Many years ago, my wife and I were called upon to counsel a
married couple in our church. They were always fighting, never at peace,
struggling to raise two small children in a troubled household. Week after week
we met with them, trying to understand where all of the hostility came from.
Surely there was something that led them to fall in love in the first place,
right?
Finally one night as were enjoying dinner at their house, it happened: out of nowhere, she told us
all about his extramarital affair from several years before. As if it was
funny, as if it was normal conversation fodder for a casual meal. I looked at Ruth;
she looked at me. We nodded; it was time for us to speak up.
“Betty, do you realize how much you insult your husband? It
seems to come so naturally for you, and you do it all the time.”
Immediately her cheerful demeanor changed, and she began to
recite a long litany of his sins. Mostly petty household stuff: the sock on the
floor, the dish in the sink, the long nights at the office without a call. She
probably could have gone on all night. What could I say? How could I rescue
this conversation from careening out of control? Without thinking, I opened my
mouth, and this is what came out:
“Excuse me? Betty? The issues are not the issue.” (Yes, I
too had to pause for a moment to ponder what I had just said. Huh?)
She was incredulous. “How can you defend him?”
“Betty, all of those things might be true. But the problem
here is not the sock or the dish or the call. The problem us that you’re
selfish. The problem is that you can’t forgive. The problem is you don’t love
each other. You’d rather hold the grudge, than to actually solve the problem.”
Dead silence for about a minute. Apparently, we hit a nerve.
As it turned out, that night marked the beginning of a true reconciliation in
their marriage.
Fast forward about fifteen years, and I’m watching the news
coverage about the riots in Ferguson. Why are these people running in the
streets and looting stores and torching police cars?
“The police don’t respect us.”
“Whitey got away with it again.”
“Not enough black people on the jury.”
“Michael’s parents lost their baby.”
I figure, all of those things might be true. But the issue
of the moment is not the real issue. Say what you want about racism or injustice
or whatever. These things are beyond dispute:
Michael robbed a store and roughed up the owner.
He taunted a cop.
He had no respect for authority, or for the property of
others.
His friends didn’t love him enough to restrain him.
Forensic evidence proved that much of the testimony from
witnesses was not true.
The cop didn’t go looking for trouble; the trouble came to
him.
Al Sharpton is not your friend. He incited a riot, then feigned
indignation when it happened. He gets more satisfaction from defending a thug,
than from preventing a child from becoming one. He would rather hold the
grudge, than to actually solve the problem.
Did the policeman do something wrong? Maybe. Did the grand
jury make a mistake? Perhaps. Are there racists in Ferguson? Certainly. But they’re
not the ones who burned down their city.
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