Link Arms

Recently, I rewatched a sermon from June 7, 2020. As worship faded out, chants of "Black Lives Matter" rose up from protestors walking the streets outside. That day's sermon was the beginning of a series on tackling contentious issues head on. My pastor talked about the importance of listening, learning, lamenting, and linking arms, but the last point is where the Holy Spirit overwhelmed me.

My pastor gave an illustration from his own life. One day at the beach, he saw a child get caught in a riptide that started bashing him into a metal pipe and the concrete barriers around it. My pastor jumped in the water, but he couldn't save him from the water, only hold him as their bodies were bruised, scratched, and filled with salt water. The strangers on the beach started to see what was happening and began linking arms with each other to create a human chain to get to them and bring them to shore. And though the lifeguards were ultimately the ones to save them, that human chain was his main illustration.

Tears filled my eyes when I heard that, and honestly I'm not quite sure the specifics of why. 

One thing that's evident is that community matters. It changes things. Those in the human chain didn't experience the pain or the fear that my pastor and the boy did because they were working together, bearing only a little of the cost each. Another thing that's evident is that my pastor couldn't wait for others to step in. If he had waited to rally support before jumping in the water, the boy could have died. So he jumped in without the promise of help because he saw the risk; he saw the need and it moved him. 

And he paid a price for that. He entered into the pain, but it was worth it if it could relieve some of the boy's pain. The boy was no longer alone with only his own strength to keep him above the water.

Another thing that struck me though is that my pastor couldn't save him. He jumped in to meet the need, but he was incapable of doing it. He couldn't get them out of the water. He couldn't get either of them to safety. All he could do was hold him and keep him from drowning as their bodies were abused by the water around them.

All they could do was wait together in a helpless situation as the hope of rescue beat out in the passing waves.

Imagine their relief when the people around them started to step up. When their situation hadn't yet changed, but they had others stepping towards them to create their link back to safety. When hope was no longer a far off dream but a tangible action getting closer and closer.

Whether we're the ones drowning or trying to keep someone else afloat, no individual can save anyone from the risk and pain of racism. Only when the community starts to see and act--when the strangers open their eyes and decide to care--can things really start to change. That is a hope worth holding onto, but we cannot wait for it. We have to jump in the water now. We have to say yes to the risk if it can keep someone else from drowning, even if we're not able to get them out of the treacherous waters. The risk of hurt, pain, damage to ourselves physically and emotionally has to be less than the risk of seeing another person drowning and choosing to do nothing.

The pull of fear will always be there. Fear for our well-being, fear for how we're perceived, even fear for how we perceive ourselves, but I don't just want to be the people linking arms on the beach. Though I do not diminish that, I don't want to wait. I want to jump in the water. And I don't want to leave the water when it gets too hard to stay.

I don't have the strength to do it, but I serve One who is greater. Whose heart beats for the oppressed, for the marginalized, for the sufferers. Who entered into the story.

This culture has given me the choice to stay on the shore, to stay comfortable, to stay safe, and the temptation will always be to stay. 

Whether racial terror in America or Jewish genocide in Germany, whether the suffering of one individual or a whole community. 

The words from Martin Niemöller, "Then they came for me--and there was no one left to speak for me," are an ever poignant reminder that we are interconnected, that "Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere" as Martin Luther King, Jr. said, but we shouldn't need these claims to inspire us towards justice. As much as I love these quotes, it's not about whether turning a blind eye to injustice or suffering will eventually lead to our personal experience of injustice or suffering; it's enough that someone is experiencing them now. Whether or not it ever comes back to us, their hurt should matter to us. Their hurt should move us. We shouldn't want to wait for the suffering to hit us when we could've already been wading through it to relieve its grip on someone else.

I wrote this in my prayer journal the week prior to this sermon being preached, "Lord, I'm hurting. But I'm not the one being hurt. Seeing this reality is painful. Every time. But I have the privilege of turning away. Because this isn't my reality." 

I don't want to be the one standing on the shore, watching the horror unfold. I want to make the suffering of others my reality even if I can't experience it like they do. I want to be the one jumping into the water because I know that any risk to myself is worth the chance of holding up the person experiencing the hurt firsthand and without relief. And where I am weak--oh so very weak--God is strong.