Do you know that feeling you get when you think you should probably say something, but you kind of hope someone else says it so that you don’t have to be the one to speak up?
That’s me right now. I’m over here hoping I don’t have to be the one to say something while knowing deep down I can at least be a one. One person who adds to the chorus of people speaking up and out, lifting their voices to effect change.
The world is in a period of flux right now. Some may use a different F-word to describe the situation, but for me, I look around and feel amazed at where we’ve landed.
So far at least one state has banned abortion. Meanwhile it seems some leaders are still denying climate change, while others are legislating against basic human rights to healthcare and a safe place to live (even if that means crossing a border or two).
All the while, my life hasn’t changed one bit. I’m still able to see doctors and specialists when I need to. I live in a safe neighborhood where I don’t have to worry about violence or loss of life. And my right to carry a child or not is still very much safely in my hands.
But there comes a time when it’s not enough to shake our heads and throw up our hands. To mumble, “Another school shooting” or “Wow, I can’t believe that actually happened.” It’s no longer enough to watch and wait.
The hardest, most saddening part of it all, though certainly not the most desperate (or is it?), is that so much of this is happening in the name of Jesus, God, the Bible, and what’s “right.”
It’s easy to divide and conquer in the name of Jesus, because as Richard Rohr describes it, we understand the personal ramifications of Jesus, but we fail to grasp the Universal.
The truth is, we’ve stopped seeing Jesus as a collective savior, one who came for all of us, regardless of race, socioeconomic status, sexuality, gender or gender expression, ethnicity, country of origin, citizenship status, likes, dislikes, etc.
We fail to see that Jesus is for all: all people, all creation.
We’ve swallowed the lie that Jesus is only for people just like us.
And that’s a hard truth to come back from. It’s hard to think that Jesus is for people we don’t like, people who look differently than us, people who have wronged us. It’s even harder, sometimes, to think that Jesus is for the people who live out different stories and take different journeys.
And we struggle with accepting those other people because while we may feel threatened by the Other’s presence, we’re not really being threatened by the own policies our me-doctrine imposes on everyone else.
It’s just not working, this living in a way that divides. Because I believe that we become more wholly divine when we embrace our humanity. When we circle up and hold hands and say, “We’re in this together.”
A friend recently told me that we can’t sit around waiting for God to show up on our doorstep one day in physical form. That just might not happen. But we can receive the everyday, (un)holy people God uses to show us God’s love, identity, and worldly form.
I wonder then, how limited our scope of a vast and unconditional God becomes, when we only receive a select group of people as God’s emissaries.
I recently told my mom that I struggle sometimes navigating faith. It all seems so far-fetched sometimes. That Jesus would die, for us, and then come back to life some three days later. My rational brain isn’t having it. But what surpasses my understanding, is the strength of my desire to trust, my fervent hope to know God.
What I do know is this: as Christians, we’ve got to do better. But that starts with a desire to live in communion, not in condemnation.
So I’m slowly, nervously casting aside the punitive God of my youth. I’m turning away from my limited-human-brain-made idea that God is black or white, sin or perfection, heaven or hell, right or wrong. I’m embracing instead the mystery of the resurrection. I’m choosing a loving God, who invites rather than convicts.
It’s not easy coming to terms with a faith that was built on fear rather than a quiet, loving appeal to be in relationship.
M is at a similar crossroads, but what I love is this–while we don’t have the answers, we don’t know how to stop school shootings, or change abortion law, or affect a healthcare policy overhaul, or do anything much beyond just living our lives, putting one foot in front of the other–we keep talking. We keep speaking up, to each other and those we know. We keep yearning for more.
We talked about all of this at the dinner table last night, with Graydon half-listening, half-straining to see the T.V. show on in the other room. He looked up suddenly from the rice that sprinkled the area around his plate and joined in to what I was saying about Jesus being for everyone. “But mom! That’s what I believe too. That we should just love everyone and that God loves everyone too!”
I pray that no matter who our children become in life, no matter where this crazy world ends up, that they keep the faith. That they keep looking and craving a good and graceful God. That they keep embracing their neighbor, no matter what he/she/they looks like. I hope they know that questioning is wonderful and that Jesus did truly live, and die, and live again for every single person and creature and creation.
There goes that feeling again. The one telling me to keep speaking up and speaking out. So for now, I’ll keep talking about it.