There’s an old story about a boy who, having grown up at the edge of a wide river, spent his childhood learning to build rafts. When the boy became a man, he cut down some trees, tied them together and, riding his raft, crossed to the far side of the river.
Because he had spent so long working on the raft, he couldn’t see leaving it behind when he reached dry land, so he strapped it to his shoulders and carried it with him. But all he found along his journey were a few easy streams. He rarely thought about what he was missing out on because he was carrying his raft — the trees he couldn’t climb, the peaks he didn’t think to climb and couldn’t see, or the people he would never meet. He didn’t even realize how heavy the raft was because he had never known what it was like to be free of it.
In our society, we are stuck in the same old habits. We are stuck in believing some people are better than others because of the color of skin, nation of origin, gender or sexuality. Consequently, our nation’s collective consciousness appears to have been wounded by these old habits to the point of fracture.
We have seen that no act of violence will unite us. No amount of grief will unite us. Mass shootings taking the lives of others, even children, have not united us. A lack of affordable health care or affordable housing does not. Elder abuse and neglect does not. Mass incarceration does not. Predatory economic practices do not. Natural disasters do not. Bombs indiscriminately falling in another nation’s streets have not. Racial injustice does not. Politically motivated greed does not. Indeed, we have seen that no act of violence or amount of grief will unite us.
As a follower of Jesus, I wish I could say that I am surprised by this, but I am not. Jesus, as Lord and King, did not teach his followers that grief would unite us. He taught us that only the holy love of Christ practiced by God’s people can unite us because the holy love demands solidarity in the struggle for heart-filling, soul-resting, consciousness-awakening liberation.
And what does this kind of holy love and solidarity look like in the struggle for heart-filling, soul-resting, consciousness-awakening liberation? Many things, I suppose, but at the very least, it should look like the ordinary everyday commitment to compassion, truth-telling and hospitality.
Compassion becomes an act of defiance in a society ruled by fear, indifference and violence. Among many things, Jesus Christ is the incarnation of the compassion of God. Christ was with the lonely and shared in their loneliness and with the displaced in their displacement. He became burdened by others’ burdens and wounded by others’ wounds. Christ showed us that in sharing with the lonely, the lonely are no longer alone. In sharing with the displaced, the displaced find a home. In sharing in the burdens of others, they no longer carried them on their own. A commitment to compassion defies fear and, in love, demands we always tell the truth, even when it’s hard or risky.
Truth-telling is an act of resistance in a society tempted by power, position and privilege. Truth is often overlooked because it is constant, ordinary and mundane. We quickly become bored by the truth and set out for fresh ideas or the fantastical, yet the truth remains before us, ignored or forgotten. So here comes the strong man of power, position and privilege, whose presence and “tell-it-like-it-is” authoritarian voice capture our attention with ideas and our hearts with promises. But the truth of history reminds us that nothing is new under the sun and that we live in a land of broken promises for those lacking power, position and privilege. And when the strong man leverages power to press down others, causes harm or does violence with full-throated conviction, we commit our minds to truth-telling, our hearts to compassion and our bodies to hospitality.
Hospitality becomes an act of protest in a society where power, position and privilege are determined to dispose of the vulnerable and exclude others. Hospitality, which in Greek is philoxenia, meaning “kinship love for strangers,” becomes a mysterious, divinely inspired act of other-worldly empathy that can liberate a weary soul from the pit of hopelessness and hatred. A commitment to this kind of hospitality becomes a stubborn refusal to give in or give up. They will contradict contemporary messages that attempt to tell us who is valuable, invaluable, significant, insignificant, worthy, and unworthy. Such a community becomes a sign of hope, proving that compassion is possible and that truth-telling is required if all are included. We believe the world is not irreversibly categorized between classes, races, genders, sexual preferences, political parties, or nationalities. We believe God’s abundance will fill our lack so we can live generous lives marked by compassion, truth-telling and hospitality. This is the good news of liberation for all of us because all of us can flourish in both challenging and transforming ways.
But we live in a national moment where it’s clear that God’s good news of heart-filling, soul-resting, consciousness-awakening liberation for all is not well received by those living on the mountaintop of prosperity and political power where self-reliance, self-sufficiency and self-serving actions are taken. But that’s all right because the Christian scriptures tell us that God’s good news of liberation is born on the margins of society at the foothills of the mountain of prosperity and political power, where there is a commitment to compassion, truth-telling and hospitality. And God rewards such commitments with a heart filled, a soul at peace and a mind awakened, even if society mocks them.
The Christian tradition teaches that Jesus modeled the good news of liberation for all people in his life, ministry, message, death, resurrection and ascension. This message guided Jesus’s followers then and can guide them now.
The Rev. Fred Liggin is one of the pastors at Williamsburg Christian Church and founder & co-executive director of Faith Community Development & Training with 3e Restoration Inc.
