the day after las vegas

 At least 58 killed.  More than 500 wounded.  A lone shooter opened fire late last night and then took his own life.

This is not okay. 

That seems obvious, or even quaint.  People are suffering today in ways few of us will ever know.  But in a world where we're continually threatened by desensitization, when news of yet another mass shooting starts to carry a little less *shock* each time, I have to repeat:  this is not okay.

I cried alone in my kitchen when I read about Vegas this morning.  What are we supposed to do?  Jesus, what am I supposed to do?  There aren’t words for how heart-wrenching this is.   

After a few minutes the helplessness sank to the pit of my stomach.  What good are my tears from 1,000 miles away?  I am sending my prayers for the families and communities affected, and God help me if I don't trust that they matter more than anything.  But what else can I possibly do? 

I just kept repeating:  Jesus, have mercy.  This is not okay.

And (in some ways even more terrifying) I was forced to recognize that the same hate, fear, callousness—whatever it was that motivated this massacre—is also in me. I have the same capacity for good and evil as the shooter on the 32nd floor. It’s sickening, but it’s true.

Why do these horrifying tragedies keep happening? Why do humans sometimes feel the subtle sparks of hate, envy, and prejudice, and not say to themselves, "this is not okay"?  It doesn't matter which race or religion I am or what political party I vote for—what I nurture in the small things will come to fruition in the big things. I have both good and evil in me.  Which of them am I feeding?  How am I part of the bigger problem?

Attacks like those in Vegas, Sandy Hook, Charleston, Orlando, and so many others threaten to sink us further into anger, fear, and helplessness.  It’s so hard not to get sucked in.

But when I act, I want to choose instead to grieve and to pray.  I want to choose to participate in hard conversations about guns and violence in my country.  I want to choose to speak out against injustice and fear in my community.  I want to stand in solidarity with those who have lost their loved ones. 

And somehow I'd like to think that I can be humble enough to recognize my own culpability.  I'd like to hope that I can see the seeds of that same evil that crop up in my own small moments, and offer them up to the Cross where they belong.  I have to believe that choosing love, compassion, and empathy over pride, fear, and malice in my own life will be a small way to honor the men and women who lost theirs today.

We can't be fooled into thinking that what happened is the new "normal." It is not okay.

While I watched the death toll climb, I sent Matt a text that said, "It just feels so helpless. And so much bigger than us."  A minute later my phone buzzed with his response: "It is helpless.  It is bigger than us.  We need a savior."  He's right. 

Father, forgive us, for we know not what we do.  And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For Thine is the Kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever.  Amen.