A Call to Ears (& Not Arms)

Lately I’ve been watching a lot of food network. Every night when I come home and hit that remote, I’m on that channel.

I’ll work my way through episodes of Chopped. Cutthroat Kitchen. Beat Bobby Flay. It’s a way to inspire my own amateur chef work—and feed my food binge, that’s for sure. 

But if I’m truthful, I’d have to admit it’s the only place I feel safe.

Where I don’t have to deal with political agendas and networks spewing fear or hate. Where I don’t have to try to comprehend another senseless killing or act of terrorism or some other controversy. Where I don’t have to be tempted to despair.

I get the feeling I'm not alone.

When I’m speaking with my friends and coworkers, we’re a mix of things. We're two shots of sadness, poured into a glass and stirred with indignation. Numbness. Somewhere in these conversations I might recall a faint whisper of hope. But when everyone's heavy on that drink, it gets harder to hear...

I tell myself I've got to pray. I've got to get on my knees and pray. But the voices are strong around me.

Nobody's fixing this. Not God, not nobody. Another shooting happens, and nothing changes tomorrow. You'll say your prayers and we'll feel bad for a couple days and then it'll happen again... 

Pessimism. Fear. Hopelessness.

Before you know it the glass looks good. Then maybe you start to drink it, too.

So, I go back to that channel. Because I know at least one thing—I'll be entertained. I'll settle for Chopped because I know I won't be let down.

Pushing to Stay Woke

But I’ve been following this rabbi named Jesus, and the thing is, I don’t think he calls me to settle. This supposed dream of comfort, security, and not having to worry about or deal with the cares of the world. 

In fact, the more I get to know him, the less compelled I feel to settle.

When I read the gospels, I don’t read about him turning away from hardship. I don’t see him cowering from battles. Jesus uses his knowledge and power to address society’s ills—to call it like it is—and to lift those who feel neglected, alienated, oppressed. His passion was to make the wrong things right, in this lifetime and ultimately in the life to come.  

I had to ask myself this.

If my faith in him is real, it should mean something not just for the next life, but in the here and now, too. My energy should be moved away from building fences and walls of safety for my own tribe. Instead, it should be directed towards building a community of generous justice, a people who are willing to risk for others.

MLK, who has been a lot on my mind, has been speaking to me on this. I see this spirit in his life and work. I’m particularly moved by his insight on the story of the good samaritan (excerpted from his speech "I've Been to the Mountaintop"). 

"You see, the Jericho road is a dangerous road [...] In the days of Jesus it came to be known as the 'Bloody Pass.' And you know, it's possible that the priest and the Levite looked over that man on the ground and wondered if the robbers were still around. Or it's possible that they felt that the man on the ground was merely faking. And he was acting like he had been robbed and hurt, in order to seize them over there, lure them there for quick and easy seizure. And so the first question that the priest asked—the first question that the Levite asked was, 'If I stop to help this man, what will happen to me?' But then the Good Samaritan came by. And he reversed the question: 'If I do not stop to help this man, what will happen to him?' That's the question before you tonight. Not, 'If I stop to help the sanitation workers, what will happen to my job.' Not, 'If I stop to help the sanitation workers what will happen to all of the hours that I usually spend in my office every day and every week as a pastor?' The question is not, 'If I stop to help this man in need, what will happen to me?' The question is, 'If I do not stop to help the sanitation workers, what will happen to them?' That's the question."

There are many implications in what he’s saying. The main thing I take this to mean is, if you’re part of the human race, you have a duty to extend your hand to your brother or sister in need. The people you’re called to help—your neighbors—aren’t those who look like you, talk like you, believe like you. They are often those who you normally wouldn’t have a relationship with, those whom you might even consider your enemies.

That’s a hard thing to swallow. But this is what Jesus is saying. 

You said you wanted to follow me. This is what the road looks like. It’s not comfortable, and some nights it'll leave you sleepless. It's a dark, dirty path to seeing the world in all its hurt, full of scars and exit wounds. Those orphans who grab at their bellies from hunger. Those girls who are being sold as slaves. Those who are fighting against evil systems and authorities. Those who suffer from depression or loneliness or fear. This is the road. To fight for the salvation of these ones—this is the work I've started, and the work you are called to finish. 

On the Road to Rescue

In light of this, I’ve been challenging myself not to disengage. I've been reading a lot of intellectuals lately...Kundera, Coates, Zinn.

I don't say this to sound pretentious. I’m not reading these works as a way to arm myself for a debate, like bullets for a gunfight.

I’m saying this only to admit my own faults and limited understanding. In the past I've spoken where I ought to have listened. I've played the "who can shout loudest” game, and unfortunately, won on occasions. At some point I had lost my ability to listen and my capacity for empathy. The very thing I'm starting to see as a problem in our world.

We can’t change the injustices around us if we don’t know the root cause of them. What’s worse, we can even be adding to the problems without even knowing it. 

It's funny because in the church we put a lot of focus on Jesus' teachings. Don't get me wrong, they’re incredible. This is where we get the basis for much of what we believe. But I would venture to say he's quite underrated as a listener.

In fact, Jesus was probably a really good listener.

That might be why people were drawn to him (you know, besides all the miracle stuff). You could go to him and tell him whatever troubles you had, like chatting with a good bunkmate or some prescient stranger at a bar. He'd probably nod his head, stare you straight in the eye, and told you exactly what you needed to hear. He'd ask questions that cut to your heart; he’d pray for you, too. You could unload whatever baggage you had, knowing he’d pick it up and carry it for you. 

Sometimes I wonder, and I’m careful to say this as conjecture—I wonder how many people were healed just by his listening.

The thing is, the world is being crowded with many people who are quick to speak and slow to listen. Often we're hellbent on thinking our opinion is it, with a quickness to defend and maim others who don't share it. Call it preaching to the choir, confirmation bias or what have you. The fact remains, we're talking too damned much.

I trust many of us have good intentions. Our generation has expressed a desire to heal the world of its hurts. I don't lose sight of that.

But what I'm saying is we need to rediscover a compassion for humanity. That one word, compassion, is a beautiful one. In Latin it means to suffer together. 

I like how Don Miller expresses the beauty of that word in a story he told about Navy SEALs. In a rescue mission, SEALs had stormed into a filthy and dark compound to rescue hostages...

When the SEALs entered the room, they heard the gasps of the hostages. They stood at the door and called to the prisoners, telling them they were Americans, The SEALS asked the hostages to follow them, but the hostages wouldn't. They sat there on the floor and hid their eyes in fear. They were not of healthy mind and didn't believe their rescuers were really Americans. The SEALs stood there, not knowing what to do. They couldn't possibly carry everybody out. One of the SEALs got an idea. He put down his weapon, took off his helmet, and curled up tightly next to the other hostages, getting so close his body was touching some of theirs. He softened the look on his face and put his arms around them. He was trying to show them he was one of them. None of the prison guards would have done this. He stayed there for a little while until some of the hostages started to look at him, finally meeting his eyes. The Navy SEAL whispered that they were Americans and were there to rescue them. Will you follow us? he said. The hero stood to his feet and one of the hostages did the same, then another, until all of them were willing to go. The story ends with all the hostages safe on an American aircraft carrier.

The extent to which we're willing to bring ourselves to the floor will define our capacity to understand the suffering of others. 

It is difficult to identify with our brothers and sisters who are hurting when we have not internalized their struggle. For many of us, myself included, the fear is that we don't really know the feeling of being down. We're not the ones lying on the ground, reaching up for help. 

Someone wrote that if we only think of people in blocks, we dehumanize them. It’s when we are able to develop meaningful relationships, and find an ability to listen to an individual experience that deep change can happen. 

Maybe once we suffer together, we'll learn how to pick each other up.

The fights in this nation, and other fights for justice being carried throughout the world, will be a long and winding road. There are systems and institutions in place that are bent on stabilizing their power and oppressing the weaker. There's no guarantee things will be fixed, now or ever.

But the first step on this path is listening. It's a step towards empathy and compassion. This is where we must begin. When people begin to truly care for one another, I have no doubt we'll be convinced of what we must do.

We have to trust the process. 

So, as I find myself at the feet of teachers, dead and alive, I'm asking not for wisdom to speak but for a sensitivity to hear what others are saying. I'm following my trail of curiosity to a place of compassion and suffering. Because if there's one thing I've learned in my adulthood, it's that I don't know as much as I think I do. 

It’s a hard journey, I know. And we will not see the fruits in one day. But this is the call. This is the fight.

This is how you can make your life count.