Reluctant Perspective
Reluctant Perspective: 15 August 2024
When my brothers were little, before I was even born, Daddy went on a business trip to the Northeast. He said people there would ask him, “How can you stand living in South Carolina?” and he would reply, “You’re right, it’s small and there’s not much to do. You wouldn’t like it,” because he didn’t want a bunch of Yankees moving down here. Anyway, on this trip, he wandered into an estate sale and bought a beautiful ring for my mother. At this juncture I should mention Daddy’s deep Scots Irish thrift. Whereas in his later years he might indulge in some workshop tools or home gadgets, an occasional conspiracy theory, in early marriage he felt the pressure of a growing family, and we didn’t have a lot of extras. Mama, daughter of a minister, admired pretty things but wasn’t wired for luxury either. So this ring was a big surprise, and to herself she thought, “What I really need is a washing machine.”
Mama loved that ring, and she wore it every day on her right hand. She gave it to me as a graduation present for my Master’s degree. I loved it too, and loved wearing it, which I did with some frequency, but not every day. And there’s the irony, because if I had, then it wouldn’t have been stolen a month ago when a thief forced open a locked door and took a stroll through my jewelry box. He (I’m assuming it was a he) also stole my grandmother’s engagement ring that was to go to Emma, my father’s wedding band that I often wore on my thumb, especially during stewardship or endowment committee meetings, and many other pieces.
It could have been much worse: I wasn't there, there was a lot that wasn't stolen, the police responded quickly and respectfully. But it was a violation, nonetheless. I stayed in my house alone that night, with a barricaded, booby-trapped door that couldn't lock. I didn’t expect to sleep much, and I didn’t. But mainly I wanted to reassure myself that although the thief took many precious things, I would not let him steal my peace of mind.
While I wasn’t sleeping, I thought about my thief. We’re linked now, forever, in a weird and unwanted intimacy. I feel like my house was targeted; that my thief knew that when my car was gone the house was empty. But I don’t feel like I, myself, was targeted. The robbery doesn’t feel personal, or professional. If I had felt personally targeted, I would not have been able to stay the night alone. But the anonymity, the garden variety break-in-ness of it, created a little space for me to wonder about my thief.
I found myself praying for him.
I hadn’t intended to do this. And if I’m honest, I was a little annoyed. I didn’t want compassion! But I was working so hard not to lead with fear; and somehow that effort combined with the sleeplessness and opened me up to a connection I hadn’t wanted.
Who was this man who invaded my home? Surely his situation is more desperate than mine. Maybe with an addiction, maybe owing money, maybe just an opportunist. But this guy is more than the worst thing he’s done, and what he did to me is probably not the worst. He’s more than a thief. At the most fundamental level I had to accept that he’s a thief who is God’s beloved child.
I’m not excusing him. I want him found. I want my jewelry back. I want not to worry about someone knowing the layout and contents of my house. I want to know why he did it. I don’t expect any of these things to happen. But this troubling truth remains: he committed a crime, created harm, and also bears the image of God.
Martin Luther King said this much better than my clumsy attempt and with much more on the line:
Within the best of us, there is some evil, and within the worst of us, there is some good. When we come to see this, we take a different attitude toward individuals. The person who hates you most has some good in him; even the nation who hates you most has some good in it; even the race that hates you most has some good in it. And when you come to the point that you look in the face of every person and see deep down within what religion calls “the image of God,” you begin to love in spite of. No matter what the person does, you see God’s image there.
I’m not at the point of loving this guy, but I am praying for him. To come to justice and change; to come to know God’s love, and in that overwhelming knowledge, to accept and submit to the image of God he bears. I pray this for myself as well. And my children, and all leaders, and all followers. Wouldn’t that be a better world for everyone?
I don’t think Mark slept much that night either. The only reason he didn’t drive straight from Montreat to Greenville was because I’d texted our friend, Jared, to come help me with the door the next morning. Jared’s text awaited when I woke up (I must have slept!) and he arrived as would a St. Bernard to a stranded skier, all competence and hospitality, his arms full of supplies for my door, as well as a couple of freshly baked muffins and some figs he’d just picked.
As I was headed back to Montreat for the weekend, my lovely neighbors continued the competent caring. One got my mail, others checked the perimeter of my house every day, another parked an extra car in my driveway. My village is a wonderful village.
One can’t be unaware, however, of all the villages that are hurting. Certainly, many if not most American zip codes are struggling, but also Israel, Palestine, Ukraine, Russia, Sudan, honestly it’s overwhelming. Here’s a list of ongoing armed conflicts. And political rhetoric around the globe is turned up to eleven.
Dr. King’s wisdom remains relevant. We must continue to look for, and speak to, the humanity in each human who commits inhuman acts. Or, as Andrew Sullivan said:
“Monsters remain human beings. In fact, to reduce them to a subhuman level is to exonerate them of their acts of terrorism and mass murder -- just as animals are not deemed morally responsible for killing. Insisting on the humanity of terrorists is, in fact, critical to maintaining their profound responsibility for the evil they commit. And, if they are human, then they must necessarily not be treated in an inhuman fashion. You cannot lower the moral baseline of a terrorist to the subhuman without betraying a fundamental value.”
That fundamental value, I think, is the agency to decide to act against the image of God one bears.
I am not equating my thief to a jihadist or dictator or insurrectionist. Except that I strive to maintain a commitment to praying that God touches each of their souls, too; that they submit to a loving God who loves each of us in spite of our worst deeds, and who never gives up on us. Far from excusing people, this feels like justice to me. Especially for people I detest—the dishonest, those who have proven themselves contemptable—I practice what my therapist friend Amy suggested to me one time, “Lock them in a room with Jesus.” In other words, keep yourself safe, and offer them grace. And by the way, you don’t have to protect Jesus.
So I hand over all my intractable problems, and people, to Jesus. My end of the bargain is that I’ll continue to hold them in the Light, trusting that no one is beyond God’s love. Still, that doesn’t make them safe for me to be around.
For the moment my thief is locked in a room with Jesus. I’m praying for Jesus to win him over. But I don’t expect to get my stuff back. What I did get was an insurance settlement.
Just in time for a bunch of unexpected expenses. Another used car and teen driver resulted in 350% car insurance increase. The fantastic 90th birthday party for Mark’s mom, the incomparable Maryneal Jones, ran a bit over budget because it turned into the event of the Columbus/Tryon season.
There were back-to-school needs and medical bills and then, of course, the dishwasher started leaking. So on Saturday, before running to get party shoes for Emma, Mark and I went to buy a dishwasher. We got it at a scratch-and-dent place that sells new but below market price appliances and our plumber installed it yesterday.
So. The beautiful ring that Daddy gave to Mama, which could have, instead, financed a needed appliance, was enjoyed and cherished and bequeathed, was enjoyed and cherished for another score of years, was stolen, contributed to an insurance payment, which in turn paid for a needed appliance.
It just makes me pause in my anger. I still feel justified in my grievance; and, why get stuck there? The grievance doesn’t serve me. I think Dad’s thrift would appreciate the way this turned out, even as he despaired of the lost beauty of the ring. Me too.
This reluctant perspective is the peace of mind that my thief could not steal. And still I pray for a grieving world in which justice is rarely satisfied. Why should I be exempt?
