Fumbling for hope.

Last week’s events have left me in an utterly sad place. I’m not black, I don’t have family in law enforcement, and I’ve never lost a relative to gun violence. It’s tempting to feel as if it’s not my place to mourn in such a way that feels like I can’t catch my breath and my heart might fall out of my body.

But that’s the way it feels. This is my country, too. These are my people. And I’m trained for it. I know how to hurt with the hurting. I’m not easily shocked or rattled by tragedy. And more than all of that, this is the burden God’s given me.

I don’t get riled up about every issue that comes across my screen, and I’m usually unwilling to engage in dialogue on subjects that make Christians famous – or infamous. It’s not that I feel disdain for people passionate about all of the things, but it just doesn’t feel effective. I can’t afford to get distracted. Love God, love people. Love God, love people.

But racial reconciliation? This is a flag I’ll wave even when my arms get tired. This is a hill upon which I’m willing to die. This is a legacy I’d like to leave my children, a fiery torch I hope to pass. This is one of many ways I want to love God, and love people. And so on I’ll trudge. One day at a time. Slowly, surely, intentionally, and prayerfully.

I am grateful for a church willing to wade into the mess this morning, helping me fumble for hope and throwing me a lifeline in 2 Corinthians 1. He HAS delivered us, and He WILL delivered us. I am relieved at the idea of a God who is never surprised, a God who still holds the world in his hands while it bleeds.

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