Solidarity

It has been a rough week in the neighborhood. People I love are going through some real stuff, and I’m feeling the weight of the onslaught of trauma. As a person inclined to be a “helper,” it’s difficult for me to sit back and watch things unfold without directly involving myself, and as a person with intuitive empathy, it’s difficult to not absorb other’s experiences directly into my own person.

Lately I’ve been questioning why I’ve chosen to live in an environment that can be high chaos, unpredictable, and overall intense. I’m questioning this not because I don’t see the value in living where I do, but because I don’t see how my presence changes anything or will change anything even if I stay here for decades. There will still be chaos, there will still be unpredictability, and things will still be intense in my community with or without me living there.

It sounds a bit like a “white-savior complex,” but maybe it’s more appropriate to call it a “helper-savior complex.” Although I am white, I think what I’m walking through in this has more to do with my “helper” identity, rather than the reality that I’m white (although I’m sure there’s an intersection in those two factors).

Why would one choose to immerse themselves in pain? Why would one choose to be in pain just to be in pain when one sees that helping will never alleviate it?

Deep down, I guess I think that my presence somehow will stop pain, as if I’m the Messiah. Logically I know I’m not, but my heart is so inclined to step on this helper-savior pedestal.

The Lord is still doing a work in my heart, humbling my person to its rightful place as “not-Messiah” and freeing me up to rest in the tension rather than trying to change the tension. But it is a journey. And it’s a spiritual journey I see myself being on for the rest of my life, which is simultaneously overwhelming and encouraging.

When I look at Jesus, I see One who willingly chose to enter the world—a world that in comparison to where He came was full of trauma. In this I feel a confirmation in my choice to enter living life alongside the marginalized (the powerful unseen) in my context by living in Summit Lake. Some days I don’t know why I’m living in my community, but some days I realize that there’s something in doing so that is deep beyond what I have words for quite yet.

When Jesus entered the pain of the people, I notice that many times He was simply there. His presence was enough. His listening and standing witness to the pain was enough. As I continue to live life alongside my neighbors, live life alongside movements towards justice and just-ness, I ache to get to a place where I can rest in my presence being enough, even as the pain may/will continue.