Jean Valjean embodied desperation and despair as he skulked through the winding streets of the French city of Digne. His fist was clenched around the yellow passport that had become a treacherous omen. He had been imprisoned for nineteen years for stealing bread and for subsequent escape attempts. Now, with freedom granted, a grim realization settled in his mind: this pale-yellow token would only lead him to prejudice and humiliation. He could not work. No inn would feed or house him.

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With his energy waning and unable to bear another rejection, he collapsed onto a stone bench. He wallowed in pity and frustration until a passing woman suggested he visit the church.

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Valjean greeted the bishop with brutal honesty. He showed him the passport. He explained his plight—offering the bishop every lawful excuse to slam the door in his face. But rather than bristle at the hardened man, the bishop welcomed him. He honored him with the title monsieur. Embarrassed by such kindness, Valjean insisted the bishop acknowledge his past. The bishop simply replied, “Your name is my brother.”

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Valjean wanted to receive this mercy and become the kind of man who deserved it. But his demons stirred his instinct for survival, and that night he took the silver from the bishop’s home and slipped into the darkness.

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With silver in his hands and guilt pounding in his chest, he would not get far.
He never does.
Accusation always catches up.

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Long before Victor Hugo imagined a desperate man standing accused in a French village, Scripture opened with a similar scene—not on cobblestone streets, but in the courtroom of heaven.

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In the fourth vision of Zechariah, the prophet is transported into that heavenly courtroom. The defendant is a well-known man: Joshua the high priest. Born in captivity and returned to Jerusalem under Persian decree, Joshua stands before the court clothed in stained garments. At his right stands the Satan—the Accuser—prepared to expose the filth of Israel’s spiritual representative.

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But before the accusation can land, the Angel of the LORD interrupts:

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“The LORD rebuke you, Satan!
The LORD who has chosen Jerusalem rebuke you!
Is this not a brand plucked from the fire?”
 

 Zechariah 3:2 (NKJV)

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Israel had already passed through judgment. The fire of exile had done its work. And now, in a stunning act of mercy, the Angel commands:

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“Take away the filthy garments from him.”
And to him He said, “See, I have removed your iniquity from you,

and I will clothe you with rich robes.”

 

Zechariah 3:4 (NKJV)

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Joshua was guilty. The stains were real. But mercy spoke first. Heaven met the demands of justice and removed the penalty entirely. Joshua did nothing but stand there and receive.

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Back in Digne, Valjean was quickly arrested and dragged before the bishop. The evidence was clear. Guilt was undeniable. Justice waited for its confirmation. But instead of condemnation, mercy interrupted once again. The bishop placed the remaining silver into Valjean’s hands and said, “Go in peace.”

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Just like that, Valjean was innocent—though guilty.
Gifted what he had stolen.
Invited into a new future.

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As Zechariah watched Joshua clothed in heaven’s righteousness, the Angel of the LORD declared:

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“Hear, O Joshua, the high priest…
For behold, I am bringing forth My Servant the BRANCH.”
 

Zechariah 3:8 (NKJV)

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The vision pointed beyond Joshua. Beyond exile. Beyond the courtroom.

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The Branch God promised would come forth arrived hundreds of years later in the city of David. He embodied both the truth of God and the grace of God in a world desperate to suppress them. Yet rather than widening the distance between God and humanity, this Branch would close it.

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The Accuser still speaks.
The stains are still real.
But Heaven has already rendered its verdict.

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This heavenly vision sings that mercy has interrupted the charge.
Righteousness has been given, not earned.

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And the God who once rebuked Satan in heaven has entered the world to silence him forever.

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In the wake of this grace,
we receive a gift we do not deserve,
we are spared the penalty our sin has earned,
and we are invited into the family of the One we once offended.