Richard Jewell and Our Era of Fear

I usually try to tread carefully in the motives department, so when I read today of Richard Jewell’s death I tried to pull back from asking what in the world motivated his accusers. Jewell was the hero of the park bombing in Atlanta during the 1996 Olympics. Jewell spotted a suspicious looking bag and began moving people away from it, likely saving many lives. One died and 111 were injured.
Jewell wasn’t at the park in any official capacity. He chose to be alert, get involved and take action—which is what made the police suspicious. Most of us are trained to mind our own business, especially in a crowd. But Jewell was minding other people’s business. That led to questions: “What was Jewell really doing that day in the park?”
How did Jewell go from hero to suspect? Fear tells most the story. Fear and the pressure it brings to find quick answers. Looking back from deep within the decade of fear, it’s clear the potential for today was building even then. President Bush and his friends didn’t create this slinking sense of vulnerability, but after 9-11 they saw their ticket to ride and they rode roughshod.
Fear at its heart is nothing more than lost faith. Sometimes, of course, it’s appropriate, but this national cloud is not. You’d think that in a nation packed with self-confessed Christians, selling such a package would be difficult. Jesus put his feelings very simply: “Fear not; only believe.” But apparently it’s still a good pitch. In fact, for many of the new White House wannabes fear is still the favorite sales tool.
Richard Jewell didn’t fear that day, he cared—enough to put himself at risk for others. Governors and the Attorney General apologized to him and we can learn from him. Courage, I believe, is standard equipment in the basic Christian package. Without it faith is impossible. We hold the key to ending this nervous era: “… perfect love casts out fear.” That’s John’s first letter. That’s Jesus. That is us.

"Be the Change You Want to See ..."

Whenever possible I like to spin my blog comments off messages sent to me by friends. It cuts the chance of running on with subjects no one else cares about.
Early in the morning Monday a friend sent an e-mail, subject line: “Gonzales.” It turned out to be an online NY Times article. Breaking news: “Embattled Attorney General Resigns.” I knew my friend wasn’t shedding tears.
Also yesterday, an e-mail from one of my pastors, Esther Robinson—a forward of info on our local celebration of “International Day of Peace,” scheduled annually for Sept. 21. We’re meeting in a local park for a night of interfaith prayer, meditation and music of the harp and flute, along with the beating of peace drums.
It would be easy enough to draw a link between the peace drum and Gonzales succumbing to a drumbeat of criticism, his sins including involvement with the President in reversing the tide of civilization regarding the treatment of people in our physical custody. In law enforcement they use the phrase, “care and custody,” but with the help of Gonzales’ legal sophistry Bush managed to eliminate the concept of “care.” If you’re in our custody, we don’t care about the rules. “We’ll tell you the rules.”
It would be easy enough, but the truth is Gonzales is just another enabler in all this, and in a smaller way so are we all. These guys in the White House—the President’s MBA aside—run the country more like the mob that a Fortune 500 company. These are action guys and people like that. If they need something done, they don’t ask, “can we?” They just do it. And as Gonzales was helping rewrite Geneva the voices in opposition simply weren’t being heard.
The United Nations established the International Day of Peace in 1981, and calls for a cease-fire in all wars worldwide that day. The purpose is to “encourage peace and non-violence” and to help build “Cultures of Peace.” The e-mail included a quote from Gandhi that helps explain how to reach that difficult summit: “Be the change you wish to see in the world,” Gandhi said. It really is that simple. We can’t afford to have our voices go unheard any longer.