Evidence In The Courtroom Of The Universe

Part One — The Accusation

If you were arrested for being a Christian, would there be enough evidence to convict you?

That question, simple as it sounds, has a way of slipping beneath our armor. It doesn’t ask about your denomination, your baptism certificate, or the hymns you grew up singing in Sabbath School. It doesn’t ask whether you’ve served as a deacon or taught a class or sat in the same pew for thirty years. It leaps past all of that and asks something far more unsettling: Is there something about you that reveals Jesus Himself?

We don’t like questions like that because they don’t let us hide. They peel away every badge of identity and look straight at the soul. But sometimes that’s exactly what we need. Sometimes God invites us into a deeper honesty than we would ever dare choose for ourselves.

So I want you to imagine something with me. It may be uncomfortable at first, but stay with it. Picture yourself in a courtroom—not as a spectator, not as a juror, but as the one on trial. The courtroom is hushed. Everyone rises as the judge enters. He takes His seat, looks down over the room, and nods to the bailiff.

The charge is read aloud with solemnity: “This person stands accused of being a follower of Jesus Christ.”

You swallow hard. You didn’t see this coming. You weren’t prepared. And now everything about your life will be examined in the open. You look to your left and see the prosecutor rise. His expression is unreadable, neither hostile nor friendly. He simply says, “Your Honor, the state intends to present evidence that this individual is indeed one who belongs to Jesus of Nazareth.”

But then he pauses—just long enough for you to wonder whether he actually has anything to present. He clears his throat and glances down at an empty folder. Something in your chest tightens.

And that’s when the deeper question hits you: If someone were to gather the moments of your life—your habits, your words, your private decisions, your reactions under pressure—would they find anything that unmistakably points to Christ?

Would anyone step forward to say, “Yes, I’ve seen Jesus in her compassion,” or “I’ve witnessed His spirit in his patience,” or “I’ve watched how she treats people when she doesn’t need to impress anyone”?

Would your spouse be able to whisper, “Yes, he’s different since Christ entered his life”?

Would your children say, “My mother is not perfect, but she models Jesus to me”?

Would your coworkers notice that you respond differently than others do—that your calm, your integrity, your refusal to retaliate or speak harshly is not natural but supernatural?

Or would the silence in that courtroom be suffocating?

Because the truth is, there are moments when our lives look more like the world than like Christ. Moments when our reactions betray us. Moments when the fruit Jesus spoke of is hard to find. Moments when the prosecutor would have to search through scraps of our behavior to see whether grace has actually changed anything within us.

Jesus said something both beautiful and uncomfortable: “By their fruits you will know them.” He didn’t say, “By their membership you will know them,” or “By their Sabbath-keeping,” or “By their theological correctness.” He said fruits—evidence, the lived-out reality of a transformed heart.

James takes it even deeper, insisting that faith without works is dead—not because works save us, but because real faith cannot help but produce a changed life. Grace never leaves a person where it found them. It doesn’t simply forgive; it transforms. It doesn’t merely pardon; it renews. Where Jesus moves in, evidence eventually follows.

So the question stands before us with a quiet but relentless persistence: If you were arrested for being a Christian, would there be enough evidence to convict you?

Not evidence that you believe Christianity is true.

Plenty of people believe that in theory.

Not evidence that you attend services faithfully.

Crowds followed Jesus without being His disciples.

Not evidence that you can articulate doctrinal distinctives.

The Pharisees could do that flawlessly.

The question is whether Christ is alive in you, whether His presence has reshaped the contours of your identity, your desires, your choices, your voice, your habits, your temperament, your loyalties.

And that question leads us straight into something larger—something that reaches far beyond your personal story or your own spiritual journey. That question opens a door into a much bigger reality: the great controversy.

We sometimes forget that our own lives do not unfold on a small stage. We are not living out a private drama seen only by God and ourselves. Scripture tells us that the universe is watching, that our lives unfold in a cosmic courtroom, that what we choose and how we live bears witness to the truth about God’s character in the face of an enemy’s accusations.