on bystanders and standing by

Running through a city this weekend, I found myself along a stretch of deserted waterfront. Scanning the environment, I spotted a man walking toward me. Being a female in a country where sexual assault occurs frequently can lead one to occupy a state of hyper-vigilance. Whenever I am alone, I am aware that I could be assaulted at any moment (from anecdotal conversations, I know I am not alone in this). We live in a culture in which one never knows if the man walking toward you has been taught to respect the dignity of a woman’s personhood, or to take what he wants from her.

 Running along this unfamiliar trail, I was flooded with regretful thoughts of my own foolishness: Why was I so confident that I could run through a city, anonymous, with no record of my departure or path? Why did I continue to push the bounds of independence when I could just be safe instead?

Then I saw a couple in the distance, and immediately felt safe again. These bystanders restored my peace.

 Should they have? Everything in me wanted to trust that a person—even a stranger—would intervene for my well-being. Suddenly, in spite of myself, I wondered why I trusted this to be true.

 Dr. King claimed we live in a network of mutuality, that we are all tied to one another in one garment. Jesus agreed, hitching the flourishing of his kingdom to the ability of his followers to love others well. Adherents surely claim that Gandhi embodied the best of Hinduism when he continually linked the needs of others to his own sacrificial courage. Even here in America, we claim to believe we are all created equal, that every American deserves a chance at happiness, life and liberty.

 Indeed, our public consciousness is held up by a commitment to one another, to neighboring and to the shared responsibility all communities demand. Despite the ideal that basic decency requires bystanders to not stand by when an other is harmed, we seem to have a rather large hole in the garment holding us all together. Do we still believe in noble bystanders, or have they gone the way of knights and town criers?

Well-known research has shown us that people are not always trustworthy in their efforts at intervention. When Kitty Genovese was murdered in New York City in 1964, many bystanders witnessed some part of the gruesome act, and yet no one called the police or attempted to stop the crime in progress. Resulting experiments confirmed what is known as the Bystander Effect: The Inaction of onlookers due to the diffusion of responsibility. In short, the more people notice a bad act, the more paralysis—or the less responsibility—they feel to intervene. When we notice others noticing—and ignoring—injustice or a crime, we are disincentivized from speaking up ourselves.

In our American moment, active bystanders are hard to come by. There are many reasons for inaction, and I am sympathetic to nearly all of them. We are busy, and intervening takes time. Helping others is messy. We have a limited number of resources and spending them on a stranger might reduce what we can offer those to whom we are already committed. Furthermore, speaking into a situation can invite trouble or even seem presumptuous: What if they don’t want my help!? What if I do it wrong?

These are understandable considerations; however, the psychological math of is perhaps even more toxic.  The prevailing attitude goes something like, “not my people, not my problem.” Rather that everyone we pass on the street is a human, and therefore worthy of help or protection if they are in trouble, we seem to first consider if a potential victim is worth our time. Most of us want to be people who intervene to stop a bad actor, but many of us stay silent as our neighbors are displaced, or as children in public schools continue to fall below grade level, or as life is ignored from womb to old age, or as rape kits go unprocessed, or as people of color are consistently treated suspiciously, or as public housing funding is stripped, or as folks with pre-existing conditions are threatened with being uninsurable, or as people who make minimum wage cannot feed their children.

Something in us wakes when we see vulnerable others ignored or abused, and yet most of us remain silent.

What happens in the space of that comma that transforms us from engaged bystanders to passive supporters of an unjust status quo? How does the gap between who we want to be and who we prove to be grow so large? Whatever occurs in the space of that comma unravels the fabric of our society. If that comma, that pause, gave us space to find courage, more of us would live in community rather than dying alone. More of us would find hope instead of despair. More of us would experience shalom.

 We are all bystanders to acts of violence and disdain when we live in a society that refuses to care for the people who comprise it. We need not be shocked by this admission, for in many ways, this is who we are as a nation. Historically, before we decided to intervene, we decided if you were worth it. After all, bystanders looked away as native lands were stolen. Bystanders did not come running as bodies were bought and sold, forced to build wealth for others. As Jemar Tisby forcefully argues in his book, The Color of Compromise, a few Christians denounced slavery and the lynchings that followed for a century, but the vast majority remained silent, avoiding any stance that would prevent the practice from progressing.

Running along the waterfront that day, I was indeed relieved to realize there were bystanders nearby. As I put distance between my own body and the male body nearby, I realized I could only rely on my own speed to keep me safe. Bystanders, all too often, simply stand by, refusing to speak up for others around them. Each of us is a witness to those around us. Will we reweave the garment King hoped we all share, or will we continue to use blinders, only getting involved when we decide the person at risk is valuable to us? Pay attention to your surroundings, and you might just see that you develop the compassion, patience and will to stop standing by, and instead intervene to protect the strangers around you.

a leaf buckled concrete: paths of hope

Every time I spot a weed growing up through concrete, I think, “Good for you.” I can’t help myself. I am biased toward underdogs, toward wildness, toward bucking the system. One of my many faults. While I would not say that I have a pro-weed orientation in life, I prefer the natural world to concrete in nearly every instance. That stubborn little weed reminds me that persistence is a superpower.

 In faith-driven, Biblically rooted justice work, the inequity I hope to expose and reform is massive. I often teach about the systems and norms that created our unjust status quo to folks whose life experiences have sheltered them from interacting with such unpleasant realities. Getting people in the room is a battle in and of itself, but after that I have come to recognize two distinct blocks. The first is visceral defensiveness. The second is perceived powerlessness.

 To learn of such atrocious injustice as an adult who has actively benefitted from and propped up systems in the name of Jesus, patriotism or justice, can be disorienting. Such a shock, in fact, that it is easy to deny this history exists, or to shake one’s head, disbelieving. At the very least, most want to claim innocence: “I’ve never oppressed anyone! I don’t even know people getting hurt by this so-called injustice!”

 Encountering such obvious disparity, people often feel shamed, guilty, or accused…all of which lead to defensiveness. Defensiveness destroys relationships and short circuits curious impulses. We are not capable of learning from others when we are busy defending our own action (or inaction). We cannot think of solutions when we refuse any responsibility or even connection to the problems being addressed. Because I have learned to anticipate such defensiveness, I now name it as the enemy of the good in the very moment in which it occurs. Feeling defensive or attacked is not a reason to walk away. When I name the creeping posture of defense, people usually look up, exposed, but also interested in any available alternative. I encourage folks to notice their defensiveness, commit to investigate it later, and then lean in to the conversation at hand. I ask them to seek to understand before they decide who is to blame (or if they even agree).

The other block many must overcome in these moments is the completely overwhelming—I-had-no-idea—shock of seeing the reality of injustice in our systems. When folks learn to avoid defensiveness, staying invested long enough to learn about the realities others face, they often feel crushing grief. Overwhelmed at the power and longevity of injustice, they instinctively see their own powerlessness to change anything. “I hear you. I’m with you. But what am I supposed to do?! How on earth can I do anything to actually help?” While this reaction can keep relationships alive, it can lead to the same sense of paralysis that results from defensiveness. In either case, injustice remains, with no resistance from well-meaning folks who enjoy the privileges of living in the majority.

I think this is why I love that little weed. Whoever designed and laid that sidewalk probably did everything right. They scorched the earth, leveled the ground, and poured one of the strongest substances known to man on top of it. And yet. Despite all odds, that little spunky weed grew. A leaf buckled concrete. It’s a Christmas miracle! Or maybe a gardening nightmare? Either way it gives me hope that a living thing made to find the light, with enough time and determination, can crack through a system made to permanently block its ability to grow. Go weeds go!

In parenting and educational circles, grit is a new buzzword. We have long recognized the difference in natural ability and growth. Some kids achieve because they are naturally gifted to do so, while others have deficits they learn to overcome through determination, delayed gratification and belief in their abilities. These kids develop growth mindsets, to borrow from Carol Dweck, and they learn to face obstacles that seem insurmountable one step at a time. Yes, failure is likely from their starting position. But taken in small steps, small victories add up until they accomplish their goals, achieving well beyond their initial trajectories.

As a parent of teens and a tween, I now realize I would rather send a kid into the world who has grit, who has learned to slowly overcome odds, than I would a kid who has easily achieved most accomplishments. This is not to say I am against easy achievements. By all means, knock it out of the park, especially if it comes easily! Adulting, though, is hard. Losing a job, working under a mean boss, caring for sick kids or parents, having a marriage fall apart, or suffering in economic distress all require a long term commitment to stay the course and learn the new skills required for the task ahead, even if it feels impossible. Grit, it turns out, wins the day.

Here in Nashville, succulents are all the rage, and frankly, I’m uninterested. Give me a rainforest over a desert any day of the week. I know they conserve water, but I live in Tennessee instead of Arizona for a reason. I like vibrant colors, gorgeous blooms, and diversity that makes the eye hungry to take it all in. People I love who know about plants love them though, so I finally got a succulent or two. Damned if I haven’t grown partial to these little miracle growers. They are stubborn sons of bitches, and just like my beloved urban weed warriors, they stay alive. They keep growing, even in shameful neglect. I think we could all do well to take a page out of the succulent handbook. Dig deep, determine to grow, and create beauty in the worst of circumstances. Come to the table, pay attention and decide to change your part of the world. Together, let’s see just see how many cracks we can make in the system until there is room for all of us to grow.

crushing others (and ourselves)

“Remember what you value most right now.” I had called my closest friend for a pep talk as I drove to meet with a principal of a school I had loved for years. The school had supported and taught our growing family as we navigated the elementary years, but now we had been rezoned for a new—and very socio-economically and racially diverse—school in our neighborhood. Although we had been granted a waiver to stay, I was driving to tell my dear friend and principal that we would release our waiver, pull our remaining kids out, and change schools. I called for a pep talk because I was scared I would back out, and even more because I wasn’t at all confident that I was making the right choice.

The math looked like this: Our old school is the best in the state, warm and loving, challenging academically, with an incredible community. It is nestled in a very wealthy, mostly white school zone, and my kids thrived there. The dilemma was that we wanted our kids to grow up instinctively aware that their experience is not the only experience. We wanted them to know that a logo on a sweatshirt, the size of a house, and the tone of flesh are not indicators of trustworthiness. Because our society is largely segregated along lines of class and race, my kids won’t KNOW these truths unless they LIVE them. Our math led us to the conviction that we could help our kids build a solid academic foundation, but we couldn’t overcome the deficits that came from not sharing school and friendship with diverse others. Unless they spend a lot of time with people from distinct backgrounds, kids grow up having to take our word for it that every person is created with dignity, is valuable, and can be a great friend.

When she told me to remember what I value most right now, my friend was reminding me that I was about to tell a principal I loved that I was leaving a school I trusted because I wanted my kids to have the privilege of going to school with all kinds of kids. There were 100 reasons not to make the choice we were making, but there were also reasons to put them in a different school. Reasons that mattered deeply to us.

It is often wise to make choices bolstered by conventional wisdom. It is easy to let the status quo endorsed by others become a normal that offers us comfort and stability. In a week when we have all been tossing around the words of Dr. King though, it is worth saying out loud that it is costly to say we value a thing that we don’t actually value. Dr. King, with great prophetic wisdom, reveals to us how costly it was on the progress of the Civil Rights Movement when well meaning, moderate white folks told him they supported equality but wanted him to stop causing such a stir. They asked him to trust them, to do the right thing by continuing to obey unjust laws that protected a status quo that oppressed and abused people of color. We now understand that when we say we are for justice, but remain silent in the face of injustice, the vulnerable among us pay a price.

However, they are not the only ones who pay; indeed, it costs our own souls when we continue to say we want a certain kind of community but then prop up a destructive status quo. It tears at the soul to pretend to care about civility when we endorse policies that are not just uncivil, but inhumane. Our minds and bodies and souls and wills are interconnected, so when we say we value one thing but actively choose another it fractures our beings in small ways. When we say we value diversity but get annoyed when a different opinion wins at work, we fracture our souls. When we say we value justice and redemption but use for-profit prisons and border detention centers, we fracture our souls. When we say we value our daughters but look at porn, we fracture our souls. When we say we value all people but think our time is worth more than a grocery clerk’s, we fracture our souls. When we say every fetus deserves a chance to live but we refuse poor kids health- or childcare, we fracture our souls. When we say all work is meaningful but we undervalue those without a degree or who earn an hourly wage, we fracture our souls. When we say we would have stood with Dr. King or would have helped Jews in Nazi Germany but remain silent while brown bodies are viewed with chronic suspicion, we fracture our souls.  When we say we want to appreciate others but we keep our children from interacting with people whose life experiences are vastly different, we fracture our souls. 

In this series of essays reflecting on the way we talk about living and the way we find ourselves living, I am reminded of advice my sister—a counselor—gave me. When she was in graduate school she was fascinated by ethics, by moral relativism and by the process we go through when we make choices. A core belief of her counseling practice is that it is healthy for folks to articulate their values, and then to make decisions consistent with those values. Sometimes when I seek her advice, I realize a little late in the game that she Jedi-mind-tricks me. Rather than giving me advice, she leads me to name the thing I value the most, and then she helps me make a choice that honors my hierarchy of values.

The vast cavern between who we claim to be and who our choices reveal us to be is not just costly “for the least of these.” It hurts our very souls. Let’s take my sister’s advice, and figure out what we actually value. Let’s be honest about what we want, what we need and what we will sacrifice for. Let’s take my friend’s advice and remember what we value most, even when it scares us or leads us to a choice others would not endorse. It is lonely to stand alone, but it is devastating to ourselves and others when we don’t even pause to take a stand at all.