We can rationalize our way out of any move to which our heart calls us.
In Luke 10, Jesus tells the parable of the Good Samaritan to interpret what it means to love “your neighbor as yourself.” On the road from Jerusalem to Jericho, a man falls into the hands of robbers and is stripped, beaten and left for dead. A priest happens upon the wounded man but passes by with, I’m sure, legitimate and rational reasons why he shouldn’t stop. Maybe he’s too busy with other important, godly work. If he stops to help this man, he won’t be able to help those waiting for him down the road. Next, a Levite passes by the wounded man, probably with his own reasons. Maybe the robbers are still around and this is a trap. Will he be ambushed if he stops to help the man? He won’t be good to anyone if he gets hurt. Finally, a Samaritan arrives on the scene and does not steer clear like the others. He crosses the road to reach the man in need because, as Luke says, “he was moved with pity.” A more literal translation of the Greek is “his heart was melting.”
Liberation theologian Gustavo Gutiérrez writes that justice work requires us to love as people of flesh and blood, to love with hearts that melt when we encounter neighbors who are in need. Liberation, Gutiérrez writes, will not come from cold religious obligation or a charitable sense of duty. It will come not from mechanical rationalizations of our mind but from authentic, fleshy, heart connections. God works among us, freeing us, opening our hearts, helping us become more fully human, or humane, through the relationships that grow between neighbors who need the liberation each can offer the other.
When I first started volunteering in a men’s prison fifteen miles from my home in rural Illinois, I didn’t expect to reform our criminal justice system. I honestly didn’t know what I could do or who I could help. The only reason I had for going was a feeling – my heart was calling me in the prison’s direction.
Meeting the incarcerated men, sharing conversation and learning with them was a transformative and liberating experience for me. I could no longer drive by the prison and see it simply as an intimidating cement facility surrounded by barbed wire and chain link fencing. The prison became the place where Juan, Tarek and Rafael spent decades of their lives. Mass incarceration became more than an issue I studied, and criminal justice reform more than a need for which I advocated. These issues had fleshy, heart connections. I cared about the people they directly affected.
I am convicted by the words of Brazilian educator Paulo Freire who said “solidarity requires that one enter into the situation of those with whom one is solidary.” The fear and vulnerability we feel when God calls us across lines of difference is real and can leave us paralyzed on the safe, known side, all too ready to accept every excuse for why we shouldn’t cross. Staying safe on our “side,” though, is not activism, and it is not what our society needs. As Bryan Stevenson, the author of Just Mercy and an influential activist for criminal justice reform, writes, “You’ve got to get proximate to suffering and injustice. It’s just not enough to buy a T-shirt or issue a tweet, and do some of the things that people sometimes do and confuse it for activism that makes a difference.”
I’m excited to share this Outlook issue on prison ministry with you. The articles and stories you will read here personalize a grave injustice within every American community. The United States, our “land of the free,” incarcerates more people than any other country — more than China, more than Russia. Approximately 2.3 million brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers, sons and daughters are locked away in our dehumanizing criminal justice system. There are lots of legitimate, rational reasons why we could ignore this problem and these neighbors in every American community. But we are called to love. We are called to be moved with pity; to make authentic, fleshy, heart connections. I pray this issue of the Outlook inspires you to follow that call.
