“Justice is the constant and perpetual will to allot to every man his due.”

–Ulpian (ancient Roman jurist)

At least in the Carolinas, if not the entire nation, folks were recently riveted by the Alex Murdaugh trial. Perhaps not since the OJ Simpson trial has there been any spectacle so closely followed. The jury had barely been seated and Netflix had a series out, documenting the Murdaughs’ morass of mayhem, mishaps, and murder.

I’m sure we all know now of the trial’s outcome and the judge’s sentence. The guilty verdict was returned in about three hours, but at least one juror has subsequently claimed they reached their final decision within forty-five minutes of deliberation. The judge imposed two life sentences, running consecutively no less, on a man who was the latest iteration of a family of prominent South Carolina attorneys and public servants … and he hasn’t even been tried for financial shenanigans and fraud charges that could result in hundreds of years in prison.

A once powerful and powerfully built man now humbled and gaunt, stood before a judge while wearing a jailhouse jumpsuit. A man who once “had it all” was reduced to an individual who has nothing–not even someone to speak for him at his sentencing. No, not even a family member. Understandable, I guess.

Would any plea for mercy have helped? Unlikely. The judge said the crimes were so egregious that Mother Teresa herself couldn’t have altered his decision on sentencing.

What intrigued me–bothered me even–was our very human tendency to turn on this man. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not defending what he did. I’m with the likely 99.something percent of Americans who couldn’t fathom what would make a man even consider murdering his wife and child, much less do it. But for so-called objective journalists to make snide, judgmental comments and to see people gathered en masse outside the courtroom carrying hate signs? I don’t know; it just didn’t feel right to me.

Did his fully displayed inhumanity somehow betray a touch of our own? Wouldn’t it have just been enough to shake our heads in disbelief at the horror of his crimes, acknowledge that justice was served, and move past this ugly chapter in our society’s book?

All of this to ask the question: Could we possibly forgive him? Not forget what was done, and by no means condone it, but accept it for what it was and somehow forgive him? Is there anything that could possibly make that happen for any of us? I don’t know.

Years from now, what if we learn he spent his days in prison using his legal expertise to help other inmates who were possibly wrongly convicted? What if we learn that Murdaugh had been a model prisoner, or a prison chaplain assured us he’d restored his faith or newly discovered it? Could any of that ever alter our opinion of him? Again, I don’t know.

But remember, this is exactly what God has done for us. In our flawed and broken humanity, believers know we’re forgiven. We embrace the doctrine of justification by faith, meaning our slate of sins–even murder–is wiped clean, as though God enters “command a” and then hits the “delete” button. The real catch is this: He also expects us to do the same, or at least try.

It’s been said that justice is getting what you deserve, mercy is not getting what you deserve, and grace is getting what you don’t deserve. By all accounts, Murdaugh got justice and didn’t deserve mercy. Does he now deserve grace? From where we sit, ensconced in our seats of judgment, no.

But by the very definition of grace, neither do we.