As I sat in a Social Studies class with a half-dozen students yesterday, for the first time I saw images coming back from the aftermath of the Paris bombings: Candlelit vigils, a doctor dressed in combat gear identified only by the “MEDECIN” on his back, and flowers held in place by bullet holes in glass.
And suddenly, my eyes welled up with tears. Surprised by the sudden onset of emotion and fearing the worst (read, total meltdown in front of a room of children) I left the room and walked down the hall; a good friend called out to me and I silently waved without turning back. She knew something was wrong and said as much, but I smiled and said I was fine, just headed to the restroom.
I wasn’t fine.
Don’t ask me why the bombings in Paris affected me that way; I still don’t know why it bothers me as much as it does. Perhaps it is the fact that I was translating the signs in the newscast for the students. Perhaps it was part of some crazy brain connection between my years of learning French in school and the attack on the French capital. Perhaps it was that I have friends who have visited and lived in Paris. Perhaps my emotional resilience was low after a tough week at work.
We live in a world of violence.
I can think of dozens -dozens- of violent crimes and attacks in my lifetime that were well publicized. I lived through 9/11 as a child and remember it vividly.
There are senseless killings.
There are school shootings.
There are bombings.
There are industrial accidents.
There are serial killers.
There are plane crashes.
There are terrorists.
There is forgiveness.
Forgiveness scares me the most. Jesus doesn’t pull any punches on the subject. If I don’t do it, I don’t get it. The standard I use is the one applied to me.
Oh yeah, and we need to pray for our enemies and bless those who persecute us.
I have a friend. She didn’t use to be; in fact we hated each other. I didn’t know what to do about it. We worked together, and we barely spoke. So I began praying. And as I prayed, she became real to me: her needs, her concerns, the things that would keep her up nights.
Slowly, I began to see another side of her. She was a mom, and a wife, and a teacher, and a hard worker. She had terrible experiences growing up, and she carried those with her every day. She was generous, and loving, and fiercely loyal. She did things that bothered me, but I suddenly found that those things weren’t as important. She was an amazing person, with real needs.
I want to hate ISIS.
But if I do that, how will I pray for them? And who will show them that God loves them? And how will perpetuating the cycle of violence affect my children, and their children? This fight is centuries old. And in the end, the part of me that loves is greater than the part of me that hates.
I know it’s naive to think that just loving the terrorists will make them stop. I know that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I know that violence is not going to stop any time soon, and that international foreign policy is probably not going to be subject to everyone taking a break for prayer and consideration of the other before retaliating.
I am not some happy peaceful hippie dude. I am not some zen, balanced, quasi-Quaker passivist. I yell at my television. As a dual citizen, I have two governments working hard to drive up my blood pressure and give me an ulcer. I am often more hawk than dove when it comes to political science. I know that nuclear weapons are out of the question, but I know what the next most powerful bomb we have is. I am also called die to myself and follow Jesus.
Jesus said,”Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it.” He was speaking of salvation, and of an eternal life, but I can’t help thinking that the principle still applies here.
The mainstream approach doesn’t seem to be working.
I need to start praying for ISIS, and I need to forgive them. Jesus would.
