Key Verse: “Acquitting the guilty and condemning the
innocent—both are detestable to the LORD.” (v.15)
The beach had traded rain for brightness. Not the soft kind—this was sharp, revealing light, the kind that shows every footprint before the tide gets ideas. The ocean kept its steady rhythm, indifferent to headlines. A breeze carried the scent of salt and sunscreen.
Solomon waited near a line of weathered posts, shoes off, linen shirt moving with the wind. Silver-streaked hair tied back. He tapped the edge of his leather notebook against his palm, slow and measured.
“No more rainy days.,” he said, scanning the horizon. “Clear weather exposes things.”
We walked closer to the water. The sand was cool underfoot. He opened the notebook. Today’s page wasn’t sketches or symbols—it was columns. Labels. Systems. Courts. Gates. Councils.
“In this passage,” he began, “I talk about how people respond to correction, how money speaks, how promises are made too quickly.” He tapped the page. “But all of it lives inside public life. Not just homes—institutions.”
I frowned. “Proverbs always felt… personal.”
“It is,” he said. “And it’s public. Wisdom doesn’t clock out when you enter a courtroom, write policy, or cast a vote.”
He spoke through the full passage, Proverbs 17:10-18—not reading, remembering. Rebuke that reshapes the wise. Fools untouched by punishment. Trouble stirred intentionally. Bribes smoothing outcomes. Pledges made without foresight. Then he stopped.
The world slowed—the waves holding their breath, gulls hovering like punctuation marks in the sky.
Then he said it plainly: “Acquitting the guilty and condemning the innocent—both are detestable to the LORD.”
The words felt bigger here, carried by open air. “That sounds like a headline,” I said.
“It should,” Solomon replied. “I wrote it for gates and councils. For judges, legislators, and leaders. For anyone entrusted with the power to decide who bears the cost when systems move forward.”
Out beyond the break, a surfer paddled hard, dropped in to a clean waist-high wave, and rose to his feet. Solomon watched him ride the face of it, steady and balanced.
“Public injustice rarely begins with villains,” he said. “It begins with rationalizations.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Calling injustice ‘Efficiency. Stability. Party loyalty. The greater good.’” His smile thinned. “Words that make injustice feel responsible.”
I thought of trials streamed online, late-night votes rushed through chambers, press conferences that explained away harm. “So what’s wisdom supposed to do—protest everything?”
“Wisdom starts by refusing to lie,” Solomon said. “In the public square, truth is usually the first casualty. A wise person guards it.”
He slid the notebook forward and sketched a scale. One side he labeled Facts. The other, Narrative.
“When spin outweighs reality,” he said, “verdicts tilt. Policy bends. Innocence becomes expendable.”
He didn’t look at the page. He looked at me.
“Before this ever reaches a courtroom,” he said, “it shows up in smaller rooms.”
I waited.
“When you repeat a story because it flatters your side. When you assume motives without evidence. When you stay quiet because the truth would make things awkward.”
He closed the notebook. “That’s how people practice for bigger injustices.”
“But systems are messy,” I pushed back. “Compromise is how anything gets done.”
“Compromise is not the same as inversion,” he said, leaning in. “I’m not condemning negotiation. I’m condemning calling wrong right because it’s useful.” He paused. “When institutions punish truth-tellers to protect reputations, they don’t just silence individuals—they train an entire culture.”
He knelt and drew two paths in the sand. One straight. One slowly bending toward shadow.
“Public injustice,” he said, “is personal injustice scaled up.”
A lifeguard’s whistle cut through the air—sharp, corrective. Solomon smiled faintly. “Truth-telling isn’t hatred. It’s care with a spine.”
I felt the tension rise. “But what about safety? Careers get ruined. People get crushed.”
His voice softened. He tapped the notebook—authority shaped by regret. “I know. I watched courts sell justice. At times, I benefited from it. And I paid for it later.” He looked out at the water. “Wisdom doesn’t promise protection from consequences. It promises you won’t lose your soul trying to avoid them.”
The tide crept higher, erasing his lines. He stood.
“In this passage,” he said, “I warn about bribes because they don’t just change outcomes—they reshape hearts. About pledges because public promises made without wisdom become traps. About correction because leaders who can’t receive it eventually persecute those who offer it.”
“So how should a wise person deal with injustice out there?” I asked, gesturing toward the city beyond the beach.
“Three things,” he said, counting on his fingers. “First: tell the truth plainly—facts over spin. Second: refuse shortcuts that punish the innocent, even when it may appear to hurt ‘your side’. Third: stay human. Don’t become what you oppose.”
He closed the notebook. The sun was higher now. The beach louder. Life resumed at full speed.
I watched the water swallow our footprints. Lines don’t last here. You have to redraw them every day.
What? God calls it detestable when power flips justice—excusing guilt or punishing innocence—whether in courts, governments, or institutions.
So What? Because societies are shaped by what they reward and punish; when truth-tellers are condemned, everyone learns to lie quietly.
Now What? Choose one public issue you engage with—news, work, or community—and commit to facts over spin this week, even if it costs you comfort.
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