Author’s content warning: This article includes mentions of sexual assault, murder and violence.
I had the opportunity to participate in jury duty for the first time in October.
As jury duty does for most folks, it came at an incredibly inconvenient time (how rude of the state to interrupt my oh-so-important projects at work).
Regardless, I showed up dutifully at 8 a.m. and waited for my name to be called. Sure enough, I was assigned a number as a potential juror on a case. They handed me a sticker with my number on it, and I placed it on my chest.
After 60 of us had been chosen, we were taken upstairs to a courtroom. We sat down in numerical order and awaited instructions.
The judge let us know that outside of the courtroom, we were people with our own lives. But in this space, we were only the numbers stickered to our chests: anonymous citizens doing the important work of justice. We would stay as long as it took to identify the 12 people who would serve on this more-than-a-week-long trial.
She then read the shocking indictment of the accused perpetrator; cold reality set in. We knew that, if chosen, our responsibility to administer justice would be a heavy weight indeed.
Then, they began the screening process. They called it “screening,” but I can only describe it as liturgy.
The attorneys were our liturgists, without judgment leading us in a somber call and response. The call was a list of questions; our response was to lift our numbered cards if the questions applied to us.
“Have you or a loved one been a victim of a violent crime?” “Have you or a loved one been a victim of prostitution, sexual assault or sexual abuse?” “Have you lost a loved one to murder?”
Silently, blue cards rose and fell with the attorneys asking each of the dozens of personal questions. If we raised a card, we were required to keep it raised until a court clerk said our number aloud for the judge and attorneys to write down. A permanent record of our confession.
The rest of the day was full of individual questioning. One by one, jurors stood up and took the microphone as our liturgists-turned-inquisitors asked us for clarification on our responses. And thus, the courtroom transformed into a communal confessional booth.
“Juror Number X, you indicated that you or a loved one has been a victim of a violent crime. Who were you thinking of? How long ago did it happen? Was the crime prosecuted? Were you satisfied with the outcome of that trial?”
And so on. For every single question about various traumatic experiences that they had asked the entire group earlier.
As a community of strangers, we engaged in this practice of confession. In most cases, we weren’t confessing our own sins; rather, we were confessing the sins that had been committed against us or our loved ones.
Some jurors stoically answered the questions with little emotion. Others teared up at recalling those traumatic events. Regardless, everyone told the truth with a boldness that was humbling.
The atmosphere was heavy-laden with holy listening. Stranger next to stranger, we all honored the stories we heard. We were all the confessors and the priests, holding space for those protected only by the anonymity of the numbers we wore on our chests as we each awaited our own turn at the confessional mic.
Even though this was a civic duty required by the state, I can only describe the experience as sacred.
As folks clearly shaken by publicly sharing these truths returned to their seats, the strangers they sat next to hugged their shoulders and offered tissues. When jurors shared things that – in spite of the heaviness of the occasion – were a bit humorous, we laughed in solidarity with the exasperation they felt.
In that room, we were an anonymous community, known only by the numbers we bore. And perhaps that anonymity is what inspired the unabashed honesty we shared.
As I listened to 40-plus potential jurors participate in this public confessional, I couldn’t help but wonder what the Church would be if it embraced this kind of honesty.
How different would the Church be if it listened to truths like these as they are uttered, not decades after the fact? What would the Church look like if it took sins committed against one another as seriously as it took upholding its traditions?
Too few congregations address the real evils of white supremacy, sexual abuse in the Church and innumerable other evils, choosing to focus on shallow teaching that make them feel good.
Some even go so far as to cover up those evils within their own congregations to protect the institution of the Church. But is the institution worth protecting if it cannot face its own judgment?
As I witnessed in the courtroom that day, true justice cannot roll down like water unless we are willing to be bold truth-tellers.
Once that truth has been told, we need people who are willing to do what is needed in order to enact the necessary justice those situations require. For without justice, our rituals are nothing but noise to God’s ears.
I was not selected to participate on this jury, but I was reminded that all people of faith have indeed been chosen. By confessing faith in the Almighty God, we have chosen and been chosen to live a life of boldness.
A bivocational pastor, writer and spiritual director based in Williamsburg, Virginia, she currently works as a Spiritual Director at Reclamation Theology. Cawthon-Freels is the author of Reclamation: A Queer Pastor’s Guide to Finding Spiritual Growth in the Passages Used to Harm Us (Nurturing Faith Books), and a contributing correspondent at Good Faith Media.
