Let me be changed
Though we are in no way responsible for our own existence, we are quick to assume there is a pattern or meaning in the random lottery of our birth – we were destined to be born in this place, this family. This inheritance was always meant for us. Where does this assumption come from, and why does it persist throughout human cultures and societies? Why do humans impose a hierarchy that neither nature nor the divine recognizes?
There is no small amount of psychology and sociology involved in this answer. Bonding rituals, status signifiers, survival strategies. How do we make the best use of the collective talents and skills of the group? By having some sort of structure to rely on.
We need to know who is small and fast as well as who is big and strong so that we can assign tasks strategically to solve problems. The construct of the modern world is painfully new within the span of human history. It is incredibly presumptuous to imply that the way we live now – inexorably chained to each other in a web of inequality – is somehow a summit of human achievement. All we are today is still only a fraction of the true potential of moral values: of kindness, of solidarity, of love. No person is an island, separate from and absolved of anyone else. It’s one of the earliest lessons in the Bible, after all. “Am I my brother’s keeper?” (Yes.)
It is not adequate to protect yourself in bubble wrap and go through life while waiting for some perfectly sanitized way to do good in the world, for an encounter with suffering that you can hold at arms length. A Shepherd must smell of his sheep. There are plenty of examples of what biblical nearness to those on the margins looks like. Beware attempts to make the crucifixion itself the most important part, strangely disembodied from the life Jesus lived, and from the events that led to His state execution.
It is too easy to sanctify the (human) dead, valorizing their lives and making them into martyrs for our own mission. When Jesus died on the cross, He was not asking for a world where you go to a special building on Sunday in your special clothes while doing nothing to encounter the vulnerable and marginalized living among you.
When I lived in a world of performative Catholicism, I was taught that holiness could be guaranteed, and all I had to do was follow the checklist. It didn’t matter who I hurt along the way, didn’t matter who I shunned when Jesus would have stood near. At least I wasn’t listening to secular music made by atheists. It was a Catholicism that was not universal, but instead defined by moral superiority.
So I tallied up my sins, then I went to the confessional to cleanse them, and I tried (laughably) to model the idea of spiritual maturity – while all I had to offer was a performance for someone watching. I engaged in self-surveillance, motivated by the belief that I was doing the right thing. I was unable to connect with the reality of Jesus operating in the world, because I only understood Jesus as untouchable, “Lord I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof.” I wanted to be healed, but didn’t know where the sickness was.
And critically, I didn’t know who I was. How could I love my neighbor as myself if I didn’t know myself? I couldn’t breathe under those layers of scorecard metrics and perfect mass attendance and distancing myself from genuine suffering. I had to rise like Lazarus, summoned to true encounter, summoned to the reality of who I actually am.
That revelation changed everything. I had always been out of step with life, unable to be present and sit still, unable to share myself with another person because I only knew how to wear a mask.
I’m not doing that anymore. Now I move with the authority of self-knowledge. I am present. I can finally hear the voice of God, clear as a bell. We are not just here to repeat rituals and say words with our lips while our hearts remain unmoved. Jesus calls us the light of the world.
And you can’t shine in the darkness if you always stay hidden away.