"Then the Lord said, 'I have seen the affliction of my people who are in Egypt, and have heard their cry because of their taskmasters; I know their sufferings, and I have come down to deliver them out of the hand of the Egyptians, and to bring them up out of that land to a good and broad land, a land flowing with milk and honey." - Exodus 3:7-8.
My Facebook and Twitter feeds are full of pain today.
Alumni of General Theological Seminary are in pain because of the conflict that has resulted in the Dean and Board of Trustees firing much of the faculty.
Many of us in St. Louis are in continued pain over how the Mike Brown killing is being handled and what it spotlights about the treatment of African American people in our region.
Downtown homeless service providers are in pain about the continued difficulties facing people struggling with homelessness.
A Cathedral parishioner is grieving the death of her beloved grandmother.
The common thread of all this pain is it is personal. Personal is what makes the difference between news that is bothersome or troubling and news that is deeply painful.
We care when something happens to us or when something happens to "our people."
That's not an indictment. It's human nature. It's why our Jewish ancestors made it so clear that God saw them as God's own ... that they were "God's chosen people." It was the most powerful way possible of saying that God cared about them ... and not just cared, but intimately felt it and was committed to saving acts in doing something about it.
God saw their affliction.
God heard their cry.
God knew their sufferings.
And because of that God acted.
Because of that, God responded.
Because of that, God came down to deliver them and bring them to a better place.
As long as we talk about homelessness, or crime or poverty or racial injustice as a problem, we will never solve it. We will never solve any of these problems as long as we see them as categories because we will never care enough. It is only when it becomes personal. Only when it is about "my people" that we care enough to act.
Kate Casas wrote a brilliant article last month where she described attending a focus group on equity in the St. Louis region.
When a problem affects "our people," we care differently and more powerfully -- and we are more likely to act. But the converse of that is also true. When it is not "our people," we tend to think it's not "our problem" and we tend to ignore and lapse into inactivity ... after all, there is so much else for us to do.
It's human nature, but it's particularly potent in St. Louis, where we are so deeply segregated by not only race and class, but divided into 91 different municipalities on the Missouri side. The opportunities for us to say "not my people ... not my problem" -- not out of any sense of malice but out of the gravitational pull of that operating system of human nature -- are everywhere. That gravitational pull is so strong that we have to actively pull against it.
Which is why the voice of the church is so important. God in Jesus Christ stands in the midst of all of this and makes a profound statement -- that ALL people are OUR people. That what happens to one happens to us all.
It is this Gospel that led Christ Church Cathedral under Dean Michael Allen's leadership to weave a banner singing "Our Church Has AIDS." It is why we pray for our sisters and brothers in Lui, South Sudan and try to help them live a better life. It is why we have opened our building to Lafayette Preparatory Academy. It is why our baptismal covenant has us vowing to "respect the dignity of EVERY human being."
God, who so loved the WHOLE world, that God became human in Jesus, invites us into this life of seeing all people as our people. And I have to admit my first reaction to it is fear. I know how deeply I care for "my people" and how deeply I weep when they are in pain. How can there possibly be enough of me to go around. How can I possibly be like God and see all that affliction, hear all those cries, know all that sufferings and respond to all of it?
There is too much! How can I do it all?
The answer, of course, is that we can't do it all. We can't see it all, hear it all, know it all, feel it all.
But there are two things we can do:
First we can commit to do something. One of my favorite quotes is from Archbishop Oscar Romero, who said:
"We cannot do everything and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that. This enables us to do something, and to do it very well. It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way, an opportunity for God's grace to enter and do the rest."
We can not let ourselves be paralyzed by the volume. We can see, hear, know and feel deeply and then respond in kind as best we can to a piece of it -- realizing that we are at best not generators of solutions but vehicles of God's grace.
The second thing we can do is recognize that all suffering is of a piece -- and that because of that there are no "my people" and "your people" but only "us" as "God's people." And that means the turmoil and General Seminary and in Ferguson and North St. Louis and on the streets of downtown and in the heart of the mourning granddaughter are all connected. They are all human beings, made in the image of God, crying out in pain. They all involve "our people."
And even though we cannot be everywhere and do everything, in Christ, there is no situation where our response is ever "not my people ... not my problem."
My Facebook and Twitter feeds are full of pain today.
Alumni of General Theological Seminary are in pain because of the conflict that has resulted in the Dean and Board of Trustees firing much of the faculty.
Many of us in St. Louis are in continued pain over how the Mike Brown killing is being handled and what it spotlights about the treatment of African American people in our region.
Downtown homeless service providers are in pain about the continued difficulties facing people struggling with homelessness.
A Cathedral parishioner is grieving the death of her beloved grandmother.
The common thread of all this pain is it is personal. Personal is what makes the difference between news that is bothersome or troubling and news that is deeply painful.
We care when something happens to us or when something happens to "our people."
That's not an indictment. It's human nature. It's why our Jewish ancestors made it so clear that God saw them as God's own ... that they were "God's chosen people." It was the most powerful way possible of saying that God cared about them ... and not just cared, but intimately felt it and was committed to saving acts in doing something about it.
God saw their affliction.
God heard their cry.
God knew their sufferings.
And because of that God acted.
Because of that, God responded.
Because of that, God came down to deliver them and bring them to a better place.
As long as we talk about homelessness, or crime or poverty or racial injustice as a problem, we will never solve it. We will never solve any of these problems as long as we see them as categories because we will never care enough. It is only when it becomes personal. Only when it is about "my people" that we care enough to act.
Kate Casas wrote a brilliant article last month where she described attending a focus group on equity in the St. Louis region.
The conversation eventually turned to education. The last two questions the moderator asked that night were about school transfers. First he asked "Do you think kids in unaccredited districts should be allowed to transfer to another better performing district?" About half the crowd raised their hand and said yes. Next he asked "If you lived in an unaccredited district, would you send your child to another better performing district?" For the first time that night, all 15 people in the group agreed -- 100 percent said they would send their child to a better performing school.
...When we think of children as our own, we will treat them better than when we think of them as someone else's.... The problem is that it is not just parents who treat some kids like their own. No, the problem is we have systems (education, justice, health care, etc.) that treat some children like they are its own and some children like they are someone else's.
...When we think of children as our own, we will treat them better than when we think of them as someone else's.... The problem is that it is not just parents who treat some kids like their own. No, the problem is we have systems (education, justice, health care, etc.) that treat some children like they are its own and some children like they are someone else's.
When a problem affects "our people," we care differently and more powerfully -- and we are more likely to act. But the converse of that is also true. When it is not "our people," we tend to think it's not "our problem" and we tend to ignore and lapse into inactivity ... after all, there is so much else for us to do.
It's human nature, but it's particularly potent in St. Louis, where we are so deeply segregated by not only race and class, but divided into 91 different municipalities on the Missouri side. The opportunities for us to say "not my people ... not my problem" -- not out of any sense of malice but out of the gravitational pull of that operating system of human nature -- are everywhere. That gravitational pull is so strong that we have to actively pull against it.
Which is why the voice of the church is so important. God in Jesus Christ stands in the midst of all of this and makes a profound statement -- that ALL people are OUR people. That what happens to one happens to us all.
It is this Gospel that led Christ Church Cathedral under Dean Michael Allen's leadership to weave a banner singing "Our Church Has AIDS." It is why we pray for our sisters and brothers in Lui, South Sudan and try to help them live a better life. It is why we have opened our building to Lafayette Preparatory Academy. It is why our baptismal covenant has us vowing to "respect the dignity of EVERY human being."
God, who so loved the WHOLE world, that God became human in Jesus, invites us into this life of seeing all people as our people. And I have to admit my first reaction to it is fear. I know how deeply I care for "my people" and how deeply I weep when they are in pain. How can there possibly be enough of me to go around. How can I possibly be like God and see all that affliction, hear all those cries, know all that sufferings and respond to all of it?
There is too much! How can I do it all?
The answer, of course, is that we can't do it all. We can't see it all, hear it all, know it all, feel it all.
But there are two things we can do:
First we can commit to do something. One of my favorite quotes is from Archbishop Oscar Romero, who said:
"We cannot do everything and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that. This enables us to do something, and to do it very well. It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way, an opportunity for God's grace to enter and do the rest."
We can not let ourselves be paralyzed by the volume. We can see, hear, know and feel deeply and then respond in kind as best we can to a piece of it -- realizing that we are at best not generators of solutions but vehicles of God's grace.
The second thing we can do is recognize that all suffering is of a piece -- and that because of that there are no "my people" and "your people" but only "us" as "God's people." And that means the turmoil and General Seminary and in Ferguson and North St. Louis and on the streets of downtown and in the heart of the mourning granddaughter are all connected. They are all human beings, made in the image of God, crying out in pain. They all involve "our people."
And even though we cannot be everywhere and do everything, in Christ, there is no situation where our response is ever "not my people ... not my problem."
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