I Once Told This Quaker Lady

Most of the time when I read stories I identify with the heroes and heroines; most of us do.  I usually ask myself how I would act, at that pivotal moment, the life-altering, pressure-cooker epiphany that proves someone’s true metal (silver? gold? steel?).  I like to think I’d do okay—pass the test.  I even site examples to myself (for justification of course) where my character proved true in a “trying time.”  I conveniently ignore my somewhat basic responses when I was thinking only of self-preservation, completely ignorant of others around me.  I think most of us do.

Maybe that’s why ignore and ignorant come from the same Latin root word ignōrāre/ignōrāns, which means “to disregard” and “to be without knowledge” (the word ignore has a sense of more responsibility than ignorant, though both words still describe a mind-set that includes elements of responsibility).  And I, who like to identify with the hero/heroine who is specifically defined by his or her actions (not ignorance), usually don’t remember times I’ve ignored others needs because I didn’t even notice them.  So I continue happily, ignorantly identifying myself a heroine.

That is however, until I learned about Jesus. Okay, so I’ve known about Jesus for quite a long time, but recently I’ve come to question whether I really know him, whether we as Christians really know him?  I get the feeling we’d be acting a bit differently.  Do we know enough at times to put away the hero/heroine-identification and see what lies beneath our over-active imaginations and our cowardice?  Not exactly the most comfortable word.  There are a few moments in which I clearly recall regretting my behavior and acting in not-such-a-Jesus way.  And I say only a few because I don’t like to remember my not so heroic ones; but some of them you simply cannot forget.

I did some traveling in my college days and lived for a week with a family in the rural town of Teoticacinte, Nicaragua.  While I was there one family in the community stood out to me. They were very poor, but extremely well-groomed and clean, despite their poverty, the dusty streets, and the dirt floors. This cleanliness gave them a sort of integrity and dignity.  The father of this family approached me as the time of our stay was ending.  Even today I am at a loss as to why he chose me.  I cannot remember this man’s name or his face, though his two daughters, Sara and Jocelyn are two faces I have not forgotten. His identity always evades my memory, but our conversation remains.  He told me that he couldn’t properly provide for his family. He worked hard, for the local land-owner picking tobacco. He went to Church when he wasn’t working. He loved God, loved Jesus. I could see it in his eyes, in the humility it took to tell me these things. Despite efforts, he still couldn’t provide for his family. After declaring his incompetence as a father and husband, he proceeded to ask about “making it” in the United States as an immigrant.  See where this is going?

This man, this husband and father, asked me for my contact information.  I started to get uncomfortable. What could I do? Basically my immediate thoughts were  Why?  Why me?  What do I have? I’m what, twenty or so years old, I wasn’t an adult or I certainly didn’t feel like one, what could I do? I pictured him crossing the border, calling me or my house. Rambling in Spanish to my mom or dad, whoever answered the phone.  Would I even be at home or would I be at school? Even then I couldn’t house this guy in a dorm.  And Chicago where I went to school, or Virginia, where I’m from, is far from the Mexican border.  What could I do? I didn’t have any money, not really anyways. Not to mention crossing the border without papers was illegal.  I was overwhelmed, and it was complicated.

I ashamedly rattled off something about it being complicated, and moving soon, the telephone number could change when I graduated, (did I forget cell phones?) and I didn’t know where I’d be in a year. He probably didn’t fully understand my words with my bad accent and sheepish expression.  He understood, however, if not then, than later, that I was refusing him.  Me, the young girl who somehow was given the responsibility of choosing possibly life or death or at least a better life for this family.  How and why did I get this responsibility?  What the hell did this guy see in me where I could give him the right to a good life for his family.  I go over and over this situation in my mind and I know that yes, it was complicated and overwhelming but I focused so much on the problems I showed myself a coward.

I’ve tried millions of times to sit down and write or talk about this, but somehow when I get to this part of the story my words to explain emotions or justify reactions or simply make sense of this whole thing fail me.  Looking back I now know why.  Why he chose me.  In the screwed up order of this world, he chose me because he recognized the power I had, was born with.  By being white, by being American, by even having the means and opportunity to travel, I lived in overabundance.  We all do.  The very lifestyles and environments we grow up in whether we see ourselves as directly responsible or we directly deny it, we hold the keys to set people like him free, so he can provide a dignified existence for his family.  We are responsible, as Christians, as people who have enough, more than enough, as human beings; directly or not we are responsible, but we’re cowards.

We are born with a birth right, whether recognized or ignored and how we wield this power determines our character. The very reason I chose to study abroad was to broaden my horizons and break out of this sheltered zone in which we live . And I did.  I broke out of these projections of the good-life, the American white-picket fence, and into the harsh realities of life where survival is not always a given and hard choices are between bad, worse or worse still.  I question the reality in which we live, freedom, equality, etc.  Reality, what reality?  There is none here, no true reality, it’s all lies, a place to hang our hats in the closet of ideas.  I felt like a child drowning.  I failed the test.  I was no Christian, no follower of Christ.  I jumped to the conclusion “it’s complicated” before ideas of hope and love. Being sheltered for so many years of my life, I didn’t know what to do, no reference or previous experience to turn to, though possibly W.W.J.D.?  What would Jesus do?  I can sure as hell tell you he wouldn’t have reacted how I did.  And I’m pretty sure there is a hell and if Christianity was merit-based, I’d probably be the first in line to go.  My true colors were yellow, not red, the red of the blood Jesus shed for us, asks us to shed for our neighbors by loving them as we love ourselves.

Earlier I mentioned that I’m still getting to know Jesus, because I’ve lost him in the theological commentaries, political debates, the “What would Jesus do” bracelets, and the worship songs that ring so loudly, but mostly they only sound like a noise to drown out our true need for him. In Amos five, verses twenty-two through twenty-four it says “Even though you bring me burnt offerings and grain offerings, I will not accept them. Though you bring choice fellowship offerings, I will have no regard for them. Away with the noise of your songs, I will not listen to the music of your harps. But let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream!” I feel as though the identities of Jesus, God, and the Holy Spirit get lost in our “perfect” worship and the “right way” to live the Christian life. Everything boiled down into formulas that mean nothing in the end. What God cares about is justice, he is the ultimate judge, let us not find ourselves on the judgment day, asked why though we ascribed to Jesus with our words, our actions supported the common culture which has slowly birthed one of the more unjust societies in history that hides so well underneath the rhetoric of equality and Christian-nation. Lately, I have come to question this view of justice, the one we as Americans define by our symbols of evening the scales or our tight security prisons. Justice means righting the wrongs, but if your wrongs are forgiven then who are you to blame others for their wrongs? And if we are perfect in Jesus Christ than justice ultimately means forgiveness, right?

I once told this quaker lady at a community organizing conference this story of my time in Nicaragua, and she asked me a very important question “Have you forgiven yourself?” It is something I continue to struggle with, will continue to struggle with, but perhaps one day I can, because I know God has.

E.M. Knicely is currently a nanny to four kids, where my busy days are characterized by impromptu dance parties with the kids and playing my now alter-ego tickle monster. I love fun and very firmly believe God does too.  I dabble in the arts mainly photography and collage (writing too, I guess).  And I think the upside down order of God’s kingdom is something we should struggle with and submit ourselves to on a daily basis.