The cost of Justice

For some reason complete strangers like to tell me their life stories. It always takes me by surprise. Within half an hour of meeting someone — often without exchanging names — I know more about a stranger than I do about people I have known for years. The conversations never begin with me, and I often don't say more than a few words — yet there it is, a heart-wrenching story that asks nothing from me but a listening ear.

Often, such as the case of "Saint Rick," I never see these folks again. But the stories — usually tragic, but strangely motivational — always stick with me.

I don't recall how it came up, but while still standing in the board room at a trustee's meeting yesterday, I found myself discussing the fairly new film "Slumdog Millionaire" (which I almost always accidentally type as "Slumgod." hrmmmm...). The film tells the story of Jamal Malik, a rather unlikely contestant on India's version of "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire." This "slumdog" is doing remarkably well — to the point that he is believed to be cheating. After all, what does an uneducated, impoverished orphan know? The film gives a rather brutal depiction of how he came to know the answers, and by doing so, gives insight into the lives of India's poor.

My friend suggested that we don't like knowing such things go on in the world. I countered that I simply don't like that such things occur. The more I think about it, however, the more I think she captured me more fully than I like to believe.

Last night, I read a blog update from my friend Gary Snowden. He is back in Guatemala, leading a team from his church in Lee's Summit. They have been working with a church in San Marcos, bringing bags of groceries and a listening ear to those who desperately need both.

I find myself wondering about the systemic problems that produce such poverty. Is it lack of clean water, lack of education, government corruption? And how can someone sheltered by living in a rich country possibly help? I find myself without answers.

I climbed into bed last night, planning to do some reading before falling asleep. Instead, I found myself looking around my room and observing the luxuries that surround me. The stack of books by my bed. Clothes hanging in the closet. Curtains on the windows and art on the walls. An extra bedroom that simply holds stuff. Food in my kitchen. Heck, I often have to throw away food, because vegetables and leftovers go bad before I finish them.

I want justice, but only on my terms; and my terms include my own comfort. In my ministerial ethics class last semester, we discussed money and the Scriptural way of using it. Many of us admitted that we believe the way we use our money is sinful, but that we were too selfish and too scared to make the changes we believe we are called to.

I hereby admit that I am the person talking about in "Hotel Rwanda." I hear the stories, mourn for them, but then return to my dinner and the latest episode of a TV show. I'm the girl who slaps a Save Darfur magnet on my car and drives on, believing I've done my duty.

But that isn't justice. Hearing and remembering isn't enough. And I confess I'm too caught up in my own culture to know how I'm supposed to live. Have mercy, O God.