In the Midst
As a recovering news addict, I have to set certain boundaries so that I don’t unwittingly return to my doom-scrolling days of 2020. I have only a handful of sites that I check these days, and those for no more than 2-3 minutes at a time. I only take time to read a story if I A) don’t understand the headline, and B) stand to gain some meaningful bit of knowledge from the effort.
And cable news? Oh hell no. Not one second of that mess. Ever.
As you might expect, that change in behavior has resulted in a significant uptick in my emotional well-being. I know enough to be conversant on current issues, and more than enough to decide how I will vote in elections. But I no longer hand over my sense of stability to the latest climate horror or political atrocity. I focus mostly on the things I can control and on the real people in my orbit. I’m much happier that way.
Last week, though. Wow.
For those of you living under even more of a rock than I do, let’s review. Gun violence continues to kill Americans at a terrifying rate. On the upside, Congress just passed new gun legislation, notable less for its content than for the fact that anyone in Washington could agree to anything. The January 6 hearings keep telling us what we already knew, and yet it changes nothing for those devoted with religious zeal to the Big Lie.
And Roe. Oh dear Lord, Roe. Now that the Supreme Court has overturned the landmark case legalizing abortion, I have some friends taking victory laps and other friends calling me in tears. Roe has become a proxy for so many issues around women’s rights and access to healthcare, so much so that the moral complexities—both direct to Roe and adjacent to it—have been largely set aside in public discourse. I appreciate the courage of my friends on social media trying to enter into a fuller discussion, sometimes offering very personal examples in an effort to promote empathy and understanding. Judging from their comments sections, however, I don’t think it’s working.
It’s a lot to take in. I struggle to know what to say or do. The choice seems to be between very bad options.
On one hand is silence, which looks like a sensible choice. Where I live, bringing up a problem makes you the problem. In small town Midwest, where at thin population makes getting along with your neighbor an imperative, people have little tolerance for conflict outside of sportsball events. Plus, this is a deep red state with general agreement on politics and worldview. Why go through the trouble of expressing a minority opinion when it is likely only to cause tension?
I’ve spent too much time chasing windmills.
A more generous view is that silence is a matter of humility. No social media post I make will change anyone’s mind. More likely it will do the opposite. And it’s unlikely that even a face-to-face, heart-to-heart conversation will move anyone’s opinion—unless they initiate the discussion and come with an open mind. I’m only one person, and I have so little power. No reason to squander my time chasing windmills.
I could, on the other hand, choose to speak out at any and all injustices. I’ve done so plenty across the years, and although I’d be hard pressed to name a single battle I have won, I at least know I stood for what’s right. The biblical prophets knew their messages would be ignored, and they delivered them anyway. Ditto millions of others who have called for justice throughout the centuries. Besides, there is power in the collective voice, and substantive improvement takes generations. Remember Dr. King: “The moral arc of the universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”
Still, playing that long game takes a stamina most of us don’t have. It’s exhausting to call attention to things people don’t want to hear, and it can damage relationships beyond repair. How many human bonds are we willing to break for the sake of our moral compass—especially knowning that, when the dust of the conflict settles, the landscape will not have changed.
To stay silent, then, feels like cowardice. To speak feels like futility.
My head is a noisy place, what with all the moral wrangling. I don’t think I’m alone.
There’s also a question of capacity. I can’t just stop my life to solve the world’s problems. I still have to go to work, teach my classes, mow the lawn, cook supper, do dishes. I try to act in loving ways toward the alien beings that are my family. I shepherd my congregation. I wonder about my professional career, my dreams for the future, my contribution to church and community.
None of these break for the latest national outrage. Nor should they.
In fact, those little life obligations might actually be my saving grace.
Each summer, I teach Introduction to the Bible in a couple of different formats. My students tend to know the dramatic stories: the flood, the Exodus, David vs. Goliath, the Christmas narrative. It surprises them to find out that much of the Bible story takes place in mundane settings—during walks, at work, over meals. The history of ancient Israel can be told in terms of military conflict and political maneuverings. It’s legacy, however, is far less theatrical.
Human souls are shaped in kitchens and libraries, on hikes and car rides, at bars and coffee shops. We mature not by ignoring the very real problems of the world or by taking them all head-on, but by living relationally in the midst of them, trusting that our boring little lives and pathetically short reaches are the very places where God is most at work. I can’t eliminate racism, but I can pull it out of my garden by the roots and encourage my neighbors to do the same. Such weeding doesn’t fix the world, but it makes an impact.
Like many impossible questions, the answer to whether I should speak out or stay silent about last week’s news cycle is not to choose a side. It’s to reframe the question. How can I best act justly and love mercy within my own limited sphere? And can I believe that living a good life with limited power will add up to something meaningful over time?
Perhaps there is no one-size fits all answer. I can understand those who feel called to march in protest, just as I understand those who want to shrink away from conflict. It’s hard, being human. We have to extend grace to one another, if we have any hope.
For me, the best way to do that is by living out my convictions with courage but also humility. You won’t find me championing a cause on Facebook—not the way I once did. But if you want to look me up, I know a great coffee shop down the road where we can chat for awhile. Such little things, for me, are the trailhead to a better path.
