International Tragedy: A Christian Response

Lately the world cannot seem to get a chance to properly grieve over tragedy before terror sinks its teeth into our hearts again and rips open precious humanity. Maintaining a global awareness as of late almost requires us compartmentalize, to develop blinders, as it were, to distance ourselves from the onslaught of pain and pure evil that operates seemingly on a 24-hour clock. We only have so many tears to shed, so many hours to pray in a day, so many ways to put words in an order that accurately describe our ache… don’t we? Scrolling through my news feed, I am emotionally exhausted, enraged even, to see yet another “Pray for _____” hashtag trending on Twitter. Trying to weed through distressing pictures, hateful rhetoric, and oversimplified statements that instigate more condemnation against the innocent than they do against the perpetrators just to find a journalist that can give me a dignified, respectful report.

Honestly, I think we are really missing the point. Even before the body counts have been totaled, before fathers have had a chance to weep and before friends have found a solitary place to mourn-- in the critical moments that follow an international tragedy—we still find a way to make it all about us. We point fingers instead of holding out hands; we grapple violently to find answers, stumbling, like poor men that voraciously dig for rumored treasure that we wish we didn’t have to find. The “why” is always out of reach, no matter how hard we cast our shovels into the ground.

The tragedy is made cheap. It becomes scrambled in a cloud of battling narratives and clever axioms that aggrandize the speaker, deviously using the vulnerability of the tragedy to heighten his emotional appeal and push his political agenda forward but rarely to simply commemorate and lament the unseen victims. We’ll forget about the blood and dismembered body parts strewn across the airport after we get 100 shares and ten retweets on our clever social media post/political speech.

And really, I am talking to myself. A false sense of accomplishment is trying to steal a tangible call to action. I know there are psychological and sociological phenomena that reveal this part of our nature. And I hate it. Inundated by statistics, pixilated faces, far away places, swallowed up in an unfortunate sea of their numbers... How can I make this more “real”?

And yet still on days like today, I am unable to numb the sting of my empathy that makes me so human, that makes me hurt so deeply for my world, unable to sever the ties that connect me to mothers who mourn for lost jihadi sons, for young men that are desperate to cash out on bankrupt ideologies that promise to quench their thirst for identity, acceptance, power and hope. But no amount of blood can ever satisfy a thirst for evil.

And they did thirst for something else. I mourn for what they never seemed to find. Second chances. Redemption. Hope. Jesus Christ.

I mourn for families who have had their worlds obliterated by bombs in Syria and I mourn for those families who crumble quietly in America by divorce, drug abuse and poverty.

I skimmed through the news in Pakistan today, wincing at every picture. I asked God, “Why?’ And to be honest I think that’s ok to do, as long as we are okay with not getting an immediate response sometimes. I do believe the answer exists, if we can wait any amount of time for it, into eternity. But then, in that moment, I didn’t want to wait. I wanted to know why He would let dozens of women and precious children be so brutally snuffed out, why innocence was trampled upon and why men became monsters. The hearts of men are deep wells.

And for a brief second, I felt defeated. I felt powerless, overcome by an impenetrable darkness that threatens to shroud our world in confusion, fear and division. I know this isn’t all about me, but I think it can start with me. I think it can start with anybody.

A prayer broke across my lips in an honest and broken whisper, like a tiny ship sent forth to span miles of rocky waves until it finds its destined harbor. Hope was released. Somebody will find my prayer. I know they will. Because prayers don’t come back until they find the person they were meant for.  Prayers never die. They clothe strangers with comfort; they build a wall of resistant love around our homes, our communities. Standing in the rubble again, sifting through tragedy we stay our knees, refusing to submit to fear. These seeds are carried by the winds of prayer. And they travel far.

You and I may never have any direct impact upon international and domestic policy that roots out racism, hatred and parochialism and at the end of the day, manmade policies only get us so far before the rest of the journey is a personal commitment to forgiveness, mercy and grace.

Fellow human, fellow believer, fellow Christ-follower: the biggest lies we face aren’t perverted radicalism and seductive extremist ideologies. It’s that you’re light, your face is insignificant.

Call me old fashion, but if it’s one thing I know from the Good Book, it’s that darkness will never win. We do. 

When Your Shoes Are Too Tight

 I don’t think we are necessarily scared of changing. I think we are most afraid of not liking the people that we eventually become. It is all the unfamiliar demands life may make on us. If you grow five inches taller, you aren’t in the least bit disappointed that you will be able to reach the Cajun seasoning on the top shelf of the spice cabinet as much you are inconvenienced by having to let out your trousers, or go the store in order to purchase new garments. There will be something that indefinitely and irrevocably changes about our appearance, and maybe we had grown very fond of our pants that rode too high, or our shoes that fit too tightly. What will people think of these new boots? Maybe they liked you best in penny loafers?

And life seldom forewarns us when it decides to explode or implode or shake up our little snow-globes. In the tussle, we lose valuable items. A house fire doesn’t ask permission first before engulfing your most prized possessions. We must grab what we can before the roof collapses in on us.  

Life sometimes strikes a match. People sometimes light your life on fire— maybe for better or worse.

I’m not saying that houses on fire aren’t scary, considering the heat, the intoxicating smoke of circumstances that blurs our vision, the firefighters who are still trying to water you down. But more than anything they are most scary in their aftermath, because we can go back and visit those places that we used to live in when we were the people that we used to be—charred and maybe still glowing, fumbling through artifacts of “You-Used-To-Be” and “When-I-Was”. We sit back and sigh, miserably commiserating, "I really liked that part of myself-- that blanket of insecurity, that bookshelf of low expectations and you know, that fear was my favorite rug." 

But you cant live there anymore than you can wear those shoes that are two sizes too small. Those shoes will give you blisters and that house is simply inhospitable.

It can be like this. You grow and now your head hits the ceiling on your way out the door. So build a bigger house. Life is big and doesn’t really stop growing because you refuse to stretch with it.  All I am saying is this: stop being scared of who you’re becoming if who you’re becoming is greater than what you were.

So what? You prefer your coffee with cream and Future You might drink it black. The day that you stop worrying about maintaining this silly expectation, you’ll try your coffee black and you’ll like it. This is a silly analogy, but I am trying to make it relatable to deeper, more complicated expectations that we construct for ourselves. 

We grapple to hold on to every grain of sand in our hands.

You cannot hold on to every grain of sand.