The night of Charlottesville, I wept before my head hit the pillow. And again before my head lifted the next morning. As I sat in church I felt numb, my heart unbearably heavy and my bones aching, a skeleton in the pew.
The task seems daunting, and a bit hopeless. And my heart quivers under the thought of the genocide bubbling up under the skin of this country. Because I never thought I would see the day when it happened in my own lifetime, in such proximity to me, so unopposed.
And I never thought that a vast majority of American churches would be as silent as they have been. We’re afraid to make waves. Afraid to lose followers. Afraid to be too political.
I don’t know where my voice is, where it is not, where it ends and where it begins. But I cannot be silent. It’s been silent for too long. And I’ve watched silence, heard the voice of a Rwandan genocide survivor attest to it, story after story of the slavery and oppression happening now, right now through trafficking.
But I heard something that stirred my soul, and I am clinging to it today.
Fear kills dreams.
I guess I am mostly frail and afraid.
But “do not be afraid" is the anthem God has spoken to countless hearts over and over and over again because He uses mostly frail and afraid people. He has overcome the world and we can take courage, nestled there in that fact. And because of that, we can wrap ourselves in light and run straight into what is hurting and broken. We can charge the darkness as servants in the battlefield.
We are but servants here in the battlefield.
So until I figure out where my voice has been and where it is going, I want to serve well, the bloodied, battered, beating hearts that are under vicious, racist attack. I want to find my place there. Which means, I must stay. I must stay here, and hear the cries of the crucified. I must place myself close to the suffering. I must stay in the bloody soil. And I must serve.
God, settle my heart for the task at hand. And let your kingdom come.