Last weekend, I could no longer ignore the twist that began in my chest and worked its way into my belly. I bit my lip, breathing slow, deep, and steady in an attempt to counteract the quickening of my pulse and the swirl of conflicting emotions. Like many of you, I watched and refreshed the news, shocked and horrified and struggling to sort through the complexity of it all. To sort through the complexity I found within myself.
I am not one to wade into the waters of political commentary. Yes, I have my opinions. I try to listen to a broad spectrum of news sources and plan to exercise my right to vote. But over the last few days, I began to realize that the lurching and turning within me was not about politics, not really. What I found in the pit of my stomach was grief.
Unlike the loss of a person or a job or a dream, this grief is less of an absence and more a heaviness of the soul. It weighs roughly as much as an upright piano and presses in not to be unkind but to ask for attention. It’s the kind of grief that seems to say, “Something is not right. Something must be done.”
Human beings have been at odds over one thing or another since the beginning. As the Scriptures remind us, “There is nothing new under the sun.”But with each passing day, I wonder whether we have lost sight of our shared humanity as the chasm widens between what we have labeled “them” and “us.” Differences of all kinds have become reasons not only for division but also for diminishment. Vitriol is elevated over virtue, and as a result, we have become prone to violence, if not with weapons than with words or attitudes or the tone of our voice.
This chasm has ripped me open, especially in relation to my faith. I am a Christian because I have known and been known by the love of God. It’s a kind of knowing I cannot prove by recitation or reason, handing it to you on well-rehearsed index cards, because it is a flesh-and-blood-and-dirt-and-tears-and-laughter kind of knowing that reaches in and beyond the limitations of the mind. It is not mere information, but formation that can only be found in the presence of Love itself.
And maybe that’s why I am most grieved. Maybe what I see in this growing gap between us is an absence, after all. An absence of human dignity and decency. An absence of the communal life for which we were created. An absence of what it means to love God and neighbor as ourselves. An absence of knowing that transcends lines.
Considering that reality, my jaw clenches. The knot in my stomach grows. Our current relational climate does not seem favorable to love, or at least the kind that comes easily. The idealist in me wants love to look more like cozying up around a campfire or passing slices of homemade pizza across the table. I want love to be natural. I want love to feel warm. I want the scent of cinnamon lingering in the air between us. But love is more than a good idea. Love on the ground is often grinding, more than a sign we hang above kitchen tables or in church cafes.
And I keep reminding myself that this is where the invitation to “love one another as yourself” gets hard—really, really, hard—because Jesus offered us no disclaimers. He did not say “Love, only if…” or “Love, only until…” or “Love, except for…” because sameness was never an essential ingredient to how he wanted us to belong to one another. Love was never rooted in affiliation or a meeting of the minds. Love did not require us to look, act, think, or behave alike. Jesus even went so far as to say “love your enemies.”
The limitless nature of this kind of love seems difficult at best, unattainable in its extremes. And yet, this is our invitation. This is our wide-open door to let the love of God move from theory into practice, from our minds into our muscles, as we pursue patience, kindness, compassion, generosity, forgiveness, mercy, long-suffering, and goodness with each other, over and over again.This is where “them” fades into “us,” until we can once again look each other in the eye without malice, even with all our differences on display.
Maybe this is our moment, the moment when love can become more than a good idea, but a new way of being. Perhaps, we can let our grief grow, to let that heaviness linger when confronted with the ways we have been treating one another or the ways we have elevated being right over being kind while allowing people to be trampled in the process. Maybe we can let the grief move us toward what is good, toward a love that stretches us as we learn to reach out to one another.
Let me leave us with two things: a quote and a prayer.
First, these words from author Amanda Held Opelt continue to ring in my heart and my mind since she posted them a few days ago. They cut deep and true. Maybe they are for you too.
“Let this be the end. Let it be the end of our dehumanizing of one another, of our violent rhetoric, of the hate. Let it end with you. Let it end with me.”
Additionally, there is a prayer I have been repeating often these days. I return to its simplicity when the acrid taste of bitterness rises in my throat or old wounds make me want to lash out like a rabid creature. I breathe the words in and out in moments when I find myself wanting to villainize human people for the appearance of my own virtue. I let the prayer wash over tense muscles when I find it difficult to walk the way of love, to have both discernment and an open hand. I pray:
God, keep me tender and attentive.
Keep me tender to our shared humanity. Help me not lose sight of your essence in another, even when I am hurting. Even when evil seems to have free reign, let it not have free reign within me. May love soften my bitter corners and expand my compassion.
Keep me attentive to your Spirit. Your love is limitless but does not lack wisdom. Help me be discerning in how I relate, maintaining a gentle posture toward others while also knowing when to be silent, speak up, or walk away.
God, may your love move me out beyond myself and make me even more myself, as we find our home in you.
No comments:
Post a Comment