The Way of Witness
Like many, I am feeling overwhelmed by current affairs news that throws grenade after grenade and threatens to obliterate me. On one level, I rationalize that “‘twas ever thus.” After all, it’s not like we haven’t been here before and somehow, we have always come through. Yet, right now, that’s not helping and it’s scant comfort. In the moments when the grenades land, I want to shout, “how long O Lord” and echo the Psalmist’s cry, knowing I am in good company, but what comes out instead is, “Not again. Please God. Not. Again.” I know it’s not a super spiritual answer but I’m not a super spiritual person. Plus, I’m practicing owning how I actually feel. Yes, kingdoms come and kingdoms fall. Sure…sure…sure, great in a sermon and factually accurate, but what solace is that right now to the people huddled in their homes, waiting for the knock on the door? Or to the kid frightened to go to school in case some bully tells them to “go home” or worse, they go home and mum and dad aren’t there. Try saying that to the family starving from withheld aid, or the parents of the person shot because they showed up on behalf of the marginalized and the scapegoated.
“Not again. Please God. Not. Again,” seems the appropriate lament - at least for me.
So here I am, feeling engulfed and wondering how to respond.
My default - and I’m embarrassed to admit to this, is to put up a wall so I can’t see. The best thing is to turn away and stick my fingers in my ears. What you don’t know can’t hurt you, right? And let’s face it, there are times when we must retreat. We must limit our intake of bad news so we can take some gasping breaths and fill our lungs for another day. Yet I know that permanent non-engagement is not a solution. The whistles of the grenades will make their way into my world even if I only hear them from a distance.
An alternative to blissful ignorance is to consume endless amounts of that bad news until I’m numbed into a state of paralysis. In my stupor I can become immune to the awfulness, and I hide behind a different kind of wall. This one allows me to know it all; to rage and shout and contribute nothing that makes any material difference, other than making me feel righteous in my echo chamber. In his book, “Faith and Violence,” which, please note, was published in 1968, Thomas Merton wrote, “Today, with the enormous amplification of news and of opinion, we are suffering from more than acceptable distortions of perspective.”
Yep, I hear ya Thomas and I concur.
So if I shouldn’t sit in a safe bunker pretending there are no bombs dropping, nor let the said bombs rain down on my poor defenseless head, what should I do? Is there another way to deal with the shelling of my senses?
I think so.
It’s the way of being a witness.
Maybe, I’m wondering, that can give me a way through blissful ignorance and self-righteous hand-wringing.
Witnessing is not detached observation. That’s looking but not really seeing - a safe perch from which to observe events and people. It provides me with immunity whilst giving the illusion of involvement. Rather, witnessing is - and I’m pondering aloud here - the act of showing up. I think it’s a gaze that scrutinizes beyond the surface. It’s not mere knowledge. It’s communion at the deepest levels where sometimes words are needed, sometimes a move into the trenches and sometimes silence.
When a historian’s research uncovers that which we would rather not know, their witness challenges us to look in the mirror.
When a poet pens words that sear our hearts, their witness invites us to explore what it means to be human, made in the image of God.
When a journalist taps fiercely on their keyboard till the early hours, pulling together fragmented moments into a coherent whole, their witness demands that we move beyond soundbites to really understanding what's happening on the ground.
When a clergy person preaches with courageous conviction, invoking the prophetic voices that echo through the ages and making us squirm in our pews, their witness calls for faithful adherence to righteousness and justice. There is no room for neutrality. We must stand with the oppressed and the weak.
When one person acts against their self-interest and pays the ultimate price, their blood is a deafening witness that resounds across territorial borders, and ignites movements that declare, NO MORE!
When I clasp my hands in wordless prayer, lighting a candle to remind myself that darkness can be dispelled, I open myself to unexpected graces, and I witness to that which is transcendent - beyond and yet oh so near.
As I mull over these acts, each arising from particular vocations, I am realizing that my spiritual direction practice can also teach me about the act of witness. When dear ones lay themselves bare, I commit to never looking away, no matter how hard some stories may be. I commit to gathering each precious moment as it unfurls, cradling it until it is ready to be released. I attend to the deep truths that only emerge in the unflinching companionship of a trusted one. I may wonder after a session whether I have really done anything at all - whether listening and a gentle question is enough. Who hasn’t doubted the worth of their work at some point? But I am reminded after every meeting that there is One who goes before me. One who sees into the hidden heart of things, unearthing what is buried even from ourselves. I am reminded that spiritual direction is a sacred endeavor and so yes, it is enough, more than enough.
So, perhaps there is something that helps me deal with the times in which I find myself. I don’t have to hide in ignorance or feel paralyzed. I can choose the way of witness.