Not since 1976, when a man began his day 180 miles from Athens, Georgia, and 6,500 miles from Jerusalem, Israel, not since a peanut farmer named Jimmy wrestled (Greco-Roman style) with a shepherd named Jacob, has another man suffered so much for his confessions. Not since Jimmy Carter confessed to having “looked upon a lot of women with lust”—to having committed adultery in his heart (better than in his hands) many times—has a mob chased a fellow sinner, for his confession of sinful thoughts, like it has Liam Neeson. Never mind that the vengeance Neeson sought to visit unto a black man—any black man—he exorcized from his heart before he could exercise his fists; because he exercised his legs by walking, from the darkness of night to a confessional, where the light of Providence ended Neeson’s long night of spiritual darkness.
Never mind that Neeson’s acts speak to his humanity. Never mind, too, that it is harder to avoid temptation than it is to accept it. None of that matters, not to the hashtag brigade of vigilantes and professional victims, for whom sin is unforgivable and forgiveness is unthinkable. If they cannot have Neeson’s soul, they will settle for ending his acting career instead.
Unless they want Neeson’s final role to be a live performance of “Taken,” they should heed his character’s warning.