the last five years waiting for this day – a day he knew would be his day. But that was not to be. And his sense of fairness required a reason why. If there was a reason – a tangible, “do this and you can go home” reason – he could have understood. But for this new delay to be without purpose, apparently without reason, was too much for him to digest.
He wandered aimlessly into his cell, avoiding any eye contact with the other inmates – there would be no solace there, no understanding, no empathy. His failure only increased their chances of release, and though some would no doubt offer their condolences, they were hollow and obviously insincere. Once behind his door, he broke down and wept, instinctively reaching for his Bible. There had to be a reason, a purpose for this pain. What was the purpose?
They were so excited. Their first-born was about to be just that….born. Dad was hoping for a boy – a son. An heir to whom he could impart all the collected wisdom handed down through the generations. One to whom he could teach the trade learned from his father. One to inherit the good business and the good name for which he had labored so arduously.
Mom, with the love only a mother could have for the one carried for those long months, wished – no, prayed – only for a healthy child upon whom to lavish her love and attention. She knew of her husband’s hopes, but, while never voiced, she didn’t really care about gender. She just wanted to hold her baby in her arms that had been nestled in her womb.
And then he was there – yes, he. A baby boy, squirming and screaming. Matted jet black hair and the ruddy complexion of their race. Everything seemed perfect and the last remaining bit of prenatal apprehension common to parents the world over disappeared. Only joy remained. Mom was finally holding this bundle so long awaited. Dad had his son and he stroked his wife’s hair, still damp from exertion, as he looked down at the boy and down through the years at all the wondrous days they would all have. Hope was in full-bloom and their faith in their God had born perfect fruit.
It was the next morning before they noticed the problem. As his mother was nursing him with the early morning rays of sunlight streaming in the window of the room, he opened his eyes for the first time and his mother looked into to large white voids where beautiful and dark irises should have been. Her precious baby boy was blind and she wept quietly has he drew nourishment from her.
Her baby boy would never see her face, never gaze in wonder at creation, never know the joy of play with friends. He would be alone in the crowd, afraid in the light and judged from a distance.
And the questions began to bombard her mind and heart. Why did this have to happen? How was this even remotely fair? Who caused this tragedy? Was it some sin she had committed? Had her husband transgressed somehow and brought this judgment upon her baby boy?
What is the purpose of it all? How could a just God, a loving and merciful Creator, cause something so awful?
And the questions, unanswered, continued. Month after month and year after year. Festering. Dividing.
The boy grew, adapted and became all that he could be. A beggar. Sitting outside the gate of the city, he “earned” his living by the kindness of strangers and friends. His only talent, his one gift, was engendering pity of passers-by, and, through the exercise of this gift, he brought a small sum into his parents home each day. Enough for a small bit of barley, for wheat was too expensive.
And as the years passed, unknown to him, his parents, in those quiet moments during a meal or through an evening spent together, would ask the same old questions, not expecting an answer anymore. It was more of a habit now. Why? For what purpose is our son blind? Life had held such promise, but he had been sentenced to a life of humiliation and degradation. Why?
One day as he was plying his trade at the city gate, a group of strangers observed him from across the way. They were new to town and were standing to the side, allowing the foot traffic to pass them as they watched and listened. One of the group, always an inquisitive sort, ask another, the apparent leader, “See that blind beggar over there? Who sinned to cause his condition to be such as it is? Him or his parents?”
The prisoner could trace it back years and years. Enslaved at the age of twelve, the addiction grew, a malignancy in his soul, until he was helpless to extricate himself from it and powerless to avoid it’s lure.
Years past – years of broken vows, both to himself and to others. Resolutions did not make a difference. Pledges were empty.
Sitting on the edge of a metal prison bunk, the prisoner realized that he had been imprisoned long before the shackles were affixed and the iron door slammed for the first time. His whole life had been one of deceit and concealment. His existence characterized by a fear of the terrible secret becoming known by those around him.
A façade was maintained successfully for years. Outwardly successful, respected and honored as a man of God, he carried his secret with him, never far from exposure but separated from a life of victory and purpose by a gaping chasm.
He remembered the day, only a few short months before, the secret went public. He could still see the hurt in the eyes of his loved ones as they realized the depth of his depravity. A full thirty years after his spiritual imprisonment began, the physical incarceration commenced.
Family became estranged, friends withdrew and total strangers made snap judgments about him. And the world was watching…
Watching to see how this man of privilege and prestige would cope with the loss of every single worldly possession, all position and his respectability.
Watching to determine whether God would judge and discipline this man who had so successfully juggled his double-mindedness and his double standard for so long.
Watching to acquire proof that the decision made to surrender to the Will of God – a decision too late made, most would say – was yet another attempt to manipulate others and thereby avoid punishment.
Watching to ascertain the strength of the man who had had it all and lost it so quickly and so tragically.
Reflection birthed revelation.
He was not in prison only because the parole board willed it. Release was not delayed due to crime, time or the whim of seven people he had never met. Freedom did not elude him to serve some perceived need of the people of the state for confinement to follow conviction.
Sure, these all a temporally correct, but, as though the veil separating him from the solution of a grand mystery was slowly rent, a hint of the bigger picture – the underlying purpose – began to form in his mind.
As he read the next words, sitting alone in his cell, it was as if the Master was speaking across the centuries and over the miles directly to him. “He was born blind so that the power of God could be seen in him.” (John 9:3b – New Living Translation)
For more Ponderings, click here.
