Testing My Faith

Church this morning was a test of my faith. I attend an established, traditional church, a Disciples of Christ congregation. I like to think our theology is liberal, even if our congregation is fairly gray-haired, older, and conservative. This morning, we sat toward the front, in front of the pulpit. A young, Middle Eastern man slipped into the pew directly in front of us. He was cleanshaven but wildly curling black hair poked out from an unusual knitted wool cap that was a cross between a beret and a sac and totally inappropriate on a June day. Thin and a bit rumpled, he carried a backpack that he set on the floor and immediately rummaged in, pulling out what appeared to be a worn Bible. Was it my imagination or was he breathing hard? Was his cotton shirt sweat-soaked as it looked? My nose thought it answered the last question, but maybe he’d ridden a bike to church. When he turned a bit, I saw huge dark eyes, wide open.

I am not happy to confess that my radar went up. Throughout the service, he read his Bible, ignoring what was going on in worship. He didn’t pray; he didn’t take communion. Why was he amongst us?

A bigger question I asked myself was if I’d have had the same reaction were he blonde with pale skin. I think the answer is that I would still be concerned, but perhaps to a lesser degree. My thoughts raged from faith to instinctive caution. As a liberal progressive, I despise racial profiling and like to think I accept people individually based on who they are. But this young man set off something instinctive in me, a fear I could not deny. In our church, all are welcome at the table, and we believe God teaches us to love all his children, no matter skin color, clothing, whatever. And the other hand, as a woman, I’ve been carefully taught to pay attention to my instincts. If I sense something is wrong, I’m urged to take action to protect myself.

Nothing happened in church, of course. The young man may well have been lost, lonely, and afraid. When the hour of greeting arrived, I shook his hand and welcomed him, and he nodded appreciatively, those wild (honest, they were) eyes looking directly at me.

I’m left wondering what God thought of my dilemma, and, more importantly, what I think about it. Conscience or caution? I still don’t know the answer. I do know that for a moment there I was reminded of the first lines of a novel I just finished writing, “Susan Hogan thought she was going to meet her maker that March day. Her first thought was irreverent. ‘Really, God? In a grocery store in Oak Grove? Haven’t you got this wrong somehow?’” My thought was, “Really, God? In church on Sunday morning?” But I also felt strangely safe, as though I knew it would all be all right.. Perhaps our lives are going to be filled with that dichotomy in these fear-ridden, uncertain times. Fear certainly is a catching disease.

The day didn’t get immediately better. Washing dishes and my favorite cup, the one I drink tea from every morning, slipped out of my soapy hands; the handle broke off, so now it’s relegated to being a small vase. It was given to me by a close friend who has since died, so it has sentimental value, making the loss that much worse.

Dinner with friends tonight soothed my troubled soul. One of my wimpy friends and her gentleman friend ate on a patio, because it’s in the 80s with a nice breeze. Not sure I would have prevailed, but apparently, he gets cold easily too. Eggplant parmigiana that was delicious. And I thoroughly enjoyed the atmosphere. Thanks to Kathie and Morris for a lovely evening.

I gave myself a holiday from writing today. Piddled at my desk with this, that and the other, even made notes for the novel, but didn’t actively work on it. Pleasant, but I didn’t get as much reading done as I expected. Tomorrow, back to work. And another week begins.

Out of the mouths of babes--policemen are our friends

When my children were quite young, there was a local TV program called "Hobab Means Helper" and a friend of mine hosted it. So one Saturday, all four of my children were her guests. At one point, following the helper theme, she asked them what they did to help their mother. Oh, you wouldn't have believed those little angels--they made their beds, picked up their dirty clothes, carried their dishes to the sink, etc. All with halos shining brightly. Until, that is, it was four-year-old Jordan's turn. She looked at them in amazement and said, "The maid does all those things." (Disclaimer: I was then married to a doctor and had a far different lifestyle than I do now.)
Then came a discussion of policemen, and I forget what the others said, but Jordan's answer will live on forever: "Policemen are our friends, and if you don't have a Cadillac or a Mercedes, they will help  you get one."
That line rings in my head these days because I am so appalled at the instances of police brutality we're seeing daily on our televisions--if it's not Ferguson, it's New York or Tulsa or, now, Baltimore. I truly believe that most law enforcement officers are good people, trying to help others, enforcing the law when necessary but not taking pleasure in beating the less fortunate. But it's happening too often, and the victims of this brutality are (without an exception I can think of) black. Don't even begin to talk to me about profiling.
Not too long ago I read an article by a black mother who talked about her fear every time her son went out, her cautions to him to be polite, respectful, etc. When a policeman shot a man in the back (see, there've been so many incidents I can't remember where this one was), I wished the man hadn't bolted when he got out of his car. He was wrong. Apparently he had something fairly minor against him--traffic violations or failure to pay child support. But is there no other way than to shoot him in the back and kill him?
I know that crime is high in black communities, and I can understand police frustration. I know they feel their lives are on the line every time they go on duty. But to break a man's back? It sickens me. Or to shoot a man because you mistook your gun for your taser. There's probably too much overuse of tasers anyway, but that's not a subject I'm qualified to speak on.
I do feel capable of asking if law enforcement attracts people with hidden anger that they are waiting to take out. What's outrageous and scary is that this is not a localized problem--it's happening in cities far and wide. So I don't know what the solution is. Except police forces have to work together, to screen candidates, to train them better, to train them to reach out to their communities and avoid the obvious antagonism that existed (and still does) in Ferguson and other communities. God help us, if we become a nation terrorized by those who are supposed to keep us safe.
I'm like Jordan--every policeman I've ever met, including those who came when I mistakenly set off my health alarm, have been unfailingly kind, helpful and friendly. No, they didn't offer me a Cadillac or a Mercedes. But then, I'm not a black male.