A Narrative of Hope
Note: This article was originally published on the blog The Listening Ear.
I watch the news and see anger, rage, pain, grief, offence, defense, pushback, meme grenades, and name calling. I recoil at the violence even on the streets of my own hometown. I grieve the violent death of yet another Black man, this time under the knee of a merciless white man in uniform. Over the past weeks, I’ve read countless social media posts with which I agree and with which I disagree. Then there are more deaths, and more angry posts. Occasionally I witness glimpses of lovingkindness and true humanity. Through it all I have tried to listen carefully while at the same time fighting off my own knee-jerk reactions to the pain and anger. While I am listening and processing all of this, I’m told that I “must” pick a side, that I cannot be “silent!” Others counter with the challenge not to let anyone “shame” me or “white guilt” me.
Now it would be so easy to come to the conclusion that there are only two overarching narratives vying for my heart and mind and to slap simplistic labels on the opposing narrative. Labels such as “tear it all down and start over” vs “maintain and defend the status quo.” Some may, and with good reason, label them more accurately as “powerless and in pain” vs “powerful and in charge.” Nevertheless, these labels only serve to tag the opposite poles in what is a complex and chronic challenge to our shared human dignity and worth.
What I do not see in any of these narratives is real hope for the transformation of individuals or of the systems and structures of society. We human beings thrive on hope. We cannot live without it. We need a better narrative, a narrative of hope.
Therefore, in hope, I have made four personal choices.
I choose to love my neighbor.
According to Jesus’ well-known parable of the Good Samaritan, my neighbor is anyone who needs my help, my advocacy, my voice, or my service. The tyranny of having to choose between two polarized and polarizing narratives is that it also forces me to make a choice as to who is my neighbor. That is a false choice because my neighbor is anyone who needs my help, not just someone who shares one of the competing narratives. More importantly, the real question is: to whom will I choose to be a neighbor?
I choose God’s narrative of hope.
I choose to join the millions of Jesus-followers from around the world and across the centuries that have believed in and acted upon an entirely trustworthy, beautiful and life-affirming narrative. That narrative is the voice of God speaking to the human race throughout history. God’s voice speaks powerfully and authoritatively in the Bible, and ultimately through Jesus, the object and source of our hope.
God’s narrative of hope does not dismiss the deep concerns, the pain, the anger, and the fear expressed in the present competing narratives, but rather speaks clearly and powerfully to every issue boiling up and spilling out of them. God’s narrative gives voice to the frustrated, angry, exhausted cry of so many Black lives in these words from the biblical prophet Habakkuk:
How long, O LORD, must I call for help?
But You do not listen!
“Violence is everywhere!” I cry,
but You do not come to save. Habakkuk 1:2 (NLT)
God’s narrative calls out injustice in every culture and society; it speaks against the fear and hatred of the alien, foreigner, and minority; it condemns the exploitation of the poor, the powerless, and the vulnerable by the powerful; and it judges the unrestrained, arrogant and evil use of violence. It also holds up a mirror to my own privilege, pride, and shortcomings. In this narrative, no one is innocent, but there is the sure and certain hope of redemption, transformation, and reconciliation.
God’s narrative of hope is not a mushy mashup of tried-and-failed human solutions, but rather the perfect standard by which all human narratives are tested. But it is also not a “by and by” narrative that delays significant works of reconciliation until “we all get to heaven.”
God’s narrative does not “shame” or “guilt” me in such a way that I am forever doomed to wallow in polarization and despair. Rather this narrative of hope announces and demonstrates the “good news” that God has come down to human beings to cover our shame, forgive our guilt, and bring redemption and reconciliation through the work of Jesus. This good news builds upon the biblical imperative that I love my neighbor by providing both a path and the power to be reconciled first to God and then to my neighbor.
The path to reconciliation requires personal sacrifice and service, intentional acts of loving, listening to, and seeking the welfare of my neighbors. The power to bring reconciliation comes from Jesus’ atoning death on the cross that takes my sin, including the sin of racism, on Himself. The power comes from Jesus’ bodily resurrection from the dead bringing with Him a new way of being, a new way of living, and a new way of relating to my neighbor. And the power comes from the Holy Spirit Who transforms and empowers me (and all His people) from the inside out so that I may follow Jesus into the hard work of reconciliation.
I choose to engage at my places of greatest influence.
There are communities where I have been given a degree of influence, where I listen carefully, and into which I may speak the truth in love. Here are two such communities.
No Walls is an interracial, interdenominational service ministry founded by a diverse group of Jesus-followers who see and actively serve the social, economic, and spiritual needs of our more neglected Lynchburg neighbors. It is dedicated to breaking down the racial and cultural walls that separate our city neighbors from each other. I have only a small part in one expression of this multifaceted outreach (an interracial men’s Bible study) but God has used this group of men to transform my life, my ministry, my teaching, my relationships with my Black brothers, and my understanding of their lives and challenges. We respect, love, and trust each other.
I am an elder in my local church (a No Walls partner) where I regularly teach discipleship classes. This gives me many opportunities to encourage and exhort my mostly white brothers and sisters to consider how and why Jesus chose to focus His love, healing, and friendship upon specific neglected groups of people. Luke’s gospel especially records how Jesus loved and spent time with the poor, women, strangers (foreigners), Roman collaborators (tax collectors), and others who were dismissed, ignored, and abused by those in power.
I choose to make what mattered to Jesus, matter to me.
To Jesus, “sinners and tax collectors” mattered; women mattered; the despised Samaritans mattered; the blind, crippled, and sick mattered. Even the self-righteous religious leaders mattered enough to Jesus that He strongly challenged their spiritual blindness. At the same time, He provided them with opportunities to see more clearly and turn toward Him, the light of the world.
Simply saying that everyone mattered to Jesus (and then dropping the subject) reduces His strong, compassionate intentionality to an abstract and toothless slogan. It also assumes unearned control of the conversation. Could it be that many of us are hiding behind pious abstractions because the concrete realities of life for many of our neighbors are too uncomfortable for us to engage or even acknowledge?
Of course Jesus cared for all people, but He proved it by acting on behalf of the most vulnerable. Jesus told the story of a shepherd who leaves ninety-nine safe animals to bring back the one isolated and endangered sheep. That one sheep (a symbol of all who are lost, neglected, or vulnerable) mattered to Jesus. So I must ask myself, am I good with playing it safe with the ninety-nine, or am I willing to embrace risk with Jesus? Does the vulnerable one really matter to me? There is an illustration making the rounds on social media that portrays a pen full of sheep, all holding up signs that read “ALL SHEEP MATTER!” Jesus is the lone shepherd who is searching for a single lost sheep which is obviously in danger on the steep mountainside below. Reaction to this drawing has run the gamut from praise to derision. For me, it was an epiphany.
I choose to make what mattered to Jesus, matter to me.
I know that I will not do any of this perfectly or consistently, but for me, God’s narrative of hope provides the only path forward.
