Why My Faith Won’t Let Me Be OK With the Death Penalty

Why My Faith Won’t Let Me Be OK With the Death Penalty

I’m taking a deep breath now. The way you would inhale right before you jump out of an airplane (which I’ll never do). While I won’t take a physical leap at 10,000 feet, I’m taking a bit of a psychological one here, because I’m about to express an opinion on a highly-emotionally-charged subject, and I’m pretty sure I’ll alienate some folk.

I’m going to tell you why, as a Christian, I cannot support the death penalty.

I used to. Right after Jim and I were married, we were held up at gunpoint in a parking lot late at night. In a nice part of town, in case you wondered. The robbers took all my jewelry and made Jim lie spread-eagle on the very cold asphalt before speeding away with our brand-new wedding rings.

To say I was traumatized is to grossly understate the terror I felt nearly all the time. Around the same time as our robbery, several brutal, seemingly random home invasion robbery-homicides occurred. One poor woman went out to get her mail and the robber accosted her in her driveway, forced her into the house, and shot her in her own bedroom. These things became connected in my mind in the midst of my post-traumatic stress, and for several years I lived in fear. I was afraid to walk out to get my mail. Afraid to be alone, even during the day. Terrified of parking lots. I was afraid to take a shower when I was alone in the house.

My life was ruled by fear. And so were some of my opinions and beliefs.

They caught the person responsible for the robbery-homicides, and I wanted him tried and fried. I wanted to be sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he wouldn’t kill me or anyone else I cared about.

Enter the senior pastor of my church, sometimes in the late 90s. He was a man whose theology and life I admired then and still do. Until one day he talked about capital punishment. And he was against it.

When someone I respect presents an alternate point of view, I think it’s worth it to consider their argument. Maybe I’ll end up agreeing, maybe not, but I always consider it. This time I changed my mind. A 180.

I realized that other than escaping immediate physical danger, no wise decision is ever made from fear. I wanted the man to die out of my own fear. Fear stokes the flames of racism, bigotry, and a refusal to respect anything different than what we believe. The time had come for me to stop being ruled by fear.

I became ashamed of my arrogance. How is it my right to judge whether another human being, made in the image of God, should live or die? And how on earth do I reconcile my sense of vengeance with anything Jesus taught?

For me, there was simply no way to square the death penalty with my faith. It is God’s place to say who will live and who will die. His, and His alone.

Some of you would say, “Well, they took a life, they chose the sin, they were cruel, brutal, tortured and terrorized a person.” Yeah, many of them have. But I’ve sinned, too, and, no offense, so have you. I’ve been unkind, selfish, prideful, and I’m guessing you have, too. None of us are without wrongdoing.

It’s ironic to me that some use the Bible to justify capital punishment. The story of the Bible is God’s redemption of our souls, not His condemnation. Don’t we realize that we are just as culpable as the murderer? And yet, God chose to send His Son to atone for our sins, and for those of the ones we would put to death. To put another person to death is to say that they are less deserving of His atonement and redemption than we are. And friends, that’s prideful.

The only One who is perfect and fit to judge shows us infinite mercy. We who are imperfect, rather than choose to imitate Jesus, prefer death over mercy for a brother or sister. I’m thankful that my Heavenly Father’s mercy is greater than my sin, even if it means His mercy is also greater than the sin of the murderer.

One last thing. Nothing that is devised and mediated by humans is perfect, and that includes our justice system. I started to look up the statistics on how many prisoners have been executed and later found not to have been guilty of the crime. I started to, but I didn’t. Because, for the purposes of this post, it doesn’t matter.

One is too many.

Advent Prayer: Knocking for Opportunity

Advent Prayer: Knocking for Opportunity

This morning as my husband, Jim, and I got ready to leave for church, I put on my coat, scarf and gloves to stay warm in the 20-degree weather and single-digit windchill. I had to decide between brown gloves to go with my pants or black gloves to go with my coat; cloth or leather, solid or pattern …

I thought of those who have no warm home to turn on the heat, no hot water to make a cup of tea, no hat, gloves, scarves or coat against this bitter cold. So on a whim, I threw an extra pair of gloves in the car. We had bought them last year and they still had the tags. As we left for church, I said a prayer that I’d find someone who needs those gloves.

We go to church in a wealthy neighborhood in east Memphis and we live in Germantown, an affluent suburb. So the likelihood of seeing a needy or homeless person between our home and our church … almost nil. In fact, I’m not sure I ever have.

Until this morning. As we drove home from church, a man was walking down the street wrapped up in a blanket. There was no place to pull over, so we had to circle a block or two, then come back around and find him again. As we turned back onto a major street, there was a homeless man at the intersection holding a sign. Jim and I gave the man what cash we had in our wallets. He already had gloves, so we kept going and found the first man in a parking lot, wrapped up in that ratty blanket — with no gloves and very cold hands. It occurred to me that if the first man had been at any other point on our route, we’d have been able to easily pull over and would never have seen the second man. Coincidence? I’m going with no.

Beginning with the rest of Advent, I’ll commit to pray this prayer every day: Help me to keep my eyes open for those in need. To go looking instead of just waiting for them to come to me. I’m going out today to buy some gloves, hats, scarves and maybe a blanket or two to keep in my car. I’ll pray that God will show me someone in need, that I will not just give and serve when it’s convenient, but that I’ll go looking for opportunities.

Because if He can place two needy persons in our path between Laurelwood and Germantown at that moment in time … what greater impact can we have if we actively seek to serve?

I’m not waiting for opportunity — I’m going knocking. Come with me.

Give me your ideas/stories in the comments.

The Poor Through God’s Eyes

The Poor Through God’s Eyes

poor

Earlier this week, I volunteered at Manna House (more about Manna House here, here and here) as I often do. There is never a time that I leave there without some new insight, but on this day I left with a book in hand as well.

The book, Radical Compassion, Finding Christ in the Heart of the Poor, (Amazon link*) is by Gary Smith, S.J., a Jesuit priest who lived and worked among the poor of Portland, Oregon for nearly 10 years. It is a journal of his ministry to them and their ministry to him, a collection of personal stories about his relationships with people who have been neglected, abused, beaten down and have endured struggles and hardships that are painful to read.

But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame* the strong. He chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things — and the things that are not — to nullify the things that are, so that no one may boast before him.
I Corinthians 1:27-29

Note: King James Version uses the word confound — to perplex or amaze, especially by a sudden disturbance or surprise; bewilder; confuse — instead of shame. But I think both are applicable.

Some of the stories are funny, some sad, some are agonizing to read, but the story of a man named Robert is particularly poignant — the kind of poignant that makes it difficult to see the pages through the tears. Father Smith met Robert, 38, depressed, addicted to drugs and HIV positive and for the next two years or so, walked with him through his illness and death. Toward the end of his life, Robert asked to be baptized and during that holy moment, Father Smith shared the story of the good Samaritan. His reflections on that passage are profound:

You are the good Samaritan, Robert, because you have pulled all of us out of the safe trenches of our lives. And your love — so squeezed out of you by life and history — you have claimed again and given back to us a hundredfold. What a grace it is to be present to see you commit your life to the one who is the author of your love. Your faith is healing oil for our wounds.

And so the weak shame, confound — teach, nurture, edify — the strong. May we all know a good Samaritan.

*The only thing I get if you buy and read this book is a bit of satisfaction.

I Was Wrong

I Was Wrong

man-street

What are homeless people like?

Though it’s not easy to admit, I harbored some preconceived notions:

Dangerous. Violent. Unintelligent. Uncaring. Lazy. Scary.

Until a few weeks ago. Until Manna House.

My first experience humbled and overwhelmed me. With regret for the assumptions I have made. Shame for my complacency. Anger at my own indifference while I lead a comfortable life as others suffer. I ignored them. I dismissed them. I cared, but not enough.

What changed from the me-centeredness, the casual, detached concern? Caring only because I knew I should?

Faces.

Eyes.

Voices.

Of people not so different from me after all. Children of God, my equals, who happen to be homeless. Some of whom can read and speak fluently in two languages, write poetry that expresses deep emotion and pain, beat me mercilessly at checkers and play a game of Scrabble that would challenge any wordsmith. Here’s an excerpt from a poem written by Tony, one of our guests:

The Manna House is a place where you can feel safe and get some rest,
Where help is offered through all they can do but keep in mind they’re only human too.
So if you ever come here please be thankful for this place
And at the end of every prayer you will always hear them say,
“Thank you, Lord for the coffee that’s hot, the sugar that’s sweet and the creamer that takes all life’s bitterness away.”

Scrabble games, soap, clean socks and coffee may not change a life. But maybe a few hours of peace, rest, companionship and love can change that day in a life. Manna.

Do not neglect hospitality, for through it some have unknowingly entertained angels.
Hebrews 13:2

Photo credit: PhilipPoon, Homeless Person in Front of Temple

Is it a Donut or is it Manna?

Is it a Donut or is it Manna?

Today someone offered me a piece of a chocolate donut … and it made me cry.

I spent this morning at Manna House in midtown Memphis, which offers hospitality, showers, change of clothes, coffee and rest to area homeless persons. After we served coffee, provided showers and dispensed basic toiletries, socks and clean clothes, we spent some time in the back yard, just talking and listening to our guests.

One man talked about how hot Memphis is in summer, and that he really wants to find a place to sleep inside before it gets too hot. Another told me which alley he sleeps in. Both had come into the backyard at Manna House with sack lunches and quickly began making trades: a peanut butter sandwich for a brownie, ham for a bag of chips. One of the men spent a good minute or so driving a hard bargain for a donut. Then he sat down, began to unwrap it and before he took a bite, he offered a bite to me.

He knows I’m not homeless. I’m obviously a middle-class white woman and I wore a nametag that identified me as a volunteer. But he offered me the first bite of his donut. Not what was left over when he finished it. Not the donut he didn’t want. The donut he negotiated and traded for. The first bite.

One of the founders of Manna House explained to me that the name comes from the manna God sent from heaven to feed the Israelites after they left Egypt. (Exodus 16) He sent it each day; just enough for that day, no more, no less, and instructed them not to gather more than they needed. They trusted Him to provide the next day. In much the same way, Manna House meets the daily needs of its guests; their mission is not to solve all problems, but to meet daily needs: basic hygiene, clean socks, a good cup of coffee and companionship — for that day.

I don’t know why my donut friend offered me the first bite; why didn’t he keep it for himself? He may or may not get another donut any time soon; I can buy a dozen without a second thought. Why was he so willing to share with me?

Maybe a better question is: why are so many of us unwilling to share what we proudly call ours? Our money, our home, our time.

We turn our heads and our hearts away and refuse to give of our abundance, while this man offers the first bite.

Food for thought, isn’t it?

Image above: Orange Spice Chocolate Donut by Quintana Roo