My heart hurts.
In the aftermath of the George Zimmerman trial and verdict,
my heart hurts.
My heart hurts for Trayvon Martin and for his family; I
cannot imagine their pain and grief.
My heart hurts for those who mourn the verdict, and for all
those who feel that the criminal justice system has failed them.
My heart hurts for our family members, our friends and all
families of color who feel an even greater sense of fear as their sons go about
their lives and who, because of this verdict, find themselves explaining to them
– yet again – that they must never give anyone even an iota of a reason to
harass or hurt them and how careful they must be if they ever find themselves
in a similar kind of confrontation.
My heart hurts, too, for George Zimmerman, and for his
family. Zimmerman may have been acquitted, but he is not a free man. Whatever
his motivations, whatever thoughts may have been running through his mind as he
jumped from his car to confront Trayvon Martin, he now lives with that young
man’s blood on his hands and in fear for his own safety.
My heart hurts for those who have taken to social media to
rejoice in the verdict, as well as for those who spout venomous threats against
Zimmerman.
My heart hurts for those who harbor anger, hatred and
bitterness, on either side.
My heart hurts for our country – and for the seemingly
widening gulf that divides us.
My heart hurts.
Call it a “God thing” that many Christians all over our
country whose denominations follow common Scripture readings were hearing the
“Good Samaritan” text from Luke’s Gospel in their churches on Sunday morning, just
hours after the verdict was handed down.
Call it a “God thing” that millions of Christians were hearing again an
all-too-familiar story from Jesus in which a man is traveling on the road from
Jerusalem to Jericho when he is attacked by robbers, beaten and left for dead.
Two holy men, a priest and a Levite, see the injured man but cross the road to
avoid coming near him. But a man from Samaria comes upon the injured man, and
stops to care for him.
A Samaritan? Why a Samaritan? His inclusion certainly makes
the story more challenging for Jesus’ audience.
Samaritans were – to put it bluntly – a hated race. It’s likely that a Samaritan would have been
called a few names in his lifetime, endured more than a few demeaning gestures,
been shunned and cast aside on more than one occasion. No one listening to this parable would have
been surprised if the Samaritan had been the one to cross the road to avoid the
injured man; he would have had good reason. Yet it is the Samaritan who takes
note of the injured stranger, cares for the man’s wounds, picks him up, puts
him on his own animal, and takes him to a safe place where he can recover.
Call it a “God thing” that many Christians were being reminded
on Sunday of the commandment that we are to love our neighbors as ourselves.
That’s often as tough a message for us to hear today as it
was for people in the first century world. It’s too easy to fear those who
aren’t like us, to avoid those who call us from our comfort zones, to seek
revenge against those who wrong us, to hate those who hated us first.
When I was a little girl, we had a wooden ruler in our house
– a giveaway from a furniture store, as I recall – which bore the words, “Always
follow The Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” I
remember asking my mother what that meant one day, and she told me, as she
would often repeat over the years, “never do anything to someone else that you
wouldn’t want that person to do to you.”
There’s no arguing with that sage advice.
But as I’ve matured, I‘ve found that I like re-phrasing that
advice in the affirmative: Always do for others what we would have them do for us.
Love the unlovable. Remember the
forgotten. Care for the sick. Feed the hungry. Clothe the naked. House the
homeless. Welcome the outcast. And we
should do all those things even if those for whom we care hate us. Even if they would want to have nothing to do with
us. Even if they would call us demeaning names or make derogatory gestures. Even –
perhaps, especially – if we believe that they can do nothing for us in return.
Yes, my heart hurts.
But I still have hope. Because of
all the people who love unselfishly, I have hope. Because of all of the people who tirelessly
minister to others in a myriad of ways, I have hope. I have hope that the gulf
between races and cultures can be narrowed.
I have hope that the Zimmerman verdict can engender respectful dialogue
between people who might otherwise have never come to the table together. And I have hope that one day soon, we will
all “stand our ground” by standing together in firm commitment to work for unity, justice and peace.
