Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

the other

Where Do You Draw the Line?

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Where do you draw the line?

A couple weekends ago my family and I spent some time with our Yazidi friend Azzat, and his wife and four kids at the Lincoln Children’s Museum. While we were there, Azzat spotted a large wall map, and he called us over so he could show us where he was from.

As he pointed to a tiny region in the northern part of Iraq, Azzat described what happened the morning ISIS invaded his village. He traced his finger along his family’s escape route, away from the mountain where hundreds of Yazidi people, trapped by ISIS, would later die of starvation and dehydration.

Azzat also explained that the Yazidi people have been persecuted by ISIS because they are not “people of the book,” as he put it. Unlike Christians, who have the Bible (which isn’t to say Christians have not been persecuted by ISIS); Jews, who have the Torah; and Muslims, who have the Koran, the Yazidi people do not have a sacred text. Their lack of a sacred book is unacceptable to radical extremist groups like ISIS.

It’s where ISIS draws the line and how they justify their persecution of the Yazidi people.

God used Azzat’s story to remind me that I, too, have a line I’ve drawn. Obviously I’m not going to execute anyone on the other side of my line. But what I realized, in reflecting on Azzat’s story, is that there are people on one side of my line I accept, and on the other side, people I am against.

I did not vote for Donald Trump, and in the months following his election, I have publicly denounced what I consider his moral and ethical flaws and his hostile views of marginalized people. Privately, in my heart and among my closest confidants, I have also denounced those who elected Donald Trump president.

It’s been easy for me to keep Trump supporters “over there,” on the other side of my line, in the “unacceptable” camp. Easy, that is, until I opened my Bible and read this verse in Paul’s letter to the Philippians:

“Make it as clear as you can to all you meet that you’re on their side, working with them and not against them.” (4:5-8)

Note Paul’s word choice: “to all you meet.” He isn’t referring only to the people we consider “on our side.” According to Paul, we are to be on the side of everyone we meet, not just the people who think, act, look, worship, or vote like we do.

My friend Helen did not vote for Donald Trump. However, in the days following the election, instead of railing publicly or privately against those “on the other side,” Helen made a different choice: she invited a small group of Trump supporters to her home to share a meal and conversation.

In extending that invitation, Helen made it clear that she was interested in working with, rather than against, the people who thought and voted differently from her.

As she later explained, “We would do well by each other to share a meal with those whose perspectives differ from our own in an effort to understand the complexity of their humanness. We mature and grow when we spend time with those who challenge us.”

I don’t know who is on the other side of your line. But I do know this: even when we don’t stand with their beliefs, we can and should stand with all our brothers and sisters, each of whom has been created in the image of God.

This post was originally published in the Lincoln Journal Star. 

When Our Words Signal a Members-Only Club

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pansies in windowbox

Fifteen years ago, when we were new to Lincoln, my husband and I tried out a few churches before eventually settling on a largish congregation in town, namely because it was big enough for me to get lost in the crowd. After all, I wasn’t exactly a model church-goer. I wasn’t even sure I believed in God. Stepping across a church threshold after a twenty-year hiatus was a big enough step for me.

Early on we attended a new member orientation. The class went smoothly, and I was tentatively interested and encouraged, but then, just as I was gathering my purse and coat, the pastor suggested we all sing “Jesus Loves Me” to close out the class.

Right on cue, twenty brand-new members joined him, singing lyrics as familiar and comforting to them as their favorite childhood stuffed animal.

I didn’t know the song. Raised Catholic, I wasn’t familiar with the traditional Protestant tune, although clearly, as everyone around me belted out the lyrics, I was the only one who didn’t recognize it. I noticed my husband, who was raised Lutheran, was singing right along with everyone else.

Meanwhile I stood with my purse and coat clutched in my hands, soundlessly moving my lips, feeling like an imposter and an outsider.

It’s a bit of a silly example – it’s just a children’s Sunday School song, after all – but I actually think my “Jesus Loves Me” experience is a good metaphor for how a lot of people feel about Christianity. From where they’re standing, the Church looks like a members-only club, a tight, exclusive circle with little accommodation for those who don’t speak “the right language.” They assume it’s not for them, that they won’t fit in.

The very words we use so casually and confidently may fit us like a pair of well-worn slippers, but they often signal to others that they don’t belong.

As Christians, we can do better than this. We need to do better than this.

I recently saw something I’ve never noticed before about a passage in the Book of Acts. When the Holy Spirit descended upon the disciples with a mighty roar and flames of fire, the disciples began to speak not in their own native tongue but in dozens of foreign languages.

And not in just any random foreign languages, but specifically in the native languages of the outsiders, the “devout Jews from every nation” who were now living in Jerusalem.

God didn’t have the disciples speak Hebrew, their own, familiar, comfortable language, but the languages of the other — Arabic, Medean and Elamite (ancient forms of Persian), Aramaic, Greek, and Phrygian (a form of ancient Greek) — in order that these outsiders, who were unfamiliar with Christianity, would feel embraced and welcomed into the family of Christ. When they heard, in their familiar, native languages, about “the wonderful things God has done,” the outsiders “came running,” intrigued and amazed.

I keep coming back to that scene in Acts. I like to imagine the cacophony, all those voices, all those different languages woven into dozens of beautifully unique invitations. I like to imagine the eagerness and anticipation of the people who heard those words, the warmth and sense of welcome they felt upon receiving those invitations.

The Holy Spirit gave the disciples a spacious, inviting vision of Christianity. Two thousand years later, that inclusive hospitality is still a beautiful model for us to emulate and live out today.

Why It’s Time to Step Across the Divide {and how I recently failed to do that myself}

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bench on dock

A couple of months ago I attended a fundraising luncheon here in town. My friend Jess and I found three open spots at a table in the middle of the packed room (we saved a seat for our friend, Meg, who was arriving late), and as we sat down, I said hello to our tablemates. The three young women, all of whom were wearing hijab, the head covering typically worn by traditional Muslim women, politely returned my greeting. I then turned my attention to the menu and to my friend, and the three women resumed their conversation.

A few minutes later Meg arrived, and after Jess and I had chatted with her for a bit, I noticed that she then turned to the three Muslim women on her left. She greeted them, introduced herself, and engaged them in conversation. She learned their names. She asked what they did for a living and where they worked. The four of them chatted about Meg’s earrings.

It was a simple conversation, pretty basic as far as conversations go. But it was a conversation.

Two months later I’m still thinking about the marked difference between how Meg and I interacted with the three Muslim women and why that difference is important.

I had been polite, but guarded; Meg was warm and engaged.

I’d kept my distance; Meg made a genuine effort to connect.

After a cursory greeting, I had retreated to my comfortable, familiar place and talked with the person in my own circle; Meg stepped out to connect with three strangers, three people different from her and outside of her immediate comfort zone.

In short, I was content to let the three women remain “the other” – separate, distant, different. Meg made an effort to get to know the three women as real people.

Brainerdboatdock2

Jack in tube

HopeandBoo

twoloons

We are living in a time of great racial unrest in America, and often, I find it’s easy for me to assume that these issues have nothing to do with me. I tell myself the rampant racial problems we are experiencing right now originate with and are perpetuated by “bad people,” racists, people other than me. I tell myself I’m not responsible for these problems, and therefore do not have a critical role in helping to remedy them. But in that I am wrong. I am responsible. I do have a role.

Chances are, we have more in common with those we deem different than we might assume, but in order to discover and embrace those commonalities, we first have to recognize and acknowledge where and how we define people as “other,” and then take a conscious step toward bridging that gap.

That’s exactly what Jesus did. He wasn’t content to stay within his inner circle and associate only with his disciples and the religious elite. Instead, Jesus consistently reached out to those on the margins, the “others” of his time – the tax collector, the prostitute, the leper, the spiritually lost – and invited them into conversation and connection.

Jesus made an effort to know the person behind the label, to narrow the gap between “other” and “Someone.”

That afternoon at the fundraising luncheon I defined those three Muslim women as “other” and chose, because it was easier and more comfortable, to stay with that. My friend Meg made the opposite decision. In spite of her discomfort, she stepped across the divide, and in doing so, demonstrated that trying to get to know someone as a real person, even when it feels a little awkward or forced, is better than not trying at all.

This post originally ran on July 25, 2015 in the Lincoln Journal Star.