Some years ago, Jesus took me to a new place that I hadn’t
expected: it was a tall, oak, judge’s bench. He took me around the back of the
bench, and up the stairs behind it. But rather than sit down himself, he sat me
in the great chair behind the bench, and when I sat, I was wearing black robes
and I had a wooden gavel in my right hand.
I’ve learned to trust him in that place, and so I didn’t
resist him, though my sitting in that chair was more of a novelty that first
time than it was about actually judging anything. Since then, I’ve begun to
learn some things about judgment, how important it is, how powerful it is, and
especially how very good it is.
I was charged with judging my brothers and sisters, but
judging from Heaven’s perspective, from the perspective of a King who’s madly
in love with them, who’s unreasonably proud of them, who’s amazed and overjoyed
with their every step of faith. So the judgments that I’ve been invited to
pronounce are about God’s favor on his children; I’ve been charged with finding
them guilty of pleasing their Father, and sentencing them to be loved and
adored for all their natural lives, and beyond! It’s better work than I first
feared it would be; I’ve actually come to love that bench.
But some of the judicial work has been darker than that.
Once, I was praying intensely for a dear sister against whom hell was having a
measure of success. Jesus brought me around to the stairs and up to the bench.
I could see more clearly from up there, and with his help, I saw the cloud of
filthy spirits that were harassing my sister. “Judge them,” he said, and I understood.
I began to recognize their crimes, and as I identified them
– the spirits and their crimes – I spoke its name. As I did, it was as if the
gavel moved on its own, gently tapping, “Guilty!” to each charge. With each
tap, a demon was bound and hauled of. Soon, I got into it, reaching into the Spirit
for the discernment of each spirit and shouting its name, its crime: the gavel banged
and the demon was bound. This, too, was judgment I could get excited about.
I needed to be careful, in my exuberance, to still judge
accurately, according to what was true, not merely because I felt bad for my
sister’s misery: this was a matter of justice,
not pity, and it was a mighty justice
that was handed down that day, and other days like it. I’ve developed the
opinion that this judge’s bench is an excellent place for intercession.
There was one day, though, that I still shake my head about.
It happened some years back, and I’m only now understanding what may have
actually gone on.
God the Father somberly walked up to me, and he was looking
really quite serious: he was cloaked in a rich black judge’s robe, and his eyes
were as intense and alive with fire as I’ve ever seen them. With his eyes fixed
on mine, he slowly opened his robe. I was surprised to see a red plaid shirt
underneath, but before I had opportunity to react in surprise, he pulled a
shotgun from the depths of his open robe, and handed it to me. Startled, I took
it from him and glanced at it. Yep, that’s a shotgun, all right.
I looked up again, and now the robe was gone, and with it,
the stern look from Father’s face. Instead, he sported a red hunter’s cap and a
huge grin, and he held up a shotgun of his own. Movement caught my eye, and I
saw Jesus, similarly attired with plaid shirt, red hat, grin and shotgun.
Father asked, “You ready, Son?” but before I could answer, the air above our
heads was suddenly filled with demons, their leathery wings flapping frantically
as they zigged and zagged about the room.
Father laughed mightily, hoisted his shotgun and fired; a
demon exploded into a black cloud. Jesus cheered and blasted another one. Soon
all three of us were shouting and hollering and laughing uproariously. And
blasting demons to tiny black dust. Shotgun blasts were interspersed with
shouts of encouragement, great fits of laughter and the soft splatter of the
demons shards. They had met their maker, and it had not gone well for them. He
is a very good shot, actually.
I had enjoyed this experience so much that I hadn’t stopped
to ask what it meant until recently; the answer wasn’t particularly surprising;
something about “casting down arguments and every high thing that exalts itself
against the knowledge of God.” But the experience was, frankly, a great deal of
fun. “Spiritual warfare” and “fun”: two concepts I never expected to put
together.
That hunting party only happened the one time. I think it
was more about teaching me a lesson than a regular part of our business in that
place. He’s a good teacher, by the way: I’ve never forgotten that experience,
though I’ve been slower to learn its lesson.
