It is easy for those us far removed from brutality and riots who live in self-imposed rural isolation to imagine that none of this has anything to do with us. But it does. It has to do with me.
I must face my prejudices: the prejudices I tell myself I don’t have, the prejudices that color the way I look at black people, obese people, angry people, liberal people and all kinds of people who have the audacity to be someone who is not like me. Because, after all, I am right. Didn’t you know that?
All my life I have modeled my life after Jesus Christ, who doesn’t have one prejudiced thought and who loves every person unconditionally. I love him deeply because he laid aside heaven to become a person—a poor, minority person—and willingly gave his life to redeem me from sin, not the least of which are my prejudices against other people. How can I, then, having been completely and irrevocably forgiven, persist in thinking that I am better than another person. Doesn’t the Bible say, “…the Scriptures say, No one is good—no one in all the world is innocent” (Romans 3:10).
Because I think I’m right. And that means I’m better.
This kind of thinking creates slavery, the Ku Klux Klan, Nazism, fascism, and the Inquisition. This kind of thinking divides churches, societies, and nations. This kind of thinking starts wars that drive millions into refugee camps and birth worldwide chaos. This kind of thinking creates the haves and the have nots.
As a follower of Jesus Christ, I have witnessed tragedies in the church: anger, division, shunning, and ridicule. What causes this? People like me who know “I’m right.” We even use Scripture to defend our mistreatment of others. God forgive us.
I have knelt before God in the past weeks and asked him to forgive me for thinking that I’m right. Because I’m not right. Only God is right. “The most important [commandment],” answered Jesus, “is this…Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.’ The second is this: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no commandment greater than these” (Mark 12:29-31).
“Whoever claims to love God yet hates a brother or sister is a liar. For whoever does not love their brother and sister, whom they have seen, cannot love God, whom they have not seen.” (1 John 4:20).
God forgives me.
And now I’m asking you to forgive me.
I went into the garage to look at the plants I have over-wintered and will soon take outside. Imagine my surprise when my hibiscus was already blooming — in the dark! This bright yellow bloom was a ray of God’s sunshine in a totally unexpected place; just like Easter.
“Everyone makes someone happy: some by arriving, others by leaving.” When I first heard this, I laughed because it is so true. And then I wondered, Which am I? Which are you?
I’m sorry you have to wade through ankle deep slush or watch helplessly as garbage trucks slide inexorably toward you on ice-covered roads. I remember the sinking feeling I used to get when the meteorologists would gleefully announce an approaching subzero disaster.
I examined each air mail envelope with its red and blue rectangles around the edge. The paper was usually light blue and in the upper right-hand corner were stamps: beautiful stamps, hand cancelled, and whispering of exotic places and distant lands. We now and then received letters from missionary friends in Africa, Egypt, or Europe. Letters took about two weeks to reach America, and interminably long to arrive from anywhere else. But they came, like friends dropping in for a visit.
When I was five or six, one of my favorite books was, The Little Mailman of Bayberry Lane, by Ian Munn. The little mailman was a chipmunk who delivered letters to his animal neighbors. Some neighbors received lots of letters and some only a few. One neighbor never got any letters. The little mailman organized a letter writing campaign which cheered up the lonely neighbor immeasurably and brought everyone together. Strange, the things you remember from one’s childhood. Come to think of it, this little book is probably one of the reasons I write lots of letters and cards today. I love to hear from someone months, maybe years, later, telling me how my letter came at just the right moment or that my card was just what they needed at the time.
A personal letter means that somebody is thinking about you and wants you to know. Personal letters are rare, for one thing. And they’re from a live person who has taken out some paper and an envelope, checked on your address, sat down and wrote your name to tell you things that nobody else will know except you. There is no accidental copying it to a third party. There are no emojis decorating every other thought, as though words were so difficult to create that our society has to communicate with pictures. There is no ugly swearing or obscenity. Just simple words created for you. Above all, it is personal. The handwriting may be untidy, but it is unique to the sender. Perhaps the message is the same time after time, but, even so, it is for you. How are you doing? How’s your garden coming? Aunt Hilda just had hip replacement surgery. Our dog had pups. Fifteen! When can you come and see me? I’m going to visit you next Christmas. How was your trip to Budapest? (or Omaha)
All my life I got personal letters. In college I met a captivating blonde with a knockout smile who stole my heart. For two years we wrote letters each summer while separated, she in California and I traveling. She still has those letters I wrote from Seattle, Barbados, and from across the USA. She, too, was a faithful letter writer. She joked about how their mailman commented every day, “Another letter from that young man in Seattle!” and told me a lot about her job and family. Any time I see her handwriting I see in my mind’s eye her lovely hands so soft to hold. The two are inseparable.
We are completely spoiled. No milking cows in the morning to have milk for breakfast. As a matter of fact, we have many options. Soy, Almond, lactose-free, full-fat, lower-fat, fat-free, chocolate, hazelnut, even pumpkin spice when the time is right. No more chasing a chicken around, killing it, plucking it, boning it, and butchering it when it is time for dinner. We just go to the store and pick out the parts we desire! If we want salad, there it is in a bag, washed and ready to eat. Veggies to munch on? Yep, all cut up and packaged to throw right in the picnic basket. And the grocery stores just keep making it easier and easier! Deli sections with ready to cook (or already cooked) meals, fresh breads and sandwiches already wrapped just waiting for a plate. An Olive bar, salad bar with steaming soup, chicken wing bar, sushi counter, and even a Starbucks—all in the Fry’s Marketplace one mile from my home. And Click List, where were you when I had babies??? Seriously, there is no room for argument, we are completely spoiled.
Night Songs 