Early in December, President Joe Biden pardoned his son Hunter, sparing the younger Biden from a possible prison sentence for federal felony gun and tax convictions — and reversing his past promises to not use presidential power for the express benefit of his family. I was not sure what to think. Presidents often pardon large swaths of people at the end of their term, but to pardon your child raises different questions: Should we flag the flagrant nepotism or acknowledge that parental love doesn’t prioritize fairness? What precedent does this set for the next administration, particularly as President-elect Trump has spoken publicly about pardoning January 6 insurrectionists?
I was not the only one with mixed feelings. When the news broke, a cacophony of polarized sentiment poured out on X, Facebook, and news agencies from all political leanings. The right called Biden soft and phony, the left called him impetuous and inept. Some even accused him of being a democracy-ruiner.
While I have my own political leanings, I do not wish to comment on the political rightness or wrongness of Biden’s pardon of his son. What I do think is worthy of reflection, however, is our culture’s reaction to the pardon. I heard someone on a podcast recently define our culture as one of “atonement without forgiveness.” We want justice, and rightfully so. But how can Christians walk the delicate line that the prophet Micah asked of us, “To act justly, to love mercy, and walk humbly with our God” (Michah 6:8)? In response to the pardon, I hear an ample and understandable outcry for justice. What I do not hear is the love of mercy.
In response to the pardon, I hear an ample and understandable outcry for justice. What I do not hear is the love of mercy.
Our Presbyterian tradition offers us resources for our theological thinking about the societal and theological tensions of justice and mercy. Every Sunday morning, those who follow a traditional order of worship see that enraging and polarizing word, “Pardon,” in our church bulletins. Worship begins not with preaching or an affirmation of belief but with confession and pardon.
During confession, we acknowledge the destructive reality of sin and the dire need for God’s justice and judgment. We intentionally end this time in silence. Maybe there’s something Pat, Anthony, Michelle, or Emmanuel needs to say to God, and maybe they just haven’t had a chance. I like to leave the silence just long enough that it feels awkward and interrupt the reverie with a boastful declaration of the good news. Grace meets us as a surprise.
In the “assurance of pardon” that follows, I often reference Romans 8 — the words that sat open in the Bible atop my grandmother’s casket. “Nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Not height nor depth, death nor life… Nothing can separate us.”
It’s that word, nothing, that has the power to turn us red with apoplectic rage. Of course, there’s something that separates us from God, right? If not, then how do we know where we fit in the cosmic meritocratic pecking order? How do we know who’s right and wrong, saint and sinner, good and bad, enough and not enough?
Nevertheless, every Sunday morning people all over the world get pardoned by Jesus. Young and old, rich and poor, death-row convicts and 5th graders who cheated on a math quiz. Every Sunday, people are provided assurance that God does not remember their sins. Nothing can separate us. If Hunter Biden, Donald Trump, and the insurrectionists all attended First Presbyterian Salisbury next Sunday, I would be compelled to offer them this assurance.
If Hunter Biden, Donald Trump, and the insurrectionists all attended First Presbyterian Salisbury next Sunday, I would be compelled to offer them the assurance that “nothing can separate us from God.”
Some might object that the order matters here. Pardon follows confession — there must be an acknowledgment of wrongdoing, they might say. But theologically, it is the assurance of grace that leads one to confess. If you make it the other way around, you make works the preamble to forgiveness. And that’s just not the gospel. Christ died while we were yet sinners, not once we were perfect.
This wild, frustrating grace is an unexpected gift, an undeserved pardon. That is the gospel in miniature. And just when we are self-righteously incredulous at God’s grace toward sinners, we might remember that at the center of this gospel is a story about a father pardoning his son.
The religious teachers of Israel were pissed that Jesus dared to eat with tax collectors and sinners. And rather than debate, Jesus told a story we know as “the Prodigal son.” There was a son who wasted his inheritance on the ancient equivalent of sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. Eventually, once the trust fund dried up, the son returned, ashamed and defeated, and requested his father call him “slave” rather than “son.” Some readers suggest this is an act of repentance, but I see the language suggesting something else — shame erased the son’s identity.
Christ died while we were yet sinners, not once we were perfect.
The father, however, does not accept the son’s terms. He had watched the horizon for his beautiful boy, and when upon his return, the father ran to greet him, embracing his child and throwing a party in his honor. Many interpreters rightly highlight that running would’ve been off-putting, if not downright undignified, in Jesus’ time. Scholar Kenneth Bailey adds that the father may have been running to get to his son before the villagers did. The son had violated a sacred legacy. His punishment was banishment, or worse, death. But the father loves mercy, and his pardon reaches the boy before the village’s justice can.
Maybe you’re like me, and you’re politically frustrated by Biden’s pardon of his son. Maybe you’re absolutely enraged. In the end, I’ll have to think further about the political ramifications of a president’s use of such power. After all, Biden isn’t God, and his pardon and Jesus’ pardon are not the same thing.
I am concerned that Jesus’ story about a lost son’s pardon hasn’t found its way into our Christian imaginations.
Nevertheless, I am concerned that Jesus’ story about a lost son’s pardon hasn’t found its way into our Christian imaginations. Our culture may not be in the forgiveness business, but the church is. We seek atonement without forgiveness. This grace, I would argue, is the most unique reality the church has to offer the world. God approaches us even as we squander away everything like the younger son. God, like the father in the parable, has been watching and waiting for us. Even when we lose sight of our belovedness, God runs toward us. And the good news for those of us who deem such forgiveness ridiculous? The father never stops running.
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