Can't We All Just Get Along?
World, I have bad news for you. The police officer who shot Michael Brown will go to trial. The media will obsess over every detail of the trial for weeks. There will be conflicting evidence and interpretation of the evidence. He will either be acquitted or convicted. When that happens, many people will be jubilant and many will be devastated. Many will praise our just legal system and many will wonder why our system cannot deliver justice. A young man will still be dead. I hope and pray that the town of Ferguson will become a more just and understanding place, but the odds are in favor of a varnish of "diversity" being cast over the present systems.
We've been on this merry-go-round before. Why can't we get off? It isn't just race- it's religion, body type, economic status, anything that can separate between "us" and "them." This tendency to categorize people as "my people" or "not my people" seems to be so basic. And yet there are any number of films with sweeping soundtracks that tell us that we are better when we recognize all people as "our people." There are great rewards in walking to the other side of the street- not only does your neighbor's house look different close up, but your own house looks different from far away. Maybe you can see where the loose shingles are.
I can't help seeing it as at bottom a theological issue (theology is life, and vice versa). Something in our nature is selfish and proud. We always seem to want more than we have, and to want to justify taking it from someone else. There are many books about Christian spiritual disciplines, but the first and most difficult is "Love your neighbor as yourself." Because if you're my neighbor, and I love you, I have to take your listen to you, and take seriously your exultation and your lament. I have to know you and be in your house and welcome you into mine. And while I'm in your house, I can't be sticking the teaspoons in my pockets because I like them better than mine.
The reality of neighborliness gets to be sticky. As I contemplate moving, one of my main goals is to find "privacy," which is a nice way of saying I want to be able to ignore the rest of the human race once I close the door. But I keep praying for Jesus to help me recognize all these people, even the ones that are rude or dismissive or obnoxious, as God's children and therefore my brothers and sisters. I don't know what happened in Ferguson; I wasn't there. But I'm praying for every single person in that town- shopkeepers, protesters, angry looters, police officers, and most especially for that grieving family. Lord, help us love our neighbors.
We've been on this merry-go-round before. Why can't we get off? It isn't just race- it's religion, body type, economic status, anything that can separate between "us" and "them." This tendency to categorize people as "my people" or "not my people" seems to be so basic. And yet there are any number of films with sweeping soundtracks that tell us that we are better when we recognize all people as "our people." There are great rewards in walking to the other side of the street- not only does your neighbor's house look different close up, but your own house looks different from far away. Maybe you can see where the loose shingles are.
I can't help seeing it as at bottom a theological issue (theology is life, and vice versa). Something in our nature is selfish and proud. We always seem to want more than we have, and to want to justify taking it from someone else. There are many books about Christian spiritual disciplines, but the first and most difficult is "Love your neighbor as yourself." Because if you're my neighbor, and I love you, I have to take your listen to you, and take seriously your exultation and your lament. I have to know you and be in your house and welcome you into mine. And while I'm in your house, I can't be sticking the teaspoons in my pockets because I like them better than mine.
The reality of neighborliness gets to be sticky. As I contemplate moving, one of my main goals is to find "privacy," which is a nice way of saying I want to be able to ignore the rest of the human race once I close the door. But I keep praying for Jesus to help me recognize all these people, even the ones that are rude or dismissive or obnoxious, as God's children and therefore my brothers and sisters. I don't know what happened in Ferguson; I wasn't there. But I'm praying for every single person in that town- shopkeepers, protesters, angry looters, police officers, and most especially for that grieving family. Lord, help us love our neighbors.