Having the Privilege

I don’t want to be silent, but I don’t know what to say.

I am watching as my city and country are in turmoil today. I am watching as broken-hearted, hurt, justifiably angry people step out and stand up for the pain and injustice they are suffering. I am watching them risk their own health and safety in the middle of a pandemic to show solidarity with those treated with brutal unfairness.

I say I am watching because I have the privilege of not knowing those pains and injustices first hand. I have the privilege of being able to retreat to my suburban neighborhood and watch from a distance. I have the privilege of having the color of skin that isn’t discriminated against.

I am watching with tears in my eyes as people fight for the right to be treated with basic human decency. I am watching with tears as people fight to be respected instead of stereotyped, to be seen for their worth and not for their perceived danger. I am watching as people bind together to fight against the systemic injustice that effects our communities and the powers that keep those systems in place.

I am also watching as doctors fighting the pandemic don’t have enough protective gear to keep them safe as they save lives but police have more than enough protective riot gear to keep them safe as they stir up violence among peaceful protesters. I am watching reporters be arrested on live television because their skin is seen as a threat. I am watching stories of violent white protesters barging in and endangering peaceful protests in black communities. I am watching black local elected representatives join protests to stand with their constituents and try to deescalate situations get pepper sprayed by their own police departments.

I am watching and I am grieving.

I don’t want to be silent, but I don’t know what to say.

Of course I am upset on their behalf. Of course I want change. Of course I want mercy and justice to prevail. Of course. Of course.

But I struggle with finding my role in speaking up. I don’t want to be yet another privileged white person on the internet virtue signaling that I am against racism by posting a cute quote graphic. I don’t want my voice to detract from those that desperately need to be heard right now. I don’t want to inject myself into something I cannot speak to.

But I also don’t want to close my mouth and say nothing. I don’t want to put the onus of the revolution on the already over-burdened shoulders of those who are suffering. I don’t want to turn to someone hurting and expect them to teach me how I aided in their hurts. I don’t want them to feel unsupported or unloved in their fight.

It is on me. That is a hard truth. I am not good at speaking up. Disturbing the peace and causing conflict goes against every fiber of my being. It gives me great anxiety. But so does the anger that I feel at the unnecessary conflict and unrest put upon others, an anger that grows until it comes out as hot tears.

I don’t know what difference I can make. I’m not sure how to start. There is so much strife and I feel so overwhelmed by the enormity of it all. Of the normalcy of the injustice in our society. Of the callousness of those who hear the cries of the hurting and can only complain about the inconvenience of it. Of the hardened hearts of those in power when the victims cry out let my people go. Of the call to just be peaceful when peace wasn’t working.

But I need to do something. I’m the one with the unfair privileges. And I have the privilege of getting to use them to help those who don’t.

I’m donating to a local group today. I’m praying for safety and mercy and justice. I’m sitting in a place of holy anger and grief today alongside those who are upset and mourning. I will do what I can and I will work on being better. It’s on me. It’s on all of us.

Thoughts and Prayers and Rowboats

A fellow was stuck on his rooftop in a flood. He was praying to God for help.

Soon a man in a rowboat came by and the fellow shouted to the man on the roof, "Jump in, I can save you.” The stranded fellow shouted back, "No, it's OK, I'm praying to God and he is going to save me.” So the rowboat went on.

Then a motorboat came by. The fellow in the motorboat shouted, "Jump in, I can save you." To this the stranded man said, "No thanks, I'm praying to God and he is going to save me. I have faith.” So the motorboat went on.

Then a helicopter came by and the pilot shouted down, "Grab this rope and I will lift you to safety." To this the stranded man again replied, "No thanks, I'm praying to God and he is going to save me. I have faith.” So the helicopter reluctantly flew away.

Soon the water rose above the rooftop and the man drowned. He went to Heaven. He finally got his chance to discuss this whole situation with God, at which point he exclaimed, "I had faith in you but you didn't save me, you let me drown. I don't understand why!"

To this God replied, "I sent you a rowboat and a motorboat and a helicopter, what more did you expect?”

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I can’t remember where I first heard this modern-day parable, it may have been in one of the many issues of Reader’s Digest magazines piled up next to my dad’s recliner, or in a copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul, or even from the pulpit of a well-meaning pastor in the 90s.

I think of this story each time another mass shooting happens and politicians start tweeting thoughts and prayers for this week’s victims, and then doing nothing.

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Teens are shot in their classrooms. Thoughts and prayers, say the politicians.

Festival goers are shot at an outdoor event. Our hearts are with the victims and their families, say the elected officials.

Shoppers are shot at a retail store. God bless their city, says the president.

“I had faith in you but you didn’t stop the shootings. I don’t understand why!” the politicians ask God.

God replies, “I gave you the position, the power, the influence to make change and keep them from happening. Why didn’t you use it?”

—

Like the man trapped on his roof, we are drowning in mass shootings. I feel increasingly frustrated and helpless as I watch white men with assault rifles taken calmly into custody because their right to own semi-automatic weapons of mass destruction has become more important than a citizen’s right to pursue happiness, faith, or education without the threat of death.

I can vote and be vocal but can’t pass laws or enact legislation on my own, so I turn to thoughts and prayers as something valuable I can add. I won’t downplay the importance of prayer; I think that in the midst of tragedy if someone says they are appealing to the highest authority in their life for grace and comfort on behalf of others, that is a lovely and honorable thing. But I am angered by those who have the position and ability to make nationwide change only to act as if thoughts and prayers and a shrug of the shoulders is all they can do.

—

Jesus told his disciples that “…anyone who believes in me will do the same works I have done, and even greater works (John 14:12 NLT).” As Jesus was the literal hands and feet of God, the presence of God physically working among humankind, so are we: we’re the hands, the feet, the doers, the movers, the shakers, the rowers of boats going out to rescue the stranded on God’s behalf.

How can you reach out and help today? Maybe it’s calling your representative, participating in a protest, or giving blood. Maybe it’s donating to a cause, or volunteering — or simply not turning away and hoping someone else will take care of it. We can all do something. It doesn’t have to be this way.

And if truly the best you can do today is reflect and pray, by all means, do so with fervor.

Hope When the World Feels Like a Dumpster Fire

Lately it feels like every time I turn on the TV, scroll through social media, or check my notifications, some new and devastating thing is happening. Hardly a day passes anymore without some gut-wrenching, heart-crushing news breaking.

It’s so much that the shock has started to wear off. Another day, another atrocity — and before there is a chance to fully process and mourn what has just passed, something else equally terrible happens, and the cycle starts all over again.

I can feel myself getting numb, turning to my favorite means of escapism so I don’t have to think about all the awful things going on in the world around me. I don’t like that I do that; I know it’s a privilege to even have the option to turn away from tragedy when others are living in it day in and day out. And I want to be the kind of person who is heartbroken at the sight of suffering and injustice...but it’s hard.

Someone I follow on Twitter once suggested that the human heart is only capable of handling so much pain at a time. And I don’t know about you, but it feels like my heart’s empathy levels are at full capacity, and the faucet dispensing the awfulness isn’t anywhere close to shutting off.

The issues at hand are so big — systemic racism, corrupt governments, unjust laws, deep-seated prejudice, etc. — that it ’s overwhelming. How did we get here? How do we fix this? Is it even possible to fix this? How can I make a difference? Where do I start?

Is everything as hopeless as it feels?

In the midst of this, I’m trying to be happy. I’ve been thinking about the things that bring me joy and am trying to purposefully make space for them in my life. I bought a book of poetry by a local writer whose work stirs my heart. I made cheesecake and shared it with everyone within arm's reach. I started making the bed every morning so I can slip into cool sheets at night.

Some days, even doing those little things can feel selfish. America seems to be going to hell in a hand-basket, and I’m over here making cheesecake, as if that is going to make anything better?

Well…yes. Because I think it’s important to have things to hope for, even if it’s something as simple as a slice of homemade cheesecake at the end of a taxing day.

Hope is faith in the possibility of something better. It is the thing that bubbles up inside of you, reminding you that change can come and good things can happen. In the face of a never-ending cycle of shock and sadness and the threat of numbed hearts, it is hope that can cancel out despair.

So when the world feels like a giant dumpster fire, how do we keep hope? Singing about raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens might work for Julie Andrews during a thunderstorm, but that seems little consolation when toddlers are being detained in rooms made of wire fencing and entire cities don't have potable water.

I don’t know that I have a concrete answer, but I do have a suggestion: watch the world around you for glimmers of hope.

It's like the advice Mr. Roger's mother gave him in the face of tragedy: look for the helpers. Where are you seeing glimpses of hope in the midst of the mess? You might find it in the rising number of women being voted into office across the nation. Or the record numbers of blood donors that show up after a disaster. Maybe you see hope in a shared meal between neighbors of different faiths or in a kind gesture from a child you're raising. Or in something as simple a lovely sunset after a rainy day.

In times like this, I go back to the scripture that inspired the tagline of this blog, Romans 15:13 (NLT):

“I pray that God, the source of hope, will fill you completely with joy and peace because you trust in him. Then you will overflow with confident hope through the power of the Holy Spirit.”

If I want to be filled with hope, I just need to trust in God, and through the Holy Spirit I can experience joy and peace. I know that can be harder than it sounds, but personally, I find it so comforting to believe that someone who sees and understands more than I do can be trusted to be in charge — and that He wants to share hope and joy and peace with us.

I keep thinking about that recording that's been going around of the mother from Guatemala talking on the phone to her child detained in a facility in Arizona after coming to the U.S. with his father. She comforts her son, despite their long and long-distance separation, and tells him:

"Don’t cry, my love. Be happy...Remember that God exists."

And the fact that she says this to a child that breaks my heart, but it's also a good reminder for all of us. Yeah, the world feels like a giant dumpster fire sometimes. It can feel unweildy and overwhelming and desperate. But even in the most desolate of situations, we can remember that God exists, and try to be happy. Change can come, despair can be dispelled, and things can get better. There can always be hope. 💜

A Million Little Kingdoms

My generation has a tendency to want to change the world.

We grew up being told to follow our dreams, invest in our passions, and believe that it’s possible for one person to make planet-wide positive change. And many of us have — we’ve built companies, started charities, created movements, and made a tangible impact on the world around us.

But we’re also a stressed out generation. Most of us are burdened with student load debt and trying to live up to increasingly unrealistic expectations. And you know what else can weigh upon a persons’ shoulders?

Trying to find a way to change the world.

You guys, the world is so big! There are literally billions of people in hundreds of countries and trying  to make a notable difference…well, it’s a lot. But I realized something recently.

You don’t have the change the world. You just have to change yours.

Honestly, I don't think any of us are called to change the entire world. As we’ve established, the world is a big place. And even arguably the most influential person ever to live, Jesus himself, didn’t try to do it alone. He could have become an all-powerful king, and extended his influence from a place of celebrity as many expected of the messiah, but instead He looked at the world at hand, the people right in front of him whose lives he could change, and started there.

And if that model worked for Jesus, isn’t that where we should start, too?

In a conversation with RELEVANT Magazine, Sarah Pullman Bailey, religion reporter for The Washington Post, mentioned in a discussion on faith and culture that “now it seems like there are a million little kingdoms.”

I love this idea that within the greater kingdom of God, there are a million little kingdoms. There’s the kingdom of your family. The kingdom of your classmates or coworkers. The kingdom of your church, the women you have book club with on Thursdays, the guys who come over to watch the game, your Facebook friends, the community of people who follow that blogger you love, the other parents you see at your kid’s talent show.

And because you know the people in your kingdom, and they know you, you can be influential and make a big difference.

Jesus started his ministry by gathering a dozen guys and making a difference in their lives. Look at the world at hand, the people right in front of you, and start there. What little kingdom needs you? What little kingdom can you pour into and help make better?

You don’t have the change the world. You just have to change yours. 💜