The Empty Chair at the Table: Finding Grace in the Age of Digital Judgment

Have you ever walked past a group of colleagues huddled together, voices lowered, only to hear a name you recognize—someone who isn't there to defend themselves? That uncomfortable feeling in your stomach, that mixture of curiosity and conviction, tells you something important about the human heart.

We know, deep down, that there's something wrong with speaking ill of the absent. 

Yet in our digital age, we've created vast virtual rooms where millions gather to discuss those who will never know they were the topic of conversation.

St. Augustine of Hippo took this matter so seriously that he posted a sign in his dining room: "Whoever thinks himself able to gnaw at the life of absent friends, let him know that he is unworthy of this table" (Possidius, The Life of Saint Augustine, Chapter 22).

Picture that for a moment—one of the most brilliant minds in Christian history, a man who hosted emperors and bishops, choosing to make this his non-negotiable rule for fellowship.

In an age before social media, before anonymous comments and viral takedowns, Augustine recognized a fundamental truth about human nature: we are terribly prone to diminish others when they cannot speak for themselves.

 

The Ancient Wound in Digital Clothing

The commandment against bearing false witness (Exodus 20:16) wasn't merely about courtroom perjury. The Hebrew word used, ed sheker, encompasses any testimony that distorts truth about another person. The rabbis understood this commandment as protecting not just against outright lies, but against the subtle shadings of truth that destroy reputation—what they called lashon hara, the evil tongue.

Consider how Jesus elevates this understanding in the Sermon on the Mount. He doesn't merely condemn murder; he addresses the anger that breeds it. He doesn't only forbid adultery; he confronts the lust that conceives it. And when he speaks about judgment, he offers that striking image: "Why do you see the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye."

The Greek word for "see" here is blepeis—more than just happening to "see" something with our eyes, but to perceive it, inspect it; it's a continuous, focused observation. We become expert inspectors of others' faults while remaining blind to our own massive moral failures.

Social media has weaponized this ancient human tendency.

Where once gossip required physical presence and was limited by geography, now our judgments can reach thousands instantly. We've created what the philosopher Byung-Chul Han calls "the transparency society"—a world where everyone's life appears to be on display, inviting constant evaluation and judgment.

But here's the irony in that: the more we see, the less we truly know.

 

The Incomplete Picture

Think about your own social media presence for a moment.

What percentage of your life actually makes it online?

Perhaps you shared that beautiful sunrise from your morning walk, but not the argument with your spouse the night before. Maybe you posted about your child's academic achievement, but not about the sleepless nights spent worrying about their struggles with anxiety. We curate our digital selves, showing what we choose to show, hiding what we prefer to keep private.

But here's the thing. It's not just our "faults" we should hide. In fact, Jesus tells us to hide our virtues, our good deeds. The irony here is that the most pious of us, the "best" of us (as it were) are those the least likely to show off their goodness. You won't ever know about it.

Jesus himself taught, "Thus, when you give to the needy, sound no trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may be praised by others. Truly, I say to you, they have received their reward.  But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing,  so that your giving may be in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will reward you." (Matthew 6:2-4).

The Greek word for "secret" here is krypto—hidden, concealed, kept from public view. The geography of genuine holiness is often subterranean.

I once knew an elderly woman who spent her retirement years visiting prisoners, writing letters to the lonely, and quietly paying the grocery bills of struggling families in her neighborhood. Her social media presence consisted of occasional photos of her garden and her cat. Anyone judging her spiritual vitality by her online activity would have completely missed the profound kingdom work happening through her life.

As Thomas à Kempis wrote in The Imitation of Christ, "The more a man is united within himself, and becometh inwardly simple, so much the more and higher things doth he understand without labour; for that he receiveth intellectual light from above" (Book I, Chapter 3).

The men or women who are genuinely pursuing holiness, will keep their greatest works in secret. The digital age has created a strange inversion where those who trumpet their virtues online may be the spiritually poorest, while those whose feeds seem mundane might be giants of faith.

We must be careful not to read too much into someone's "silence," as if by not-talking they've said something that they might not have intended. After all, we do not know in which cases such people are actually doing great work, or making efforts, that we do not, and they do not intend us, to see.

 

The Temptation of Digital Virtue Signaling

The phenomenon of "virtue signaling"—publicly expressing opinions or sentiments intended to demonstrate one's good character or moral correctness—represents a peculiar temptation of our age. It's the Pharisee's prayer in digital form: "The Pharisee stood and prayed thus with himself, God, I thank thee, that I am not as other men are" (Luke 18:11), except now it's performed for an audience of hundreds or thousands.

The "likes" and "shares" become what the Gospel of John calls the praise of men: "For they loved the praise of men more than the praise of God" (John 12:43)—immediate but ultimately empty rewards that rob us of eternal treasure.

But there's a deeper danger here. When we engage in online virtue signaling, we're not just seeking praise; we're often implicitly condemning others. Every post about our charitable giving carries an unspoken judgment on those who didn't give. Every declaration of our moral stance implies criticism of those who disagree. We become like the religious leaders Jesus condemned, who "all their works they do for to be seen of men" (Matthew 23:5).

 

The Practice of Digital Charity

So how do we navigate this digital minefield with grace and wisdom? The answer begins with a recovery of that often-neglected virtue: charity. Not charity in the modern sense of giving to the poor, but caritas in the classical sense—the love that "beas all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things" (1 Corinthians 13:7).

Charity in digital spaces means assuming the best rather than the worst about others' intentions. When someone posts something that could be interpreted multiple ways, charity chooses the most generous interpretation. When we see only fragments of someone's life online, charity remembers that we're seeing through a glass darkly: "For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face" (1 Corinthians 13:12).

Consider how this might transform our online interactions. Before commenting on someone's post, we might ask ourselves: "Am I building up or tearing down? Am I speaking truth in love, or am I simply venting my frustration?" Before sharing that article criticizing a public figure we might pause to consider: "Would I say this if they were sitting across from me at my dinner table?"

Augustine's dining room sign challenges us to create our own boundaries for digital discourse. Perhaps we need our own modern version: "Whoever speaks evil of an absent person on this platform is not welcome in my feed."

This doesn't mean avoiding all disagreement or critique—iron sharpens iron, after all (Proverbs 27:17)—but it means conducting our disagreements with the dignity and respect due to those made in God's image. It means assuming the best of others. It means, when we have concerns, we go out of our way to be as complimentary and charitable as possible. We do not "selectively" choose those things that fit only our narrative, or will rally people to share our disdain, dislike, or even our concerned criticism of another.

 

The Hidden Kingdom

There's something profoundly countercultural about choosing hiddenness in an age of constant display. Yet this is precisely what kingdom living often requires. The mustard seed grows quietly underground before it becomes a tree. The leaven works invisibly through the dough. The treasure remains hidden in the field.

This doesn't mean (necessarily) complete withdrawal from digital spaces. Though, you may choose to do that. For many, these platforms provide genuine community, necessary information, and opportunities for encouragement. But it does mean approaching them with what the Desert Fathers called nepsis—watchfulness, sobriety, spiritual alertness. We must be aware of how these platforms shape us, tempt us, and potentially corrupt our hearts.

Benedict of Nursia, writing his Rule in the sixth century, prescribed regular periods of silence for his monks. He understood that constant speech, even good speech, could become a spiritual danger: "When words are many, transgression is not lacking, but whoever restrains his lips is prudent" (Proverbs 10:19). How much more do we need such wisdom in an age where we can "speak" to thousands with a few keystrokes?

 

What about Public Figures?

We often justify our digital sharpness by categorizing our targets. We tell ourselves that because a politician, a pop-culture icon, or even a religious leader like the Pope operates in the public eye, they have effectively signed a waiver forgoing their right to private dignity. We frame our vitriol as "public rebuke" or "accountability," convincing ourselves that we are performing a civic or spiritual duty.

In reality, this is often a convenient fiction that allows us to bypass the demands of charity.

The temptation to dissect a public figure looms the largest precisely because the "empty chair" at their table feels so vast. We feel no personal connection to the human being behind the policy or the performance, so we treat them as a symbol rather than a soul.

In some cases, there is a legitimate concern that a public figure has public responsibilities, and the way they're presenting themselves in public is not befitting of their position, or the expectations for dignity we expect that person to uphold. Do I really need to give examples of this? I should think not. There are plenty of public figures out there who we wish would carry themselves differently. This frustration or dissatisfaction about public figures, though, can quickly turn to "posturing" and a kind of "poisoning the well" about the person in question.

However, the biblical mandate doesn't provide an exception for those with a platform. When James warns that the tongue is "a restless evil, full of deadly poison" (James 3:8), he doesn't include a footnote excluding those whose faces appear on our screens.

When we use a leader's public status as an excuse to be uncharitable, we aren't actually holding them accountable; we are practicing a form of dehumanization that poisons our own hearts.

True accountability requires a commitment to truth and a desire for the other's restoration. Digital "rebuke," conversely, is often more about the satisfaction of our own indignation than it is about genuinely holding people accountable. If our critique of a public figure is something we would never have the courage or the character to say to their face, we must ask if we are seeking justice or simply indulging in the "evil tongue."

Charity demands that we recognize the image of God even in those whose public actions we find most objectionable.

That is not to say we never "take a stand" on important issues. But so often we "blur" the line between the person and the policy, and even then, we judge their positions or policies without all of the information. What you've heard on the news, or what someone posted on a "blog," or even the public-figure's own "X" account, is rarely the full story, the total picture.

Whether our criticism is "right" or not isn't the point. There is little evidence that God is particularly concerned about how "right" we are, particularly when it comes to our valuation of others. The question we should ask ourselves before making a post, or sharing an article, or even re-staking something that I or anyone else might post on Substack: is it really righteous?

 

The Table of Grace

Let me return to Augustine's dining room, to that table where the absent were protected from malicious speech. This wasn't just about avoiding gossip; it was about creating a space where grace could flourish. When we refuse to speak evil of the absent, we create room for understanding, for complexity, for the full story to emerge.

In our digital age, we each have the opportunity to set similar tables—spaces, whether physical or virtual, where charity prevails over judgment, where the absent are honored rather than dissected, where we remember that every person we discuss online is someone for whom Christ died.

The practical application is both simple and demanding. Before posting, pause. Before commenting, consider. Before sharing, examine your motives. Ask yourself: "Is this necessary? Is it true? Is it kind? Does it build up the body of Christ?"

Remember that behind every avatar is a real person with a complex story, hidden struggles, and secret victories you know nothing about.

Perhaps most importantly, cultivate the discipline of hiddenness in your own life.

Let some of your good deeds remain between you and God. Allow some of your insights to go unshared. Practice the spiritual discipline of not having the last word, of not correcting every error you see online, of not defending yourself against every criticism.

This is not weakness but strength, not retreat but advancement in the kingdom of God. For in choosing charity over judgment, hiddenness over display, and grace over condemnation, we participate in the very life of Christ, who "made himself of no reputation, and took upon him the form of a servant" (Philippians 2:7, KJV).

This is a standard few of us live up to well. I'm by no means innocent of the issues I've dressed above. I think all of us (with maybe a few exceptions) to some degree, have been "wrapped up" in the temptation toward digital slander, criticism, or even well-intentioned by less-than charitable critique. I'm writing this meditation as much for myself as for anyone else who might find it beneficial. I could do better. We could all do better.

Augustine's dining room sign still speaks to us across the centuries, calling us to a higher way of being human in community. In our digital age, may we have the courage to hang our own signs, to set our own tables, to create spaces where grace prevails and where every person—present or absent—is treated with the dignity of one bearing the image of God. For in the end, we will be judged not by our online presence but by our love, not by our virtual virtue but by our hidden faithfulness, not by the praise of many but by the "well done" of One.