Ideas Are Always More Important Than Battles

In 1865, soon after Lincoln’s assasination, anti-slavery Senator Charles Sumner wrote, “Ideas are always more important than battles.” The context was Lincoln’s Gettysburg address, which is now known as one of the most famous speeches of all time. 

Sumner said this:
“That speech, uttered at the field of Gettysburg…and now sanctified by the martyrdom of its author, is a monumental act. In the modesty of his nature he said ‘the world will little note, nor long remember what we say here; but it can never forget what they did here.’ He was mistaken. The world at once noted what he said, and will never cease to remember it. The battle itself was less important than the speech. Ideas are always more important than battles.”

This election feels like a battle. Both sides seek to kill and destroy. Friendships broken, people leaving churches, harsh words posted online that would never be spoken in person. 

I keep hearing the cry of, “But lives are at stake!” Ironically, both sides say this. Unfortunately neither side’s platform encompasses all the lives Christians should care about. Unborn lives. Black lives. Refugee lives. There’s also the environment, which Christians are commanded to steward well. Or the issue of poverty, where each side sees a different strategy (wealth redistribution or creation?). I see Christians drawing the line in the sand, hurling vicious accusations against the other, both sides decrying the other for being immoral, unChristian, uncaring. We are being forced to take a side, and in doing so, fracturing our values and our souls. 

We are faced with impossible choices in this election. No matter who wins, Christians lose something that should be important to them. No matter who wins, we will still have work to do. 

I Get to Vote, but This Still Is Not My Country

I lived as a foreigner through several election cycles in Tanzania. As a foreigner, that meant I had an opinion about elections, but I didn’t expect it to matter very much. I listened to Tanzanian friends give me their view on the candidates, but I stayed relatively objective. My goal was to understand their thoughts because I wanted to understand their hearts. I was there to reach people with the gospel, not get mired down in political arguments. My purpose there was to love all Tanzanians, not take sides. 

My Problem Goes Much Deeper Than Racism

I’m white, educated, and American. Some say I therefore must be racist.

I say my problem is much worse. 

I might give a good impression on the outside, but you can’t see the number of times I’ve truly believed that I am better than you. Sometimes that might be because you are a different race or ethnicity than me, and I think my race or culture is more effective than yours. Or maybe you’re white too, and I still think I’m better because you made a life choice that makes me feel more moral than you. Maybe I assume I have a better perspective than yours.

Christians, Diversity is Not a Bad Word

A favorite memory was the night I heard Victoria tell me her story of growing up in Soviet Ukraine. 

Victoria was a wonderful co-worker at Haven of Peace Academy. So when she sat across from me at a staff dinner at an outdoor restaurant, in the dimming evening light, I asked her to tell me about her childhood under Communism.

What was it like growing up in the Soviet Union? I asked. And I sat spellbound as she talked about a carefree childhood where the children could roam freely, because there was very little crime. However, she said, there were also times when neighbors would disappear in the night, never to be seen or heard from again. 

She talked about her Christian grandmother, who secretly told her about God and gave her a cross pendant to wear under her school uniform. One day a teacher found it, and forced the seven-year-old Victoria to stand in front of the entire school and stomp on that cross.

Leaving Early Has Complicated All the Complicated Emotions of Re-Entry

My youngest has been fascinated with finding places on Google Earth. He recently brought me the iPad and said, “Mommy, help me find HOPAC.” 

My son is in third grade, and Haven of Peace Academy is where he went to school for kindergarten through second grade. But even before that, HOPAC was always a part of his life. It’s where my husband and I ministered for sixteen years. The last three years, it was where I was the elementary school principal. 

I showed him how to type in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. “Here’s downtown, right?” I pointed out. I traced the main road that led to the north of the city. “This is Shoppers Plaza; that’s where we would buy chicken on Saturday nights; this is the White Sands roundabout. Then you turn right here, and see? There’s HOPAC!” 

Together we then traced the road down a little further until we could pick out the house where we had lived for ten years. We zoomed in on it, and a hundred memories rushed out. My eyes grew misty. My finger stopped, hovering there, suspended above our home. Ten thousand miles away, yet so close I could almost touch it.

“I like my new school,” Johnny tells me. “But I like Tanzania better.” Me too, Buddy.

***

I knew there would be grief in leaving. We had planned our departure a year in advance; we knew it was coming. We knew it would be hard. Tanzania had been our home for sixteen years.

But what I can’t figure out is what part of my grief is because we left, and what part of my grief is because we left the way we did. 

***

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