The Twenty-third Sunday in Ordinary Time

The Readings for Sunday, September 3, 2005: Exodus 33:7-9; Romans 13:8-10; Matthew 18:15-20.

"IF YOUR BROTHER SINS AGAINST YOU..."

It’s not court TV, it’s his job. And it brings to mind the conflicts at the heart of today’s gospel. “Ted” is a bailiff and the view from his desk is that of a municipal courtroom: an endless procession of people charged with offences ranging from D.U.I.’s to domestic violence to vehicular homicide.

The court is not in session today and the echo of our footsteps reminds me of an empty church.

He hands me a sheaf of papers.

Three assaults, one driving-while-under-suspension, five motions to suppress evidence, three motions to mitigate, two cases of domestic violence.

As bailiff, Ted decides who appears before the judge and when; he schedules the rotation of trials, hearings, pleas and motions.

"What’s the hardest part of your job?” I ask.

“Not judging.”

He leans on a railing. “Drugs. Lack of guidance. Lack of family stability.” His voice is heavy. “It’s a mess down here.”

Ted is in his mid-thirties. He’s married and has three children.

“Sometimes the same name appears on the docket within a two-week period,” he says. "Last week a man appeared before the judge on his sixth D.U.I.”

He shakes his head. “This isn't a job to take home with you.”

Ted admits that he feels sorrow for the repeat offenders, but makes it clear that an emotional buffer is essential if he’s to perform his work well.

“Some people just want their day in court,” he says. “I’ve seen people plea innocent than admit their guilt as soon as they take the stand.” He shrugs. “They had something to say and wanted to be heard.”

“What makes you a good bailiff?” I ask.

He looks me in the eye. “I’m a good listener. It’s the most important quality that I bring to my job.”

I hand back the papers; he thumbs through them.

“I try to understand the situations they’re facing,” he says. “I do my best to communicate respect.”

We head back down the aisle. I remark that the pews have a familiar look.

Ted laughs. “There’s probably more prayers offered here than at Mass on Sunday.”

“You’re probably right,” I say. “What about mercy?”

“That too.”

There’s a new energy in his voice. “Sometimes people manage to turn their lives around.”

“Such as?”

“Such as when the judge orders family counseling and it results in positive, verifiable change.”

“How often does that happen?”

“About one in five.”

“Only 20% of the time?”

“It’s a ray of hope, Father.”

We stop and Ted rubs his hand across the worn edge of a pew. “And then there are expungements. We have about five of those a week.”

“Expungements?”

“Wiping the slate clean.” He raps the wood with his knuckles. “After a two-year period and no repeat offences, the record can be expunged.”

I nod. “A good example of mercy. Mind if I use it in a homily some day?”

Ted crosses his arms. “If you ask me,” he looks toward the bench, “it’s more about conversion than mercy.”

HOMILETIC REFLECTION

This was one of those interviews where the job setting of one of my parishioners brought an entirely new perspective to a familiar passage.

As a preacher, I tend to view the biblical scenes in a prepackaged manner, i.e. the text presents a human dilemma and faith offers a way to solve the problem.

Not so easily accomplished in real life. As Ted made clear, in the arena of criminal justice, a 20% success rate is a sign of remarkable grace.

I’m not sure if my conversation with Ted will show up in next weekend’s homily, but I’m confident that the sobering reality of conflict—and its deep ramifications—will be playing in the background.