We Don't Know What to Do

When I'm not sure what to do, I sometimes look back on one of my favorite Old Testament accounts, the story of King Jehosophat, in 2 Chronicles 20.

Warned of a vast army gathering on the other side of the sea, Jeshosophat gathered his people to join him in asking God what to do. He described the ways God had led in the past, described the current overwhelming need, then confessed his own inadequacy, and willingness to do what God instructed: 

“We do not know what to do, but our eyes are on you.” (2 Chronicles 20:12) 

In my years of full-time youth ministry, I led a mission trip every summer to an inner city neighborhood where our task was to share the hope of God’s love in a community with the lowest per capita income and highest density of children in the state of Pennsylvania. Early in our week together we would read King Jehosophat’s prayer and talk together about our own inadequacy in the face of poverty, addiction, racial unrest.

I’d point out the way the people of Judah “stood there before the Lord,” and read this: 

“Then the Spirit of the Lord came on Jahaziel son of Zechariah, the son of Benaiah, the son of Jeiel, the son of Mattaniah, a Levite and descendant of Asaph, as he stood in the assembly.
 He said: “Listen, King Jehoshaphat and all who live in Judah and Jerusalem! This is what the Lord says to you: ‘Do not be afraid or discouraged because of this vast army. For the battle is not yours, but God’s.”  (2 Chronicle 20:14-15)

My goal was to have us look, not at what we were going to do, but at what God was going to do, while we were invited to watch. We were not bringing God to Kensington: he was there, already, inviting us to join him.

And we were not going to solve the problems we encountered: we were going to spread them out, together, in prayer, and watch for God to move.

And solutions, direction, answers, vision, were not my responsbilitiy alone, as the leader of our little group. Just as God spoke through Jahaziel, never mentioned before or after, he could, and did, speak through any member of our team.

Every evening, after our two hour program with the kids of the neighborhood, we’d gather to debrief. We’d write accomplishments and challenges on the big whiteboard in the room that served as meeting space, practice hall, women and girls’ sleep space, then we’d spend time in prayer, inviting God to show us his love for the kids who showed up at our gate: eager, disruptive, hostile, hungry.

The next morning, after the leaders had gathered again in prayer, after we’d read through a chapter of the gospels together, we’d listen for ideas for the day ahead.

 “Do the music and drama in the courtyard, with the building as a backdrop."

“Let’s go over early and worship and pray in every space.”
 “Let’s use tickets for face painting, so we know who’s next, and it feels like something special.”
 “Let’s move the big kids to the parish house, so they get used to coming inside here, and have somewhere comfortable to sit.” 

“Serve snacks right from the start, so hungry kids can eat before they play. And snacks again for the big kids during small group time, so they can eat and talk. They’ll talk more.” 

I loved seeing our time together take shape in a way that made clear that God’s vision was greater than ours, his love deeper and wider than ours. That vision and love spoke to all of us, in little details that made our time smoother, and in larger ways that brought lasting fruit.

I thought of that time, and that passage, as I read Bethany Hoang’s Deepening the Soul for Justice. She describes a similar passage, a similar threat.

Sennacherib, king of Assyria, attacked and captured the fortified cities of Judah, then marched toward Jerusalem, where he hurled threats at King Hezekiah, and laughed at the idea that God would intervene: 

Surely you have heard what the kings of Assyria have done to all the countries, destroying them completely. And will you be delivered? Did the gods of the nations that were destroyed by my predecessors deliver them—the gods of Gozan, Harran, Rezeph and the people of Eden who were in Tel Assar? Where is the king of Hamath or the king of Arpad? Where are the kings of Lair, Sepharvaim, Hena and Ivvah? (Isaiah 37:11-13)

Hoang, as member of the staff of International JusticeMission, describes her own experience of the taunting threats that oppose the vision of justice and peace: 

When I hear the king of Assyria threaten violence with laughing hubris, I can’t help but see the face of a rice mill owner in south Asia, throwing his head back and smiling as he bragged in sinister delight about how he violently prevents his slaves from leaving the compound.

I see the faces of government officials who coldly considered a mother’s testimony, who unflinchingly skimmed over the crime scene photographs of her little daughter’s rape and murder. I can eel their limp hands, hands which had accepted bribes from the defendant, shaking my and my colleagues hands and glibly insisting that justice was likely impossible in this case.

I hear the words of officials throughout the world telling my colleagues that justice for the poor is not possible, trying to convince our tireless staff to go home rater than stay through the watches of the night waiting for these officials to make good on their own laws.

 Just as Jehosphat described the ways God had led in the past, described the current overwhelming need, then confessed his own inadequacy, and willingness to do what God instructed, Hezekiah took the letter from Sennacherib and spread it out before the Lord in prayer. 

“Every day, each one of us receives ‘letters,’ not unlike Hezekiah. Though perhaps not in written form, we encounter great discouragement in our lives that, in as little as one word or one image, threaten to lock down our hearts in deep burden. And as we pursue justice as integral to our daily lives, there will be times when we will be tempted to believe that our God does not hear, that our God does not see, that our God is not able to intervene. 

But as these ‘letters’ come our way, these discouragements that threaten our commitment to seeking justice, even our own disbelief in God’s power or willingness to act, we are invited like Hezekiah to spread all of this out before the Lord. 

When we spread out our discouragements before the Lord – the lies waged against the reality of God’s reign, the taunts hurled against our belief in God’s power to intervene and to heal and to redeem – this simple act of choosing to come before the Lord and seek his face is an act of proclaiming the truth that God is the good, the just, the sovereign Ruler of the ages over and against the brutality of the moment.” (33) 

Hoang describes the way the staff of IJM starts each day in stillness: setting the schedule, the challenges, the perplexities of the day before God and waiting for direction. Later in the day, together, the staff meets to pray, and in gatherings around the globe, staff, volunteers, whole churches wait on God together.

She insists that the global reach of IJM, “the tangible relief for those who suffer from violent injustices such as slavery, forced prostitutuion and illegal detention,” the accomplishments in transforming broken justice systems, holding perpetrators accountable, providing aftercare and support for survivors, are all made possible by the consistent discipline of spending time in prayer, listening in stillness, acknowledging our inadequacy and waiting for vision from the God whose desire for justice and love for the weak are greater than our own.

I wrote last week about the lure of disengagement, the struggle to connect what we know with what we do, what we believe with how we structure our days.

For me, this discipline of listening in prayer is the heart of any engagement.

With limited time, energy, resources, I struggle to know where to invest, when to draw back, how to make a difference. The needs of family, friends, community near and far are too many, too complex, too demanding. I am not wise enough to meet even the simplest.  

Yet, as I spread them out before God, like Hezekiah, or share them in prayer with others, like Jehosophat, as I confess, yet again, "I (we!) don't know what to do," opportunities become visible, next steps become clear, and I’m reminded: it’s not my plan I’m pursuing, but a greater plan I’m privileged to be part of.

Some next step applications:

Spend time in prayer about areas of need, asking God for insight and instruction.

Consider exploring The Essential Question: How You Can Make a Difference for God (a book by my husband, Whitney Kuniholm, just released by InterVarsity Press).

Read and reflect on Hoang’s Deepening the Soul for Justice, and think about ways to grow in spiritual disciplines that make engagement sustainable.

Gather to pray and share vision with others who would like to learn more about showing compassion and seeking justice.

Watch for unexpected opportunities to learn, grow, and serve. ( Here’s one opportunity I’ll be exploring: Bridges Out of Poverty Workshop, on October 18, at Church of the Good Samaritan, Paoli, PA.)

  

This is also the last in a series exploring words and practices that help or hinder our ability to serve our communities in love while renewing a web of compassionate engagement. 

Next week I'll begin looking at specific issues and arenas for engagement, in preparation for the November elections, as an extension of last year's "What's Your Platform?"

Earlier posts:  

Wisdom, July 6, 2014

Liberty and Constraint, July 13, 2014

Justice for All, July 20, 2014  

Appalling Silence, August 3, 2014 

The Role of Rules, August 10, 2014 

Disengagement and Connection, August 17

 As always, your thoughts and comments are welcome. Just click on   __comments below to see the comment option.   

Guns, God, Mercy

To triumph fully, evil needs two victories, not one. The first victory happens when an evil deed is perpetrated; the second victory, when evil is returned. After the first victory, evil would die if the second victory did not infuse it with new life.  (Miroslav Volf The End of Memory: Remembering Rightly in a Violent World) 

The Synchroblog topic this month is “Guns and God”:

Do guns and God go together?  Why or why not?
How are you wrestling with this issue in your own life?
How are you respecting the difference of opinion in the wider community and also honoring your own convictions about violence?
What do you think Jesus would do?  

 I’ve posted about guns in the past year from a variety of angles:

Blessed are the Peacemakers, about the strong peace witness of the early church, and the fact that the United States now spends more on military defense than the next fourteen nations combined. 

Guns and Good News, about the NRA, ALEC (the American Legislative Exchange Council), and the gun industry dollars that propel the relentless, dishonest "they're going to take our guns away" anti-gun-control lobby. 

Choosing Life, about a wider pro-life stance that addresses our culture of violence and dependence on guns for a sense of safety.

As I continue to wrestle with issues of guns, gun control, and a misguided trust in violence as a way to solve our problems, I've noted other angles to consider:

Research suggests that guns in homes are a health risk to those in the home, both in a significant rise in accidental death, and significant increase in successful suicide, with no evidence of household guns as deterrent to crime, or protection for those who own them: 

A recent Time article highlights the danger of assuming guns will make us safe, explaining that even well-trained, well-practiced officers freeze, shut down, act erratically, or misfire in the face of extreme, unexpected stress:

In the New York City police department . . . officers involved in gunfights typically hit their intended targets only 18% of the time, according to a Rand study. When they fired 16 times at an armed man outside the Empire State Building last summer, they hit nine bystanders and left 10 bullet holes in the suspect—a better-than-average hit ratio. In most cases, officers involved in shootings experience a kaleidoscope of sensory distortions including tunnel vision and a loss of hearing. Afterward, they are sometimes surprised to learn that they have fired their weapons at all. 

Another issue lurking behind much second amendment discussion: What is the Biblical response to oppressive government? The argument for assault rifles and unregistered guns often rests on the rights of citizens to protect themselves from repressive authority. For those who claim to follow Christ, this leads back to the witness of the early church: “For the first three centuries of the Christian church, a hallmark of the Christ-follower was a willingness to face persecution, punishment, even death, rather than pick up sword or stone in self defense.” Jesus repeatedly rejected the idea of violent response to unjust governance, and expected his followers to do the same. As he told Peter in the garden of Gethsemane, “If you live by the sword, you die by the sword.”

On a pragmatic level: if the shoot-out between government and citizens came to pass, as survivalists and right-wing alarmists predict, how would assault weapons fare against drones, bombs and the other weaponry at the military’s disposal? Do we want to allow citizens the right to stockpile tanks and missiles? Drones? Fighter jets?

Follow any of these threads to a logical conclusion and reasonable gun control measures (more comprehensive background checks, consistent registration of guns, limits to certain weapons) look more and more attractive.

But this week, I’m looking at guns from another angle. I’ve been working my way through the beatitudes, and today I’m puzzling over the idea of mercy.

Mercy is another of those words that loses much in translation. The Greek word, "eleos," points back to the Hebrew word, 'checed,' or “hesed,” sometimes translated as mercy, sometimes as compassion, sometimes "loving kindness." It suggests leniency toward offenders. Lightening of a penalty. Restraining from harming an enemy. Help for those in distress. Clemency. Amnesty. Kindness. Forgiveness. Provision for those who don’t deserve it.  Pardon. Reprieve. Respite. Deep awareness of and sympathy for another's suffering, often in a situation of crisis: war, disease, enslavement, criminal offence.

In the Old Testament, the merciless resort to violence: 

“Their bows will strike down the young men; they will have no mercy on infants, nor will they look with compassion on children.” (Isaiah 13)
“They are armed with bows and spears; they are cruel and without mercy. They sound like the roaring sea as they ride on their horses; they come like men in battle formation to attack you.”  (Jeremiah 6, and again in Jeremiah 50) 

The merciful set aside their arms, offer forgiveness and restoration. The example of mercy, again and again, is God himself: 

“I am in deep distress. Let us fall into the hands of the Lord, for his mercy is great; but do not let me fall into human hands.” (2 Samuel 24 / 1 Chronicles 21).
“In my alarm I said, ‘I am cut off from your sight!’ Yet you heard my cry for mercy when I called to you for help.” (Psalm 31)
“In all their distress he too was distressed, and the angel of his presence saved them. In his love and mercy he redeemed them; he lifted them up and carried them all the days of old.” (Isaiah 63)

I sometimes struggle with the violence of the Old Testament, a topic for another day. But Jesus, in the New Testament, makes very clear that violence will never bring peace and can never bring the righteousness God desires:

“You have heard that it was said, ‘Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth.’ But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also."
“You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” (Matthew 5) 

As the prophets insisted, the sacrifice God desires is justice, mercy, humility, love, all demonstrated, personified, enacted by Jesus on the cross. His response to violence was mercy, compassion, forgiveness "Father, forgive them." We are called to be like him, not to grab our guns and shout “over my dead body!”

I've had little opportunity to confront real violence in my own day-to day life. I've lived, worked, traveled through places some might consider dangerous, but I've never carried a gun, and never wanted one. I've wondered, from time to time, how I would respond if small circumstances escalated. I've occasionally imagined disaster. When my imaginings have led to anxiety, or images of retaliation, I've worked hard to set those imaginings aside, trusting myself to God’s mercy, praying for protection.

The violence I've experienced more often has been verbal. Online, in person, behind my back, I've been attacked, labeled, threatened, sometimes verbally abused. At times I've found myself fearful, or angry, or deeply devalued. I've considered angry responses, been tempted to label as I've been labeled.

It’s at that place, in the discussion about guns and other polarizing issues, that I find myself wondering about mercy. 

"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy." 

That Hebrew word, 'checed,' or “hesed,” carries the definitions mentioned earlier, but another, even harder meaning: the ability to identify so closely with the other person’s pain it becomes our own. 

And in it's use if offers a strange hint of extension and community: mercy binds us to the other. In giving mercy, I become part of the other. In receiving God’s mercy, I become an extension of that mercy to others.  

Scottish theologian William Barclay, in his commentary on this beatitude, wrote: 

"O the bliss of the man who gets right inside other people until he can see with their eyes, think with their thoughts, feel with their feelings, for he who does that will find others do the same for him and will know that that is what God in Jesus Christ has done."

I’m not sure I’d call this “bliss.” I find it deeply troubling to try to see through the eyes of people consumed with anger, motivated by fear, ready to retaliate. I try hard not to live in a place that feels that dark.

And I work hard to avoid voices of “unreason,” voices that try to incite fear, anger, disrespectful opposition, voices motivated by hidden financial interest or an insatiable desire for political power.

I recoil from a view of the world so absent of grace that our best bet is to put guns in every school, arm ourselves against neighbors and our own elected leaders, prepare for the inevitable worst descending toward us as we sleep.

How do I express mercy in that place of inner discord?

How do I listen, when I know I’m not heard myself?

And how do I listen, when I’m so deeply troubled by what I hear?

Henri Nouwen, a model of practical mercy, wrote: 

"To listen is very hard, because it asks of us so much interior stability that we no longer need to prove ourselves by speeches, arguments, statements, or declarations. True listeners no longer have an inner need to make their presence known. They are free to receive, to welcome, to accept.

"Listening is much more than allowing another to talk while waiting for a chance to respond. Listening is paying full attention to others and welcoming them into our very beings. The beauty of listening is that, those who are listened to start feeling accepted, start taking their words more seriously and discovering their own true selves. Listening is a form of spiritual hospitality by which you invite strangers to become friends, to get to know their inner selves more fully, and even to dare to be silent with you." (Bread for the Journey: A Daybook of Wisdom and Faith) 

Is listening an act of mercy?

I’m not sure, but it might be a place to start.

To live in the mercy of God.
To feel vibrate the enraptured
waterfall flinging itself
unabating down and down
                              to clenched fists of rock.
Swiftness of plunge,
hour after year after century . . .
                              not mild, not temperate,
God’s love for the world. Vast
flood of mercy
                      flung on resistance.
(from “To Live in the Mercy of God.” Denise Levertov)

This post is part of the March Synchroblog. Visit the other sites, and join the conversation!

Jeremy Myers – Why I Joined the NRA

Chris Jefferies – The Gun of Self-Defence?

Glenn Hager – Gun God

Gibby Espinoza – Gun Control?

Liz Dyer – Turn the Other Clip, This One is Empty

Marta Layton – Christian Ethics at the National Review and the Dish 

Kathy Escobar – What Do We Want to be Known For?

Doreen Mannion – Bang-Bang, Are We All Dead?

Yeshua Hineni – Guns and G-d

This is also the fifth in a series on Lent and the Beatitudes:

 
    An  Alternative Narrative: February 10
    Seeking Blessing in a Fracture Land: February 17

    The Poor in Spirit and Those Who Mourn: February 24

    Hungering Far Past "Rightness": March 3

Lenten Reflections from 2012:

     Looking toward Lent
     Lenten Sorrow : Lament and Nacham
     Lenten Silence: Charash, Be Still
     Lenten Sweetness: Tasting Towb
     Lenten Submission: Rethinking Hupotassō     
     Lenten Song: Remembering Ranan                                                    

Lenten Silence: Charash, Be Still

Silence, Peter Mathios, Oregon, 2011

Best of any song

is bird song
in the quiet
but first you must have
the quiet.

  (Wendell Berry)

Our culture runs from silence almost as much as we run from sorrow.  We speed from work to meeting to major event while our kids ricochet from school to the organized activities that define contemporary childhood. In those few minutes when we could enjoy real stillness, we turn on iPods, radio, TV. We don’t hear birdsong. We don’t hear quiet. We don’t even hear each other.

Looking at verses about quiet in the Old Testament, I’m struck by how many old Hebrew words there are for the absence of speech. In English we have silence, stillness, quiet – with not much difference between the three. In Hebrew, I was stunned to discover more than thirty words that are translated into our three words. In Hebrew there are words that say “sitting still,” “lying still,” “standing still,” words for tranquil stillness, uneasy stillness, incapacitated stillness, enforced stillness.

Apparently, the Hebrews were deeply familiar with the various aspects of silence, so much so that the psalmists, using different words to say almost the same thing, expressed insights that are lost in our flattened translations.

In Psalm 28:1, the writer says “28:1 To You, O Lord, I call; My rock, do not be deaf to me, For if You are silent to me, I will become like those who go down to the pit.”  We can only get a hint of it in English: You Lord, strong silent stone, don’t be silent, speechless to me, for if you are silent, inactively still, I’ll become silent, incapable of speech, like those who are still in death.

In Psalm 81:1, the English translation says “O God, do not remain quiet; Do not be silent and, O God, do not be still.” It sounds like a triple repetition: “Please, speak to me.” But each of the original words has a different nuance, suggesting a different kind of quiet: Withholding action? Withholding speech? Peacefully at rest?

Silence, Johann Heinrich Füssli, Switzerland, 1800

Puzzling over those words, I find myself thinking about the different forms of silence. There’s the quiet of someone physically incapable of speech. There’s the silence of someone shut down, intimidated into speechlessness. There’s the silence of longing, when the one you most want to hear from is distant. There’s the silence of sleep, of reflection, of waiting. Peaceful silence. Ominous silence. The silence following disaster.

Imagine having words for each of those.   

One word I came across intrigued me: charash. Here are the various ways its translated, according to Studylight, a great website that feeds my interest in ancient, hard-to-translate words: cease, cease speaking, completely silent, deaf, devises, engraved, indeed says nothing, keep silence, kept silence,  plotting,  plow, plowed, plowman, quiet, remain silent, said nothing, says nothing, silent, still. 

Apparently none of those words quite get there: there’s a word we don’t know, hiding between those translations. Something to do with plowing, with preparing, with “devising.”

There’s a moment, in planning for something, when you’ve done all you can, and then all you can do is wait, with the next steps running through your mind, but the time for action still out ahead. Charash seems to point toward that moment.

There’s a time in a pregnancy, when preparations are done, the baby is due, and all you can do is wait. It’s out of your hands. Or was – before modern medicine found ways to intervene. Charash carries something of that motionless expectation.

The Delivery of Israel, Francis Danby, 1825, London

There’s a point in the story of Moses leading his people out of Egypt when they find themselves trapped between Egyptians and Red Sea. They’ve done all they can – Moses has been obedient in standing up to the Pharaoh, the people have been obedient in gathering their families and following Moses as fast as they can, but now they’re stuck. And God says: Charash. Exodus 14:14 is translated “The Lord will fight for you while you keep silent.” That silent is “charash.” Wait expectantly. Wait in stillness. Keep your eyes and ears open.

In Psalm 46, the psalmist describes God’s activity in the world, his power over nature, over kingdoms and nations. And God, speaking through the psalmist, says “Be still and know that I am God.” That “be still” is “charash.” Wait expectantly. Watch and listen.

Stillness can go in lots of directions. It can be lonely, discouraging, lazy, defeated. It can be peaceful, sleepy, companionable, joyful.

This Lenten stillness I find myself called to is something different. It’s an expectant stillness, the stillness of early spring, waiting for the daffodils to burst open, waiting for the buds to spring out into green.

It’s a generative stillness, productive in mysterious ways, as I set my own agendas aside and see where God’s power is moving.

It’s an attentive stillness: eyes open, ears alert.

As I wrote last week, there are many things I grieve over, many things I’d like to see changed. I feel some days like the Israelites, confronting the Red Sea: Why did I even start on this journey? Where will it lead? Is hope even possible?

Yet God calls me to stillness: charash. Wait and see. The Lord will fight for you while you keep silence. Be still and know that I am God. He’s the one with the plow, the plan, the power. Charash.

The Watcher, Paul Henry, 1915, Achill Island, Ireland

Has my heart gone to sleep?

Have the beehives
of my dreams

stopped working,
the waterwheel

of the mind run dry,

scoops turning empty,

only shadow inside?

No, my heart is not asleep.

It is awake, wide awake.

Not asleep, not dreaming—

its eyes are opened wide

watching distant signals, listening

on the rim of vast silence.

(Antonio Machado,
 translated by Alan S. Trueblood)

For more from this Lenten series: Looking toward Lent, Lenten Sorrow:  Lament and Nacham. 

As always, your thoughts and comments are welcome. Click on the  _comments link below to open the comment box.

Midwinter Wisdom

Midwinter spring is its own season

Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown,

Suspended in time, between pole and tropic. 

When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire,

The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches,

In windless cold that is the heart’s heat,

Reflecting in a watery mirror

A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.

And glow more intense than blaze of branch, 

      or brazier,

Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fire

In the dark time of the year.

Between melting and freezing

The soul’s sap quivers.

    (Four Quartets: Little Gidding I, T. S. Eliot)

We often have a day or two of “midwinter spring” -  welcome days of warmth that melt the tops of frozen lakes and remind us that winter won’t last forever. This year, though, it’s been more like a midwinter summer. Our temperature reached 63 °C yesterday – a record high in a week that saw over a thousand new record highs.

I took my binoculars and new spotting scope to Marsh Creek Lake, not far from our home, and headed off on the dirt track on the far side of the lake. The path runs through thickets and brambles, skirting the foundations of old buildings abandoned when the lake was flooded back in the seventies. Dirt bikers plowed through muddy ruts, a young family scrambled happily over a massive downed sycamore, and a lomg line of gulls marked the half-way point in the perfect blue of the lake.

Normally most of the lake is frozen by this point in the year, but kayaks danced along in the bright little waves and a flat-bottomed fishing boat moved along so close to shore I could see the fishing line slice the water.

Kingfisher Pair, Suzanne Britton 

Pausing to watch a pair of belted kingfishers following each other along the lake edge, I found myself wondering: is this a good thing? This beautiful warm weather, this early pairing of solitary kingfishers? What if a day that seems like a reprieve is really a harbinger of harm?

I thought of a blog post I read just days ago: Scot McKnight, responding to a recent debate in The Spectator on global warming, asked “what would it take to change your mind?”  

“Put on the table one of your most cherished theological ideas — say creationism, the historicity of Jonah surviving in a big fish, Calvinism or Arminianism, penal substitution, the gospel as social justice, progressive ideas on the gay/lesbian debates… just put your major idea on the table and ask yourself one question:

What would it take to change your mind?”

McKnight’s book, The Blue Parakeet: Rethinking How You Read the Bible, documents his own change of mind on the topic of women in church leadership, but his question has far-reaching importance in this contentious political season.  How do we know what’s true? What kind of evidence are we looking for? Whose voices do we listen to? What are we willing to question?

The Pharisees were sure of a long list of things, which made it impossible for most of them to hear what Jesus had to say. They started from a position of theological certainty and spent their energy looking for ways to discredit their opposition, rather than taking time to listen to see what truth they could learn from a very new perspective.

Can You See the Writing on the Wall?
Mary Padgelik

Ah, but isn’t it dangerous to listen to voices you’re not sure of, to consider ideas that don’t fit the currently accepted grid?

Standing still in the late afternoon sunlight, I listened to the wild cry of a red-tailed hawk soaring overhead, and the secretive scuffle of the white-throated sparrows, hiding in low bushes along the trail. There are voices easy to hear, like the raucous chorus of crows, or the constant chatter of the chickadees. And there are voices we prefer to hear: the mockingbird song. The sweet chirps of the pretty red house finch.

What happens when we shut out too quickly voices that are new, or difficult, or threatening? What happens when we refuse to hear those whose message doesn’t fit our own?

In Soul of a Citizen, Paul Loeb talks of an “ethic of listening,” learning to act from an awareness “that our knowledge and perception will always be partial, and that we learn best from dialogue with others.” Loeb notes the need “to cultivate a bit of humility. To hear the souls of others requires silencing the clamor of our own obsessions about how the world should be.” (238)

Humility is one of those words we don’t spend much time with. We like to be people who know the answers, who have firm opinions, who are quick to make those opinions known.  We like to know which voices are approved, who is on “our side,” and who is not. Discussions move quickly from ideas offered to ad hominem attack. Once we’ve labeled someone a communist, fascist, racist, heretic, we can stop pretending to listen and go back to celebrating our own strong opinions.

I grew up in a household where argument was plentiful, in a church tradition where the stronger your opinion, the more you were admired. I realized early on that the motivation in most arguments had little to do with the point being offered. What I heard loud and strong in most discussions I witnessed was power, pride, and a deep disregard for the people most affected. 

Reading on my own, I came across James 3: “Who is wise and understanding among you? Let them show it by their good life, by deeds done in the humility that comes from wisdom.” I had seen enough to know that opinions held in pride cause harm, that real wisdom is gentle, and shows up in action more than bombastic argument.

The Fruit of the Spirit: Peace, Mary Padgelik

In my early twenties, I memorized James 3:17 and 18: 

“But the wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure; then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere. Peacemakers who sow in peace reap a harvest of righteousness.” 

In this warm, strange, midwinter summer, marveling at the beauty of red hawks in flight, dodging mountain bikers who call “on your right!” as they pass me in the muck, I find myself repeating that ancient passage. I pray for humility, wisdom, peace. Not for myself only, but for all of us, fellow travelers on a tired planet, concerned citizens in a divided country. I pray for a wisdom humble enough to consider a change of mind, wide enough to hear all the voices crying to be heard, and for harvests of righteousness abundant enough to meet the needs of all.

Join the conversation: What would it take to change your mind? How do you know when you're holding an opinion from wrong motives, or pride?Where do you hope to see deeper dialogue in the year ahead?