veritas: one woman’s journey

“Had you not heard about the situation in the Sudan yet?” she asked gently.Perhaps it was the tears streaming down my face or the obvious brokenness my countenance graced that prompted this college student to wonder if this was my first time coming face to face with the plight of the “invisible children” in the war-torn Sudan.

“No,” I assured her. “No, it’s not the first time.”

I didn’t explain that I had been reading news magazines and online accounts of the situation in the Sudan for years; it didn’t matter because I didn’t intend to explain away my tears. Sometimes weeping is the only response.

–

It was a Thursday evening, and we had just finished watching “The Invisible Children,” a powerful documentary detailing the hell the Sudanese people are facing at the hands of rebel forces in a war-torn country. The documentary particularly focuses on the thousands of Sudanese children forced to flee their homes every night to seek refuge and shelter in the cities out of fear of being captured and enslaved by rebel forces — enslaved into a life of calculated killing and terror, brainwashed soldiers-in-training.

As the images flashed upon the screen and the stories were told, my response was an emotional, broken response. As I sat there, with tears streaming down my face, I thought to myself, “Christen, pull yourself together.” Thirty college students surrounded me, thirty students who will be, in part, my students next year when I come on full-time staff with Intervarsity, and here I was, sobbing. It was an uncomfortable few minutes as I wrestled with what my response should be; students looked at me out of the corners of their eyes, unsure of what to do. I am one of the ones who is supposed to be strong, and yet I found myself with tears streaming down my face. My heart, broken. Answers, I had none. Except the plea, “Come quickly, Lord Jesus” and the prayer, “Have mercy, Lord.”

And I couldn’t help but question how many times are we faced with the uncomfortable fact that we have been born into privilege; how many times have I genuinely faced the hard, cold fact that for the first twenty-three years of my life, I lived in the third richest county of the United States? I am one of the “rich” Jesus talks about who will have more trouble entering into heaven than a camel will have entering in through the eye of a needle (Matthew 19:24). Yikes. I wish Jesus had never said that. It’s not something I want to deal with. I remember a conversation with my father during a car ride years ago; he pointed out that we were the “rich” ones Jesus was speaking about in that passage. I remember thinking to myself, “What in the world are you talking about, Dad? We’re not rich; our couches have stuffing coming out of them, we have duct tape on our stairs, we drive old cars…” but the older I become, the more I realize my father in his wisdom knew something I didn’t.

Compared to the rest of the world, I am faced with extreme richness and opportunity, and here I am, talking about trying to “make ends meet” in the struggling Michigan economy while the children of the Sudan are living a literal hell. And what provokes me is that despite their circumstances, they are still both praising Jesus and displaying great joy and hope. I should be ashamed of myself for ever complaining about anything or being tempted to complain. Period. I confess that I have been jealous of those around me who aren’t struggling financially; who by their financial status make me feel poor and who give me the “excuse” to feel self-righteous because of the way I choose to spend my finances. I think “Well, God, you’re pretty lucky to have me because I’m frugal and I manage your money well.” What a dreadful disease pride is, allowing us to rank ourselves, consciously or unconsciously, against those around us. And then I am confronted with the documentary “The Invisible Children” and I am immediately brought to my knees in repentance for being a Pharisee and priding myself on how I am not materialistic.

And I sit there, sobbing, because the reality is that the tears streaming down my face expose the realization that I could be doing so much more. As I watched those beautiful children, scarred — emotionally and physically — praising our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, with joy, hope, and resilience etched upon their faces, I was forced to examine my own heart; if I faced the same circumstances, would I have the same response, and furthermore, with the privilege and power that I do have, what is my response to their plight and the plight of so many others around the world?

It’s one thing to have empathy for another, and empathy is certainly one of the first steps, but the true question we should be asking ourselves is, what do you do with that empathy?

So I ask you: in light of this broken, messed-up world, with nations being torn apart by war, with men and women committing atrocities, with children growing up with delinquent or absent parents, with disease ravishing bodies, with the poors’ needs not being taken care of, what are you doing? What is your emotional response? What is your physical response? Or would you rather not think about it today and deal with it tomorrow?

Some of these children will not have a tomorrow.

- Christen Patterson
April 2007