Rev. Evan Young, Campus Minister
Like you, I am horror-struck by the synagogue shooting in
Pittsburgh this past weekend. Heart-sick, dismayed that such a thing happened,
could happen, anywhere in this country but particularly in a city and community
I’ve visited and loved, where people I know and love are reeling and hurting
and grieving together. The impact of such a thing happening in a place of
worship that serves as sanctuary and community center is beyond my power to
imagine. And that all I have to offer is my sympathy seems very weak tea
indeed.
There’s a temptation hiding in my response to this tragedy.
I’ve heard it voiced about this tragedy, and about others as well; maybe you
have too. It sounds like this: “This isn’t who we are. This doesn’t represent
our community. We’re better than this.”
I understand the sentiment. I’ve shared it. I’ve said these
words. But right now, in the wake of this latest act of terrorism, I’m coming
to grips with its essential dishonesty. Because in fact, this is precisely who
we are—who, in this historical and cultural moment, we have become.
I believe in community writ large. I believe the shooting at
Tree of Life synagogue is not something that happened to that faith community,
or to the community of Pittsburgh, or to the Jewish community. I believe it’s
something that happened to (and in) my community—and yours. Because we’re all
connected, because we’re interdependent, because the quality of community each
of us enjoys depends on the quality of community all of us create.
And the fact is that the community we have all participated
in creating is one in which bigotry can thrive. In our America today, it
thrives to the point where bigots feel empowered to make their bigotry concrete
and real in acts of violence—acts directed against people of color, against
Jewish people, against LGBTQ+ people, against Muslims, against immigrants.
In a community where this is true, it’s not enough to simply
be someone who doesn’t perpetrate those acts, doesn’t hold those beliefs,
doesn’t say those things. It’s not enough to feel bad for the victims of those
violent words and deeds, to send them thoughts and prayers, to long for a
better time past or future. When we say we “stand with,” we must mean that we
“act with,” and “advocate for,” those among us who are suffering. And that we
“engage with,” and “differ with,” and disrupt the empowerment of those who
would, and do, oppress through their power and privilege and bias.
When I talk about resistance, this is what I mean. Not
resisting the rule of a politician, or a party, with whom I disagree. My
resistance is about resisting—and confronting, and combating—ideas and actions
and worldviews that presume humanity is rightly divided into a favored “us” and
a disfavored, less-than-human “them” upon whom the favored can practice all
manner of oppression. That’s what the gunman did this weekend; that’s what the
pipe-bomb-mailer has been doing; that’s what “proud boys” all over the country
are doing; that’s what our nationalist-in-chief is advocating when he proclaims
himself a nationalist. And my resistance to what they’re all doing springs from
a deeper well than my political affiliation. It springs from my faith, from the
way I understand our participation in a larger whole of which we are part, on
which we depend, and for the well-being of which we are therefore obliged to
work.
Resistance like this is ultimately an act of faith, one that
requires us to start where we really are and move toward a better, wholer,
holier vision. It means embracing the possibility that this is, in fact, who we
now are—however horrifying that prospect might be. And then throwing your body
and soul into moving us all in the direction of the community we could be,
because to do less would be to deny who you are, and whose you are.