There was always that one kid. The kid who everyone wanted to be ‘it’. The kid who was repeatedly chosen to be the bad guy because he was all too easy to track down and catch. Of course he ended up losing and each time the game started up anew he loudly complained that he allllways had to be the bad guy.
I miss the days of playing good guys and bad guys under the trees of our suburban neighborhood in Missouri. Teams were either skin vs shirts or blue shirts vs red shirts. Boys vs girls. Cops vs robbers. The delineation was clear. There was no question who the target was and who your teammates were in the catching process.
But one day you grow up and with maturity comes nuance. Nuance is difficult. It’s confusing. The gray area has expanded. The lines are too blurred for immediate recognition. Who is the good guy? Who is the bad guy? Which team am I on?
Like many of you this week, I have started to type something… started to comment something… started to avert the trajectory of the conversation, but in the end I merely stood still in my gray-territory haze, unable to wrap inadequate words around barbaric atrocities. During my growing up years, evening news talked about the conflicts between Israel and the Gaza Strip. I knew those terms before I knew where they were located on a map and certainly before I understood any of their origin stories.
While consuming the constant news coverage we have been reminded that many truths can exist at the same time. The attack by Hamas was inhumane. The innocuous photos of open milk cartons next to innocent bowls of cereal as Israel was beginning their Saturday morning routines seems too overwhelming to take in. How long had the music festival attendees planned for their party fest? You bring the food; I know someone with a tent and camping gear that’ll let me borrow it for the night before the festival begins. Gigs were booked. Plans were made. Everything was a go. And then suddenly life changed. The cereal, uneaten. The melodic fun plunged into a sea of despair and hysteria.
And now what? What do we dread most with each click of the remote control? As a kid, the next decision would be easy: Get the bad guy! But the ammo of childhood would be less aerial strikes and more bean bag toss or paintball tagging. The casualties far fewer.
I do not know what to “do” about the innocents of the Gaza Strip or other Palestinian nations. There was no favor over me that I was born in the middle of the United States on a cool day in February. There was no inherent condemnation on a little boy born in the midst of a war that goes back further than his grandfather’s grandfather. It is a random act that we each ended up where we are. How can I wish death on the lives of those who have done nothing to contribute to a militant regime?
In times like these, all I know to do is pray for protection and sustenance however possible. I do not trust that the war will ever end. I heard the same discouraging words as a college student in my History of the Middle East class. At the root of this struggle are two differing beliefs in who God’s chosen people are and where Christ will return to collect His own. As an ambitious college student, I thought those lines were fairly clear. But with each new year of aging, I understand God’s chosen people have experienced conflicting messages with destructive results. God’s net is wide. His love for humans is vast. His understanding of the larger scheme of things is so much greater than our human minds can understand. What do we do when God’s chosen people are vehemently opposed to our own way of thinking and existing?
I’ve spent most of my adulthood ‘making fun of’ the Miss America answer of ‘I just want world peace’ yet I have never felt that simple sentiment more acutely. The news coverage has been overwhelming to our psyches. Rosie O’Donnell spoke about monitoring her tv news intake stating, “It’s just too much for my heart.” What a perfect description of how we are all feeling. Whomever you are and from whatever belief you come from – I feel confident that we are all feeling the weight of O’Donnell’s comment. Our collective hearts are overwhelmed and aching.
I zoom out from the news stories and pray for you and your immediate community of friends and family that you would know peace for today. That you would accept contrition and that you would offer forgiveness and apologies in return. My instinct is to fix things. To call someone and offer my input. How silly and selfish. So all I know to do is to begin with Greta. To shake off what isn’t vital. To embrace what is sacred around me. To appreciate my friends with all of their oddities and to show respect and love to my family of misfitted, misshapen, baggage-laden members who deserve more peace than conflict. I cannot come to the world table of negotiation, but I can sit down at my own table and offer peace wherever possible. Those moments of unity are made available to all of us if we are aware of their presence and act on them for the good. Our prayers, then, become for the rippling effect of change. May their expansion be swift and move outward far beyond our scope or lifetime. Person by person. Situation by situation. Grocery store mishap by co-worker misunderstanding. We are being called to duty. Called to the enactment of peace in our times. Peace in our space. Peace in our sphere of influence. Make the call, swallow the reaction, stiffen the resolve. The nuance is too much for our mind’s to comprehend at times. We must start smaller and teach better. The good guys and bad guys are not as readily identifiable, but our actions and words are immediately within our control.
Peace, my friend, be with you.
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