We hear the voice of the prophet proclaim across the centuries, ‘Let justice roll down like waters.’ And we say ‘Amen,’ with our unexpectant, unperturbed voices.
Then satisfied, we walk away to return to our comfortable, virtuous lives that we make sufficient with easy answers that justify our lack of response. Instead of the deep waters of justice, we paddle in the shallows of complacency, reassured that troubling news is far away, that oppression happens only to those who have somehow brought it on themselves, that disruption of our way of life (whatever that is) justifies your loss of rights. We reluctantly agree that sometimes violence is the only appropriate response to those whose outrage at injustice is simply too large, too visible, too vocal. Comfortable in the shallows, we find no reason to search the hidden depths of denial, of uncompassion, of refusal to open our eyes and see, open our ears and hear, open our hearts and understand.
We hear the voice of the Lord tell us what He requires: Seek justice, love mercy, walk humbly with God. And we say ‘Amen,’ in our fearful, timid voices.
Then, content that we have satisfied God’s requirement, we return to our placid acceptance of the injustice all around us. We fail to seek justice for others because after all, ‘they’ are not like us. We fail to be merciful, because we need to respect what the powerful have decided is expedient. We are too timid to march because someone might see us and judge us for having the wrong politics. We are too refined to hold up a sign because after all, our lives are still pretty comfortable and we don’t want to upset the system. We are confident that we personally are walking with God (maybe we even achieve humility now and then), but we disregard that we are members of the Kingdom of God, rather than the kingdom of our country, or our politics, or ourselves. We diminish God’s Kingdom which is based on love and mercy and justice, and we remain reticent.
We hear the voice of Jesus teaching us to love our neighbors as ourselves. We respond, ‘Amen’ and smile compassionately while we pass the peace.
Then we return to our agendas, neglecting His answer to the question of who our neighbor actually is. We obscure the reality that our neighbor might be different from us. We are skeptical that our neighbor is the transgender woman, the immigrant family, the person of color, the unemployed man, the addict, the poor, the prisoner, the orphan, the foreigner, the stranger. Because if those people are all our neighbors, then we might have to change in order to love like Jesus commanded. We might have to alter our opinions, amend our interactions, change our politics, transform our hearts. And in a deep visceral place… we’d just really rather not.
We hear Jesus say, I was a stranger and you welcomed me. This pushes too hard against our assumptions, so we don’t say ‘Amen.’ Instead, we rationalize that He must have meant the new couple that moved in down the street in our nice safe neighborhood. We take cookies.
And so, in theory, we faintly agree: Let Justice roll down like waters.
As long as it doesn’t get me wet.
But then, Justice, perhaps belatedly, or maybe in perfect timing, rolls down.
Not an agreeable, amiable ocean wave to run from in joyful apprehension, to tease our hot, complicit toes with its freshening foam.
But a tsunami of Justice rolling down, staggering us with revelation, devastating us with truth, scouring away complacency and pretense and negation.
Justice, revealing the shame of cleaving to the lies that comfort us in the guilt of self-satisfaction and self-preservation.
Justice, calling, insisting on recognizing sin.
Justice, calling, insisting on repentance.
Justice, calling, insisting on change.
Justice will roll down. Not tranquilly or humbly or respectfully, not carefully preserving the status quo, not in deference to authority.
But demanding, challenging, persistent Justice.
A wailing, driven lamentation, a thing of righteous terror, to sweep us into a new restoration…
or drown us in our denial.
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