This I Believe

We’ve all had teachers who have planted the and watered the seeds of our beliefs. They may be people, traditions, experiences, or anything, really, whether good or bad. They teach us how to live. For me, an introspective observer of the world, raised in a devoutly Christian home, those teachers became my family, history, observation, and Christian tradition.

They’ve taught me there’s no substitute for a nurturing family and community. Without them we have no identity. They’ve taught me that organized religion is too often a poor substitute for living out the values it teaches. They’ve taught me that all things are interconnected and that we’re too mysterious to be judged, too confusing to be effectively analyzed, too fickle to be trusted, yet too courageous to be dismissed.

They’ve taught me that our world is one of contradictions and we can’t always change them. I believe the world is simultaneously simple and complex, and that sometimes those are the same thing. I believe in absolutes, but I don’t think I’m the authority exactly what they are. I believe there is nothing more wrong than a perversion of something beautiful, and nothing more beautiful than the restoration of something hopeless. I believe our world is mostly grey, but I also believe you can’t make grey without black and white. I’ve learned to embrace contradictions, perhaps because I don’t know how to understand the world without them.

For instance, I’ve learned that humanity will always disappoint. We’re no different now, no more enlightened or wise, than the earliest humans. The passage of thousands of years, the coming of civilization, technology, and learning have given us time to find new ways to do the same old things. We’re still fundamentally self-centered. We still group ourselves with those like us and degrade those we perceive as different. We still fight wars. The privileged still exploit the rest. We still find that all the money, power, and revenge we can get will never fulfill us like loving and being loved, respecting and being respected.

But I’ve also come to believe that humanity will never disappoint, because we’re no different now, no less enlightened or wise than the earliest humans. Thousands of years, civilization, technology, and learning haven’t kept us from finding ways to do the same old things. We still have an inexplicable love for our families and our children and there will always be someone who stands for peace and who challenges the social order. We’ve always recognized injustice and we’ll always fight it, each in our own way.

I believe that despite our mistakes, we generally try to do what’s best. I’m pretty sure most of our world’s pain comes from two things: we think we understand each other when we don’t, and we don’t respect other people as we should. I’d go into those in depth, but I’ve also come to believe there’s value in not subjecting others to the inner workings of my mind.

Christian tradition teaches that the only way to cure our world’s pain is to fully devote ourselves to loving our neighbors – whether that means speaking up or shutting up, serving the poor or being poor, taking more pride in yourself or exercising more humility. I believe that simple ideas like this are the hardest to carry out, but that life is largely about learning how. Saint Paul wrote that when all that we value passes away, faith, hope, and love are all that remain. And the greatest of those, he said, is love. I believe him.

The ancient Jews had a story of a prophet named Micah, whose job it was to deliver bad news. But I believe he also taught us how to live. “What does God require of you,” he asks his people, and then he tells them. “Act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God.” This is what I believe.

A man arrived in our fair city, here to visit his aunt. He left the bus stop and shuffled down the icy sidewalk, rubbing his hands together and trying to hide his neck from the wind and freezing rain. In his wandering, it came to pass that a request for directions escalated to an unfortunate encounter with a group of kids who’d been drinking. He was soon unconscious on the street, without his money, phone, coat or hat. When he awoke, his limbs were too cold to carry him far, but he made it within sight of a bigger road and its street lights. Here, with his torn clothes, bruised body, and bloody lip, he would sit and hope someone would help.

A little girl saw him and tugged on her dad’s sleeve. “Daddy, shouldn’t we help him?” she pleaded.

“We don’t know what happened. It’s probably gang related and we don’t want to get in the middle of that,” he told her. “It’s not safe. Besides, we need to get home.” She looked back with pity as her father pulled her away by her hand.

Soon a group of people walked out of the church on the same corner. Most of them saw him, but they pretended not to. The pastor followed minutes later. As he locked up for the night, he noticed the man out of the corner of his eye. He walked over to him, gave him his hat and said, “We can’t do anything for you right now, but if you come back tomorrow, maybe we can work something out.” Feeling guilty, but content that he’d done all he could, he hurried away.

Another guy came by awhile later, saw the man, and shook his head, saying “the cops have got to do a better job of keeping these neighborhoods under control. And these people should find something more productive to do than beat each other up. Get a job or something. Go to school. Do what the rest of us do and carry their weight. Now my tax money is going to have to pay for his rehabilitation.” Lamenting how troubled and broken his society had become and annoyed that he had to foot the bill, he faded into the mist.

Then came another man, and as he walked by, said to himself, “It’s no wonder these things happen in these neighborhoods with all the cuts to educational and community programs. And without a new healthcare system, he’ll never be able to pay for medical care.” Saddened by the help this man could have been given, but will now never see, this man, too trudged away.

Many hours passed until at last a young woman emerged from a dark alley, wearing a fur coat and a miniskirt and leggings that betrayed her profession. As she lit her cigarette, she saw him and hurried to him, immediately giving him her coat and helping him up. All the way across the neighborhood, she supported him as he hobbled until at last they reached a small house, half covered in siding, its windows boarded and its screen door banging in the wind. Here she lived with her sister, sister’s boyfriend and their kids. The smell of cigarettes and stale beer greeted them as they entered, as did the piercing eyes of a her nephew, who promptly ran off to tell his mother that yet another man had come to spend the night. A skeleton of a couch sat in the living room, and the woman laid him there and tended to his wounds.

When morning came, she brought him to the clinic and paid his bill with money she didn’t have. After it all, she led him to his aunt’s house and as he limped to the door, she wished him well and turned back to the street, her tired frame slowly vanishing into the distance.

Who is really the plague on society?