He has told you, O mortal, what is good;
    and what does the Lord require of you
but to do justice, and to love kindness,
    and to walk humbly with your God? Micah 6:8

In January, Ruth Harder, pastor at Rainbow Mennonite Church in Kansas City, Kan., asked five people in her congregation to reflect on the meaning and impact of Micah 6:8 in their lives. What follows are three of those reflections; another was published in the March issue of The Mennonite magazine. 

Do Justly. Love Mercy. Walk Humbly.

Renee Reimer is the Youth Program Director at Rainbow Mennonite Church. 

Immediately, the sound of Patty Shelly’s voice runs across my mind as she sings, “God has shown you, oh people, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you. But to do justly, love mercy, walk humbly with your God.”(Micah Song by Patricia Shelly)

I first heard this song sitting in chapel my freshman year at Bethel College and was amazed at how being able to sing this text brought a whole new meaning to Micah 6:8.

If you know me well, you know that my passion for the love of the world is great; almost too great in some cases. My mind often lives in this utopia world where all races, religions, and cultures live together in peace and harmony. A world where there is a roof for every human being and everyone has enough food on their table. I was once told that this “utopia world” dream I have was unrealistic. In my head I was thinking, “Well, I will show you!” On the outside, I smiled and tried to show a little love.

But folks, there is a fire in my belly that will not rest until this corrupt world walks together. One day I will figure out how to support myself by traveling the world singing songs of love and peace and the world will see that this life is possible.

I felt this fire for the first time 5 years ago on my trip to Israel/Palestine.

Amidst the conflict, I heard stories of people saying they do not have the privilege of losing hope. “Our blood is the same color. Our pain is the same pain.” How can I then, someone so sheltered and privileged, lose hope?

Following this life-changing journey to the Holy Land I came across the script, My Name is Rachel Corrie, which consists of writings by Rachel Corrie, a peace activist who worked in Gaza. Rachel Corrie’s words gave a voice to the feelings I had no idea of how to express.

“For a long time I’ve been operating from a certain core assumption that we are all essentially the same inside, and that our differences are by and large situational. I know there is a good chance that this assumption is actually false. But it’s convenient, because it always leads to questions about the way privilege shelters people from consequences of their actions. It’s also convenient because it leads to some level of forgiveness, whether justified or not.”
– Rachel Corrie

I had the honor of sharing the collection of Rachel Corrie’s words with others in January of 2013, two years following my return from the Holy Land, and the following summer on a special tour to various churches and the Mennonite Church USA convention.

I tell you all this because this was my journey to permanently having this text engraved on my foot, my broken foot for that matter.

This tattoo is my constant reminder to not loose hope despite school, work, life, and the everyday struggles I may face in life. This is a reminder that with every step I take, I do so with love. To step humbly on this journey. To constantly seek the justice of the world, beyond the daily tasks I have laid out in front of me.

At the end of a long day, I take off my socks and see this text and think, tomorrow is another day to practice spreading hope, love, and peace. The word practice implies with intention, not perfect, so that I may continue to strive to spread that love.

As I embark on my next journey overseas, I not only carry these words in my heart, but also on my walking foot.

A year of mercy

Diane Richardson Spaite attends Rainbow Mennonite Church.

Confession: I started singing about “doing justice, loving mercy and walking humbly” with many other Steven Curtis Chapman fans who loved his song “The Walk” when it was released in 1996. While the 90’s pop Christian hit admittedly had catchy feel, there was something about the words which evoked a sobering reverence within my 15-year old being.

For as long as I can remember, there’s been a yearning deep within me to surround myself with people who can teach me about justice. It’s mattered so much to me at times I’ve even put myself in the judge’s seat, assuming I know the absolutes about complex world issues or earthy human relationships. In an effort to earn my own righteousness rather than welcome others, I’ve often put intentional distance between myself and anyone I perceived as having wealth, power or affluence.

However, in the past year, my life has taken a surprising turn. Unexpected medical concerns and limited job possibilities in my fields of interest/passion landed me in a full-time job for what I would consider “corporate America,” interacting regularly with those whose primary motivator is financial gain. I’ve gone from working solely in urban areas among families struggling to make ends meet to being surrounded by people who have intentionally made choices to remove themselves from being reminded others live in poverty.

This abrupt change has brought deep grief but it has also pushed me to seek God in new ways and to dig deeper into the well of mercy I find myself so desperately in need of.

Mother Teresa says this: 

We have no right to judge the rich. For our part, what we desire is not a class struggle but a class encounter, in which the rich save the poor and the poor save the rich.

Thankfully, along the way I’ve had the gift of a regular prayer companion who I connected with through the Ignatian Spirituality Center here in Kansas City. The center is focused on spiritual direction, following in the ways of Ignatius and learning to find God in our everyday lives. Through this experience, I sense something beginning to shift within my relationships with my co-workers and interactions with wealthy clients. I’m starting to feel less inclined to climb up in the judge’s chair and a softening in my spirit.

I believe both the rich and the poor are created in the image of God. And as someone who was born into this world with privilege in ways I never chose for myself, I am really hopeful God’s mercy is also for me.

This year the Pope has declared it to be a global year of Jubilee. In the Pope’s 12-page paper called “The Face of Mercy,” he says: “And, what is it that ‘God likes most?’ Forgiving his children, having mercy on them, in order that they may, in their turn, forgive their brothers and sisters, shining as torches of God’s mercy in the world…”

These words have brought me hope and encouragement to continue to persist in love, looking for ways in which I can participate in God’s restorative justice, refining mercy and revolutionary humility smack dab in the middle of a company working towards the creation, protection and increase of personal wealth.

The profoundness of Scripture and the prophets to me is this: along with the wake-up call delivered to the people, there is always a redemptive path to bring the people back to right relationship and communion with Love. The judge and Micah, as spokespersons for this mysterious God, speak with purifying conviction and simultaneously offer a gracious invitation of restoration.

If God is truly about redemptive justice in the world, and we are invited to participate, then it only seems fitting we may find ourselves in the oddest of places, creating outposts of invitation even for those who appear to have it all.

How much justice is enough?

Joshua Chittum attends Rainbow Mennonite Church. 

Last week I toured the United Nations Headquarters in New York City before attending a work conference in the heart of Manhattan. Within the UN’s vast complex our tour guide led us through an exhibit that spotlighted the injustices of the world: military expenditures dwarfing humanitarian aide; the fact that it is cheaper to take a life with a landmine than to save one from the same device; artwork from the Arab world highlighting the beauty of cultures outside our own, while fearmongers ravish the senses.

Displayed on a black pedestal, standing with the weight of witness on her shoulders, was Saint Agnes, who was discovered beneath the rubble of a cathedral destroyed by the Fat Boy bomb in Nagasaki, Japan. Her entire backside from head to toe was charred and molted. I looked into her eyes and tried to imagine the unimaginable. Feel the force of the shock wave that knocked her to the ground. See the sacred space crumbling around her. Touch the heat of her enflamed exterior.

I longed to stay in her presence–this representation of destroyed lives, of decimating the sacred, of pure injustice. But the tour guide ushered us along and time would not allow me to stand face to face with her any longer.

It’s just like life. Take a fleeting look at injustice and then move on as if nothing happened. But that day, standing beneath a stone saint, a tantrum began to brew that was not satisfied with pushing aside all the pain of the past and the present.

Intensifying my temper was a quote by a former UN General Secretary. Painted in black letters on a white wall it stated the mission of the UN not “to take humanity to heaven, but save humanity from hell.” The hurt of the words slowed my step. Though I cannot succinctly define justice, merely avoiding hell does not come close to sufficiency.

Prone to slide into places where there is more darkness than light, my mind did just that. I thought of the people in the world and their individuals hells. The wars. The bombs. The landmines. The limbs missing. The fleeing. The drowning. The hate. I then thought of the families and children experiencing homelessness that I work with in my day job. I thought of their struggles. The mental illness. The violence. The addiction. The hopelessness. And I began to agonize over whether we have succeeded in saving humanity from hell.

This angst and obsession stayed with me throughout my time in New York. I struggled with feelings of ineptness in my role, in my organization, my community, and this world. The face of Saint Agnes stared at me as I wandered the city streets. She spoke to me. She told me to do something, to throw a tantrum if I must. Just as long as I didn’t allow that moment standing before her to become fleeting, to become forgotten.

Meanwhile, I tried to focus on the learning I was sent to do at the conference. But the injustice of children seeing their dreams disintegrate through no fault of their own kept spinning in my heart and mind. The absurd shortcomings of our actions dug its way into my ear and played an unsettling tune. The lavish fundraisers. The Christmas present handouts. The warm fuzzies for those privileged to feel them in their bellies. The nonprofit industrial complex.

So very little of any of this creates justice. So few lives are allowed to live according to their dreams. There’s just the monotony of derelict lots and police chasings. Of lost hope and a competition for the one who hurts the most. I swore at the bromides to get through the day. I don’t care about a single starfish any longer. I only care about the millions dying along the shore. I don’t care about the planting of one, little seed. I only care that so much land is barren to begin with.

Listening to all this in my mind – stuck in a city not known for its tranquility – my clinical anxiety pinned me to the mat. Fantastical worries about evil gods and falling worlds; the mirror reflected nothing but weakness and impotence. How can I move a grain of sand, yet alone come up with a plan that will act for true justice, rather than spin in place inside a rusted, wired wheel?

I returned to Kansas City drenched in hopelessness. I continued my work on this blog. I rewrote it. I overwrote it. I wrote it again. The message remained vaguely defiant, yet helpless without a plan, except my desire to rage.

Still, there was a deadline and though I wasn’t completely satisfied in them, I shared the words. In return, I was heard. And comfort was shared with me. It took a few days, but that simple act placed a candle back in my hand. The wick is still not lit. But it was the mercy of another that gave me back what I had dropped. And without that mercy, I’ve realized there can be no justice.

This struggle over the last few weeks stemmed from a place I could not identify until I heard a quote this morning on the On Being podcast. Host Krista Tippet quotes Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel as saying,

“I would say about individuals, an individual dies when he ceases to be surprised…When I see an act of evil, I’m not accommodated… I’m still surprised. That’s why I’m against it, why I can hope against it. We must learn how to be surprised. Not to adjust ourselves. I am the most maladjusted person in society.” (You can listen to the full episode here: The Spiritual Audacity of Abraham Joshua Heschel.)

I fear that someday I will become well adjusted to injustice. I fear that with that adjustment I will no longer be able to act for its demise. I fear that Saint Agnes’ face will be forgotten. I fear that I will give up when the world seems less interested in ending justice and more interested in pleasures. Mercy was the only way to help me through this.

Even if we have failed or fail in the future and find ourselves in the darkness of hell, only together can we find stones to strike and create a spark for light. With that light comes the hope that even if everything we did was wrong today, tomorrow we may be grow closer to getting it right.