HEELCATCHER

On February 14, 2018, Nikolas Cruz walked into his former school in Parkland, Florida armed with an AR-15 semiautomatic weapon and a desire to kill.

17 people…brave teachers and innocent high school students…seven of them 14 years old…died.

I can't wrap my mind around the loss of 17 lives, killed in such a senseless, violent way. As a parent of three teenagers and a 12-year old, I can't imagine what my kids would go through…mentally, emotionally, spiritually…if they were exposed to such a mass shooting in their midst. The event would change their lives, skew their view of the world, and create nightmares that they may never be able to shake.

And if any of them were a victim of such an event, as a parent, I am not sure how I would react, respond, or recover.

Putting myself in the shoes of those in Parkland, Florida is a terrifying thought.

Ironically, and perhaps intentionally, the shooting occured on Valentine's Day, a day in which we are called to celebrate and express love.

That day was also Ash Wednesday, a day in which we are to remember our sinfulness and mortality and are called to repent.

A tragedy of this magnitude should call all of us to stop, reflect, and come together in a time of mourning.

As humans, we are all mortal. We are all vulnerable. We are all in this together.

Instead we have become such a polarized culture that even tragedy doesn't bring us together.

It actually moves us further apart.

We retreat to our respective political and ideological corners. Blame the other side. Defend our own position. And grow more angry, cynical, and divided.

Instead of being "quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to anger," we become the opposite…closed to listening, quick to argue, and enflamed in anger.

As I listen to the arguments about gun control or gun rights, I realize that there is truth on both sides. A 19 year old with mental health issues should not have access to an AR-15. If I was a parent whose child just got killed by a semi-automatic weapon, I would want to ban them too. I would also want greater security and the ability to protect myself from those who have a desire to kill. I would want the FBI to do a better job of following up on warning signs. I would want better mental health services. I would want more respect for life, less broken homes, less violence in the media, less lawlessness, and more kindness.

I would want any potential situation in the world that would have prevented this tragedy.

I would want my child back.

But in the midst of the loss, I think more than anything I would want the tragedy to mean something. I want would it to lead to some meaningful change, to bring together a divided nation in common repentance and resolve.

Whether we want to admit it or not, we are all part of the problem. Yes, Nikolas Cruz bears the culpability alone for the murderous choices he made. But he is a part of our humanity, a part of our culture, and his crime reveals something about the state of our human hearts.

Jesus said:  “You have heard that it was said to those of old, ‘You shall not murder; and whoever murders will be liable to judgment.’ But I say to you that everyone who is angry with his brother will be liable to judgment; whoever insults his brother will be liable to the council; and whoever says, ‘You fool!’ will be liable to the hell of fire (Matthew 5:21-22).

At the root of murder is an angry, hateful, desensitized, dehumanizing heart.

When I insult or curse another human being, I say that their life has no value in the eyes of God. I raise myself up above them. I begin to think that my life would be better off if they were not a part of it.

My anger contributes to a toxic culture…and a toxic culture breeds toxic individuals.

But what comes out of the mouth proceeds from the heart, and this defiles a person. For out of the heart come evil thoughts, murder, adultery, sexual immorality, theft, false witness, slander (Matthew 15:18-19).

Ultimately the tragedy that occured in Parkland, Florida is not a political issue. It is a heart issue.

Laws can curb some evil but they cannot cure the human heart.

That's what repentance is for.

That's the meaning of Ash Wednesday.

There is a God. We are made in His image. We have sinned against Him. We are accountable to Him. We are mortal.

And we need His grace.

We need a Savior.

Our nation now scoffs when God or prayer are brought up in the midst of tragedy. Such "religious wishful thinking" seems meaningless to a prideful, self-autonomous, contemptuous culture.

But that is part of the problem.

We are too angry to weep. Too proud to see our need.

Perhaps the words of a president in the midst of our nation's most divided, violent, and tragic time can still speak to us today.

Whereas it is the duty of nations as well as of men to own their dependence upon the overruling power of God, to confess their sins and transgressions in humble sorrow, yet with assured hope that genuine repentance will lead to mercy and pardon, and to recognize the sublime truth, announced in the Holy Scriptures and proven by all history, that those nations only are blessed whose God is the Lord;

And, insomuch as we know that by His divine law nations, like individuals, are subjected to punishments and chastisements in this world, may we not justly fear that the awful calamity of civil war which now desolates the land may be but a punishment inflicted upon us for our presumptuous sins, to the needful end of our national reformation as a whole people?

We have been the recipients of the choicest bounties of Heaven; we have been preserved these many years in peace and prosperity; we have grown in numbers, wealth, and power as no other nation has ever grown.

But we have forgotten God. We have forgotten the gracious hand which preserved us in peace and multiplied and enriched and strengthened us, and we have vainly imagined, in the deceitfulness of our hearts, that all these blessings were produced by some superior wisdom and virtue of our own. Intoxicated with unbroken success, we have become too self-sufficient to feel the necessity of redeeming and preserving grace, too proud to pray to the God that made us.

It behooves us, then, to humble ourselves before the offended Power, to confess our national sins, and to pray for clemency and forgiveness.

(Abraham Lincoln, Proclamation 97—Appointing a Day of National Humiliation, Fasting, and Prayer, March 30, 1863)

O Lord, comfort the hearts of those grieving. Give them a peace beyond understanding and a hope beyond this cruel world. Give me a humble heart that grieves with them. Forgive our sins as a people. And please heal our land.

Another mass shooting. 59 dead. Over 500 wounded.

You simply can’t wrap your mind around it.

One tragic death radically changes the lives of countless people. Spouses gone. Fathers and mothers killed. Brothers and sisters taken away. Friends lost.

The repercussions are almost endless. The ripples touch generations to come.

The responses are predictable. Gun control. Mental health. Politics. Religion. Posturing. Blameshifting. Speculating.

Everyone has an opinion. Social media provides the platform. Divisions increase. Animosity grows. But the loss remains.

In the wake of such a senseless, sickening tragedy, prayer is the appropriate response. Though many dismiss prayer as a waste of time, there are times when all we can do is pray.

Prayer is a way of saying…that this tragedy is beyond comprehension, that there are some things outside our control, that the loss is real, that our hearts are knit together with those suffering, that the only comfort for those who have lost loved ones is for there to be life, purpose, and meaning outside this cruel world.

Prayer humbles us, unites us, opens us up to the strength and grace of God.

There is a time for discourse. A time for civil debate. But we must avoid the tendency to throw out simple, all-encompassing solutions. Banning certain types of guns is a worthy discussion but an honest conversation must also include the breakdown of the family, the abdication of fatherhood, the promulgation of violence as entertainment, the loss of respect for human life, the glorification of lawlessness, the increase of anxiety and depression, the widespread use of drugs, a postmodern culture where “everyone does what is right in their own eyes,” and the simple evil of the human heart.

But now is not the time to argue.

Now is not the time to retreat to our ideological corners to cast stones at one another.

Now is the time to pray.

To acknowledge our humanity.

To weep with those who weep.

To realize our weakness and mortality.

To wrestle with suffering.

To ask for God’s wisdom.

To seek God’s comfort.

To receive God’s grace.

An unwillingness to bend the knee before God reveals a mind convinced that it has all the answers. A heart hardened in self-sufficiency. A will determined not to yield.

As Abraham Lincoln proclaimed in the midst of the devastation and division of the Civil War.

We have grown in numbers, wealth and power, as no other nation has ever grown. But we have forgotten God. We have forgotten the gracious hand which preserved us in peace, and multiplied and enriched and strengthened us; and we have vainly imagined, in the deceitfulness of our hearts, that all these blessings were produced by some superior wisdom and virtue of our own. Intoxicated with unbroken success, we have become too self-sufficient to feel the necessity of redeeming and preserving grace, too proud to pray to the God that made us.

A culture too proud to pray soon becomes too self-focused to care.

So humble yourself and pray.

Pray for those who are injured.

Pray for those fighting for their lives.

Pray for those mourning the loss of loved ones.

Pray for Las Vegas.

Pray for our nation.

Pray that once again, in the face of tragedy, we will be one nation under God.

I fight tears.

I am not sure why.

There is something that feels dangerous about tears. Uncontrollable. You fear that if you start you may not be able to stop.

But when the tears come, it has a way of cleansing my soul. Reminding me that I am still human. That my heart is not numb…cold…dead.

This has been a hard week.

Sitting at the bedside of a woman who has wasted away because of cancer. Face sunken. Hair gone. Body reduced to skin and bones. You can't run away from the reality of death. It is ugly…cruel…unstoppable. Yet she manages a smile while I read Scripture.

Jesus is the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down His life for His sheep. He knows His sheep by name and no one can snatch them out of His hand.

She looks up with eyes that know her time is near. And she tries to sing.

My heart breaks.

A few hours later she is gone.

Before I can stop to process the day, another tragedy hits.

A husband, father, and new grandfather. A man who beams joy when you see him. A man who has faced the harsh realities of life…the loss of everything in a flood, financial difficulties, uncertainties…with grace and a smile.

Missing. Then found. Robbed. Shot. Killed.

While sitting alone in a park journaling.

Journaling. Thinking. Reflecting. Praying.

But seen as a target by those without regard for life.

A family shocked, shaken, grieving.

How do you process this? Where do you go?

The world is unsafe. We are vulnerable.

Do you run and hide?

Shake your fist at the world? At others? At God?

Or do you weep?

The tears come at odd times. One moment you are speaking. The next you are grieving…weeping…crying.

But somehow in the tears there is a sense of relief. Release. Peace.

Perhaps it is our fighting of tears that leads to our fighting with one another.

We don't know how to lament. Anger feels more natural. More appropriate. More powerful.

We fight tears because we fight our own weakness. Our mortality. Our vulnerability.

But we are weak. We are mortal. We are vulnerable.

Who are we kidding? Ourselves?

Tears remind us of reality. They remind us that life is short. That evil exists. That suffering happens. That something is desperately wrong with this world.

Tears point us to hope.

We sorrow but not as others who have no hope (1 Thessalonians 4:13).

We have a hope that transcends the grave, of a coming kingdom, of a coming King.

We have a Savior that has entered our world, shared our suffering, carried our sin, defeated our death.

A Savior who wept…and one day will wipe away our tears.

Even so, come, Lord Jesus.

My oldest son is home from college. We are all together again as a family. Sitting around the dinner table, the stories begin to flow. Each of us has a story. Memories. Mostly funny. Sometimes embarrassing. But all of them told in a way that is intended to make us laugh, connect, and remember.

After the stories are told, our family feels closer…tighter…stronger.

That is the power of stories.

What we remember. How we remember. And how we tell them.

It is our stories that shape us, form us, give us identity…as individuals, married couples, families, churches, communities, and even nations.

I think of a newspaper.

There are literally a million stories that happen every day but the newspaper picks a few stories to tell. And those stories have a way of shaping how we view the world around us.

I think about my own life.

I am almost 49. Just doing the math, I have lived approximately 17850 days (give or take a few days because I don't have time to figure out leap years). If you guesstimate that an average day includes at least 100 different events, then there are probably two million possible stories that I could remember in my life. But I only remember a limited number. I could call these the "significant events" of my life but they are also the events that I have revisited in my mind, that I have interpreted, and that I have retold…to myself and probably to others…often with pictures, both real and in my imagination.

These are the stories that shape me, that become the basis of how I view myself, my life, and others in my life.

Think about your own life, your marriage, your family, your church, your community. What stories do you remember? What stories do you revisit? What stories do you tell? Whatever they are, they have shaped you and often form the basis of your identity.

So it is imperative that we remember well.

Not only remember well but interpret well.

Some memories can't be forgotten. Some stories have to be told. But how we remember, how we interpret, and how we tell them is up to us.

The Bible is full of stories, events in the history of humanity that have been chosen to be told.

The Bible does not ignore difficult, tragic stories. In fact, many are bothered by the "R-rated" nature and graphic stories of sacred Scripture.

But the Bible couches every story in a bigger story. Even the most sordid and shocking are remembered, interpreted, and told in a certain way…a redemptive way. They are meant to point to something bigger. They are meant to create a thirst for something better. They are meant to lift our eyes to something more beautiful.

The four Gospels all lead up to and focus on one story. The story of an innocent Man being falsely accused, betrayed, abandoned, beaten, and crucified, the most shameful and painful way that the Romans could devise for a man to die.

An odd story to remember and to tell.

Unless one sees it and interprets it within the bigger story.

The story of redemption.

The story of a love that cannot be fathomed.

The story of a God who entered our world to die for us and to graft us into His story.

And that's the story that all of us should tell.