The point that this speaker made was that, in justice work (as well as in other realms, I'd add), we often put too much emphasis on love. We are moved towards justice because we love the other. We are compelled to help the needy because we love the one in need. Or, so we say. It's a potent idea, but it falls short because of a difficult, not often acknowledged complication.
There are a lot of people whom I don't love.
I'm not just being sarcastic; I'm being quite honest. There are a lot of people out there towards whom I don't feel love. There are the people that I know whom I dislike, of course. But, there are literally billions of people whom I've never met, to whom I don't have the faintest connection (beyond the proverbial "7 degrees" by which we are all connected). I can say that I love them. But, can I look you in the eye and tell you that, really, I love them? I understand that my Christian friends and colleagues might approach this differently, and might understand love as a more basic, fundamental aspect of existence. But, to me, to someone who relates to love as a deep, personal, actual relationship with another, I can't honestly claim that I love people I don't know.
But, I can honestly tell you that I respond to their pain.
When I see a child suffering on TV, I don't know that child, so I can't really tell you that I love them. But, I can see that they're in pain, and I can be moved by that pain. In my experience, that's an honest claim--I am moved by pain, even when I don't know that one that is in pain. The truth is, that I'm even moved by the pain of people I hate. I can honestly say that I don't wish pain on anyone, and if I saw someone I actively disliked in pain, I'd be moved to try to help them. My love has limits; my response to pain doesn't seem to.
The trick, of course, is to actually see the pain. To be willing to look--both in the sense of being willing to watch and read and listen to the hard stories, which I want to avoid, because they cause me pain, as well as to acknowledge that, whatever else I think, that pain is real. That acknowledgement keeps me from saying "you deserve it" to someone who doesn't agree with me on politics, or religion, or whatever else. That's part of the power of pain, and of responding to it--pain doesn't know of tribalism, or of politics, or of identity groups. Pain, and the humanity of the one in pain, precede these categories, and so it affects me before I can wall it off with a sense of "otherness."
I don't want to get too overtly political, but it's impossible here. So, let me just dive in. To take one current example, I'm sure that many/most people reading this aren't in favor of building a wall along our southern border, and that some of you are. I guess there's an intelligent debate to be had about that practical policy question. But, whatever you think about walls, or The Wall, or immigrants, or refugees, we have to be able to recognize the pain of the real people who are involved in this. The pain of people who are running for their lives is real, and it must be acknowledged, and it must be responded to. And, the pain of people who fear for the jobs or their lives (even if I firmly believe that their jobs and their lives aren't actually in danger from these immigrants) is real, too, and it must be acknowledged, and it must be responded to.
I'm thinking as I'm writing, as I often do when I blog, and I think I just got to the point. Even if I disagree with the cause or the philosophy or the belief which is behind your pain, I can't honestly deny that you are in pain. And, if I'm human, I'll want that pain to end. I may not be able to make it so, but I want to try.
I want your pain to end. That, just maybe, is the wellspring of justice.
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