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I once thought Mercy was as simple as giving second chances. And third chances. And fourth chances. And fifth and sixth and seventh and eighth chances. An infinite amount of chances. I thought that we were ordered by Mercy to pardon everyone from those who made menial mistakes to the enemies liable for our greatest physical and psychological wounds.
I now realize that Mercy is less about accepting apologies and more about the process of healing. Mercy is the angel on my shoulder glowing with purity and compassion, halo representing the crowning glory of self-forgiveness, wings that will someday grant us freedom from the malice and hatred and sorrow that this earthly world contains. Mercy gives food to the hungry without judgment of the reasons underlying starvation, and she exonerates the most erroneous of crimes—even the crimes you committed against yourself. When he touched you without consent, Mercy was the embrace of the first person who told you it was not your fault. Mercy is the first time that you finally believed it. Mercy is when you forgave yourself for never being able to forgive him.
I once thought that Justice was the reverse. That she was the blood-red devil weighing heavily on the opposite shoulder, recklessly angry, a forever fighter (never a lover). In the face of wrongdoing, she tempted me with the promise of retribution and payback and the frigidity of vengeance running through my veins. I feared Justice—and I was not even on the receiving end. I naively thought I had to choose between Mercy and Justice. Justice felt like too much of a burden to carry, and I was weak enough by this point.
Until I realized that Justice is not a devil at all. She is a soldier. And it is not retribution she seeks, per se; rather, Justice seeks respect and harmony and peace. So. Much. Peace. Justice empowers the powerless. She is honest and brave and resilient. She is the sister-friend who marches beside you to advocate for women’s rights. She is the representative who hears of your abuse and understands that in order for real change to happen, we need better policies, increased protection, an entire societal shift in thinking. Justice not only hears you when you speak, she perseveres until your worth as a human being is honored.
I got to thinking: If my definitions of Mercy and Justice carry such extensive baggage,
what kind of baggage does society hold and how is it reflected on both the micro and macro levels? Is Mercy perceived as more loving but for the weak, while Justice is inappropriately perceived as vengeful but nevertheless effective? Is this why we choose to align with one or the other? And how is this dialectical response creating unnecessary noise in our existential journey toward growth? How is it informing our governmental policy, the criminal Justice system, ethical procedures, economic norms? How about Social Justice? Because when we explicitly choose one, we also actively reject the other.
Social Justice advocacy is inspiring. We are a passionate group of people but we are also infuriated—it is a helpless feeling to realize that you have been blinded from very strategic atrocities and muted when responding to them. It is freeing to speak in a world you have only experienced silently, but it is exhausting to speak those words when they fall among deaf ears. And it is in this endless cycle of enlightenment, powerlessness, and the illusion of freedom that the fire within surfaces and consumes, and Justice becomes our mission.
But in keeping our linguistic baggage in mind, it can feel like there is no space for Social Mercy in the intimidating face of Social Justice. We do not want to find ourselves looking ignorant in the midst of a movement, but we want to fight. We want to learn, but we do not want to look stupid asking the questions. I propose that this phenomenon is occurring due to one of two reasons:
1. You are not ready to be merciful towards yourself—which requires that you confront your failings and work hard to lessen any cognitive dissonance potentially sparked by incongruent actions. Could it be that you refuse to forgive yourself because you are not ready to terminate the behaviors that do not align with the very beliefs you say you fight for? And the guilt associated with being merciful toward yourself is overpowering, so you opt out of self-forgiveness altogether?
2. Others are not being merciful toward you. And if you are truly doing the hard stuff—confronting your own ignorance, persevering, remaining open-minded—do not let mercilessness stop you. Some of us have been so wronged that Mercy is not a feasible option quite yet. Show them Mercy instead. We are all just trying to do our best.
Because. The realization that I can raucously advocate for peace, while also holding myself to a standard of grace not perfection. The knowledge that I am going to mess up in the process. The commitment and intentionality to never stop trying. The epiphany that I am both propelled by the fire, and inspired to warm others with my fumes. This is what it means to be living justly and mercifully. And so, I challenge you to consider: In what ways are you living dialectically? And how can you benefit by living a more integrated truth?
Written By Shelby M. Burton, B.S.
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