It was perhaps my most embarrassing experience while serving as a bishop. We were in Canterbury, England in 2008, all 800 of us – bishops from across the world, plus spouses and staff, gathered for a three-week gathering called the Lambeth Conference. It was not easy to be together, because we were deeply divided over the issue of human sexuality.
A week in, we took a break. We loaded up in dozens of buses, which took us to central London. As we disembarked we were handed placards which read “Halve poverty by 2015” (which was a key component of the United Nation’s millennium development goals). We carried our messages down Whitehall, passed Parliament, crossed the Thames River and ended up at Lambeth Palace, the residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury and the headquarters of the Anglican Church. We laid down our visible commitments and proceeded to have a four-course lunch. After lunch we boarded our buses and made a short trip to Buckingham Palace, where we had tea with the Queen.
We were well prepped for our royal engagement: what to wear, what to say to the Queen should we win the lottery to greet her, how not to shake her hand (nor that of Prince Philip). Many fretted on a weeks-long email chain over what sort of hat they should wear, a Palace requirement, and worried about the proper way to hold a tea cup.
Nothing about the millennium development goals. No prep, no conversation, no follow-up. Our feeble witness through central London to end poverty was sandwiched between extravagant displays of wealth, power and privilege. That was embarrassing.
And telling.
I am writing this reflection from my house in southern New Hampshire. I just had some trees removed so I can get a better view of Mount Monadnock, which has been the veritable icon of this region for hundreds of years. I treasure the gift of what I see and how I live. And I am tempted to use my well-appointed home and location – along with various other amenities that have come my way, as insulation. Insulation from poverty, insulation from violence and hatred, insulation from the chaos that frames and tragedy that fills so many lives.
I recently read an article about the challenges of the Darien Gap, the 70-mile swath of jungle between northern Colombia and southern Panama that thousands of migrants need to traverse on their journey north. The perilous journey – which takes between three and ten days, is now run by drug cartels, who sell food and water at extortionist prices. They determine the rules, which are designed to satisfy their rapacious needs. Sex trafficking is common; swindles by unethical guides are a daily occurrence. There is no medical care. Migrants who are too slow or infirm are left behind. It is literally the law of the jungle.
I don’t know that experience, except from a safe distance reading about it on my porch. And I don’t want to know that. I can’t imagine living through it, and I realize I probably will never have to. Nor will I probably ever know what it would be like to have my home destroyed, seek shelter in a school in Gaza only to have it the target of bombs dropped by Israeli planes.
That chaos, that tragedy, that violence is real. And I – and we, are tempted to emotionally insulate ourselves from it. I have the wealth and privilege to do it, not to the level of Lambeth or Buckingham Palace, but compared to the Darien Gap or Gaza – or many areas here in New Hampshire and elsewhere, I live like royalty. And I don’t want to give it up.
But I – and we who live in similar circumstances, do need to give up the temptation to treat our resources as insulation from the pain and inequity of the world. Or a more insidious temptation – to blame people’s lack of character, or their “idiocy” in making poor choices, for their plight; and ignore the fact that there are invariably larger and more systemic forces in play that are way beyond their ability to manage them. To be sure, pain, tragedy and unfairness can often pierce our world – which can leave us confused, grief-stricken or disoriented – for a time. I have the resources to escape the rest.
Removing insulation takes work. It doesn’t mean giving up various amenities, or sacrificing vacations to exotic places. But it does mean daring to break through the insulation that we may have intentionally or unintentionally set up – and journey into a swath of emotional, cultural, religious or political territory that we have not known before. That can have an impact, and has a chance for bringing about needed change. Unlike the migrants in the Darien Gap and the residents of Gaza, most of us have a place to come home to.
