Christian Piatt Blog

Any promise of peace is stained with blood

The new year reminds us that human beings have an unimaginable capacity for evil, particularly against one another.

The recent elections in Kenya stirred controversy about the results that spiraled into violence, ethnic strife and greater potential for civil war. Crying foul, hordes of dissenters crowded around a church where hundreds of others were taking refuge. With torches and machetes in hand, they proceeded to butcher men, women and children, leaving the sanctuary in ruin.

From time to time, there are those who hang on to such tragedies as evidence of our further fall from divine grace. From the floods in Louisiana to genocide in Sudan, it’s convenient to attribute both natural and human-borne crises to a slippery slope hastening our approach to Armageddon.

In fact, when we look back into Scripture, we find much of the same kinds of tragedy and violence, even alongside our most precious stories.

Anyone who has attended a Christian church in recent weeks likely has enjoyed, once again, the birth stories of Jesus recorded in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke. We smile at the sight of our children, dressed in shepherds’ robes, angel wings and makeshift crowns as they act out the pastoral scene. We sing heartwarming songs and light candles to represent the in-breaking of divine light into the world.

It’s relatively easy to walk away from Christmas with good feelings and fond memories. However, even within those Gospel accounts, we tend to gloss over a rather dark and macabre backdrop upon which the birth story is laid.

At the time of Jesus’ birth, King Herod got word that a new leader among the Jews was coming into the world as a fragile, defenseless infant. His response: Initiate a campaign of mass infanticide to wipe out any potential threat among the Jewish community.

For me, the manger scene takes on a new context when we consider that scores of babies are being slaughtered down the street. It doesn’t exactly make for a touching Christmas carol or bedtime story, but it’s part of the bloody legacy of Christmas.

Looking further back in time, a similar scenario surrounds the birth of Moses, another heralded leader of the Jewish people. Having some well-founded concerns for threats to his power, Pharaoh orders a similar genocidal campaign against newborns when Moses arrives in the world. The irony of him being stowed away and subsequently raised by an Egyptian family does not negate the point that thousands of innocents likely died because of what this single child represented.

More familiar is the morbid setting around the cross at Calvary. Jesus, the one we Christians celebrate as God with skin on, came with open hands, bearing peace and a radical message of unconditional love. He received in response a brutal death, punctuated by public humiliation, torture and abandonment by those who claimed to follow him.

It seems that we humans have a natural tendency to run in the opposite direction when good news comes knocking. We say we want peace, yet when it stands before us, we mock it, turn our backs on it or kill it. If something so radical and transformative as the Gospel reminds us that it will take dramatic change to achieve the vision of peace we claim, we shrug off the implication such a challenge has on our daily comforts.

If we are to claim peace and love, we must also recognize their close companionship with violence and bloodshed. Some will suggest it’s too high of a price for such good news. Others may shrug their shoulders, dismissing the cost of such change as inevitable collateral damage.

It’s tempting to skip over the front-page stories on Kenya’s violence. It would be easier to pretend that the faith we claim here has no connection to the chaos and loss of life an ocean away. But if we truly believe that for which Jesus himself was willing to die, we must find ourselves on both sides of the gun, or else risk perhaps committing the greatest sin of all: indifference.

Year’s end a time for candid reflections

Another year over, full of gratitude and regret.

With the new year come subtle and obvious reminders of all the promises we made ourselves last year, but somehow have not kept. Reflection upon the past 12 months can lead to a sense of satisfaction, combined with wonderment about the insistent march of time.

Worst case, ask for a do-over, hoping to reclaim a year we didn’t use to its fullest.

I’ve had my share of both. Following are some of both the bitter and sweet reflections with which I’m left as another year goes into the books:

Though it could be worse, it’s hard to accept that I’m 10 pounds heavier now than I’ve been for the past 12 years. I joke about having the physique of a writer and such, but trends like these, unattended over time, lead to bigger problems.

I’m more grateful than ever before to be right where I am. Having traveled for years as part of my job, and having always struggled with any idea of permanence, 2007 has afforded me a sense of peace about raising a family in a town far different than that of my own upbringing.

I regret that yet another year has passed without any communication between me and my father. It seems that the longer two people go without contact, no matter how close they were before the schism, it only gets harder to bridge the growing gap.

I’m also blessed to have the opportunity to redefine what it means to be family. Though our genetic heritage is an indelible part of who we are, it is not the only basis for who we call family.

For the church community that has grown up around us from nothing over the past four years, for the friends who go out of their way to embrace us both literally and figuratively, and for those related to me by marriage but who treat me as their own, I am grateful.

Though I feel like we, as a community, have done some good, I have some ambivalence about the state of the world. We have fed the needy, yet every night, right here in our city, people go to bed with no food. We have comforted the afflicted, though even more suffering persists. We cry out for peace, but war still is a part of everyday life.

I am grateful that we have done something, but regret that it still is not enough. I am grateful for how much I have been given, but regret how relatively little I have to show for it. I am also grateful for knowing my family is in a position of relative security, but regret that my wants and fears still make me restless for more.

I am grateful for the many signs of divinity I have seen in those around me, but regret that those glimmers have not been enough to extinguish my doubt, or even to bolster my confidence in the more benevolent tendencies of human nature.

I am grateful for the patience offered to me, and regret not having more patience of my own.

I am grateful for time, but regret I have not always used it as well as I could.

I am grateful for a child that has grown before my eyes, but regret the days when I have been too consumed with less important things to notice the subtle changes.

I am grateful for all of the times I’ve heard the words “I love you,” and regret that I struggle to say it at least as often as I hear it.

It’s easy to set ourselves up this time of year, making lofty promises of change that we can never realistically honor. Fueled by the best of intentions, our regrets can either become tools for self-abuse when we fail, or they can serve as the blueprint for filling in the gaps in a less-than-complete life, still taking shape. The actual shape of the life to come, however, has less to do with lingering regret than the actions that follow such feelings.

Christian Piatt is the author of “MySpace to Sacred Space” and “Lost: A Search for Meaning.” For more information, visit www.christianpiatt.com.