SOME PEOPLE SEEM to relish being described as “prophetic voices.” I’ve never enjoyed being called that. Old Testament prophets seem rather lonely and cranky, and, despite some of the things I write, I am not cranky after I have my coffee.
I wanted to write this column with more levity, more joy, and more hope. My first upbeat draft didn’t feel quite right, a bit forced, but I submitted it—trying to honor the deadline and ignoring my gut that was telling me the words didn’t match my heart.
Hours later, white supremacists marched at the University of Virginia carrying Tiki torches and shouting Nazi slogans.
Joy has not been erased, but it certainly takes discipline to see and enjoy it deeply. What is closer to the surface is a loneliness that echoes what I have read in the experiences of prophets.
After Charlottesville, my spouse and I made an effort to connect, to comfort and be comforted in the presence of other Christ-followers, to worship, lament, praise, and take communion with other Christians in the pews of what has been our home church for the past decade. We did not go to church as “prophets,” though I suppose my “Black Lives Matter” shirt carried a distinct message. It was a proclamation and an invitation. It was a way to tell our sisters and brothers in church that recent events of racial violence were making us cry out in pain, anger, confusion, and sadness and that we wanted desperately to join and be joined by others.
I tried to find the hope when the pastor spoke about evil and racial violence—but I was left exhausted when the preaching stopped short of clearly naming Charlottesville, white supremacy, and racism. I was expecting, at the very least, a preacher ready to clearly identify evil and love, and instead we heard fear—fear to name the sin of slavery, the sin of racism, the sin of white supremacy, the sin of staying silent.
I didn’t expect the congregation to march into the streets, but what a hopeful surprise that would’ve been. No. My hopes are tempered and, perhaps, the bar lowered. I certainly expected marching orders: Go read this book, go meet new people, go talk with people with whom you don’t share political or even religious viewpoints.
My spouse and I left feeling lonely and empty, which I realized is the place from which I wrote that faux-hopeful first draft of a column.
Today I realized I had set the bar so low that the words I expect from others and the words that came out of myself were unbecoming of a Christian. Expecting the bare minimum not only of myself but also of the church is an insult. I don’t think “fake it until you make it” is the message of the church, but that’s what I tried to do. That is what we are asking the church to do when we set the bar so low that it is no different from any political, governmental, or business system.
We are not all prophets with a capital “P,” but the church is supposed to be prophetic. As Christians, we are supposed to speak and live into that. Let’s stop faking it. Let’s own the sin, the anger, the sadness, the loneliness, and the despair as well as the hope, the joy, and the peace. That feels much more honest.
Kathy Khang is a writer, speaker, and coffee-drinker in the north suburbs of Chicago. She is the author of Raise Your Voice (InterVarsity Press, 2018).
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