Extremists for Love

So the question is not whether we will be extremists, but what kind of extremists we will be. Will we be extremists for hate or for love?

-Martin Luter King, Jr., from Letter from a Birmingham Jail

These days I feel like my heart has a hundred-pound weight chained to it. I've just read about yet another act of domestic terrorism near Texas A&M, in a month that has held far too many already. There are too many grieving families to pray for; too many police officers and families of fallen officers who will carry this trauma for the rest of their lives; too many communities where people will think twice about even leaving their homes; and too many hearts of perpetrators filled with so much darkness and foreboding that it's an effort to pray for them, even when they need it most.

I hate that this is the third national-news-making shooting right here in the U.S. of this month, and I'm just now feeling impassioned enough to blog about it, let alone take action, or even determine what the appropriate action might be. I hate that when these events clump together, they lose focus in the public (and in my own) mind, when they are distinct, carried out by different people in different places under different circumstances. I hate that this has become a political football for both sides over gun control. I hate that others see it as some kind of vague "sign of the times," and as an excuse to be even more fearful, paranoid and unwilling to try to understand our neighbors. I hate the sick feeling I get in my stomach when I look at a few of these situations and realize that, while it's impossible to see inside someone else's heart, some of these shooters were not just despairing or without hope. The Aurora shooter, for instance, was not just armed to the teeth, but covered in defensive gear, which seems to suggest he had not lost hope for himself: he just wanted to steal it away from others.

I hate a lot of things about these situations. But more than anything, I hate the impression, sometimes even the notion I get in my own heart, that in the midst of all this, the church is not doing anything relevant. That we're not taking any action. That we're just sitting around, praying, keeping our eyes on the skies.

You see, I am blessed to work for a church that does a lot of what the world considers really good things. We spend a lot of time, energy and money feeding the poor, clothing the naked, caring for the homeless, and welcoming the stranger. These things are uncontroversially good. Not only did Jesus actually tell his disciples to DO these things, but most people, religious or secular, would clap us on the back for doing them. They make us feel like we're actually accomplishing something, instead of expending all that effort throwing fancy words and phrases into the Sunday morning air, and handing out little crumbs of bread and sips of wine.

But here's the thing: as proud as I am of my congregation for those works of compassion, as hard as I'll fight to ensure we keep doing them, as much good as I truly believe they do and as pleased as I believe God is with them, those things can be done by just about any charitable organization, and often are. We do not have the market cornered on compassion. Target, the Rotary Club, the American Legion, and in fact every middle- and high school student in Maryland as a graduation requirement, have joined us in that effort; for which I thank God.

But what Target, the Rotary club, and your average middle school class can not do is raise people up believing they are a cherished and beloved child of the creator of the universe. They can not tell a child that nonviolence is not only a practical solution, but also the way of the savior of humankind, who has already triumphed over death. They can not tell a story that helps people make sense of their past, present, and future, in light of a God who loves us so much that no boundary--not even death--would separate him from dwelling among us. They can not give a person the kind of hope that helps us to sing hymns of praise even as we stare into the face of our own mortality.

Of course I don't mean to say that all acts of violence would come to an end if people just worshiped and prayed more, as if Christians are immune to despair, hopelessness, hatred. They wouldn't, because clearly we aren't. But what I do mean to say is that evangelism matters. The story we are called to tell, the teachings we are called to pass on, the faith and trust we are called to impart, the imperative not just to love our neighbors as ourselves but also to love God with heart, soul, mind and strength: those things matter. They do make a difference. They are not an afterthought, but the very heart of hope for almost two billion people on this planet, and they are worth sharing.

As we Christians grieve with yet another set of victims and pray for yet another community in turmoil, let's remember: our news really is good. So let's not hide it under a bushel basket anymore.