I've always been a fighter. Ever since elementary school, I considered it my duty to stick up for kids who got picked on, and to admonish my own friends to become better people. For some reason, the radio antenna of my heart has always been tuned in to truth and justice (with a brief exception in middle school, when I thought it would be cool to be cool).
This is not a self-brag. I honestly can claim no credit for that goodness-loving quality, though I suspect my parents are to blame, and certainly God had a hand in it.
Along with this passion in me came a big mouth, which I spent many long years learning how to master. And oddly enough, coexistent in me was a desire to keep others happy and avoid conflict. When I think about it, it does not make any sense, but here I still am, so I suppose I must be real.
I think this conflict-averse tendency is born out of a real love for people--but also, there's a big fear component to it. In my quiet narcissism I fear that I am the only sane person left on earth, and that there's no point in reaching out for common ground in a world of monsters.
After high school, my conflict aversion led me to avoid knowing too much about worldly matters. It was impossible for me not to have an opinion at every opportunity, so I didn't even read the news in college, because I didn't want to be angry all the time and I didn't want to fight with people I loved. And I fully expected to be angry all the time once I got back on Twitter a few months ago, angry and tired because no one is reasonable and I am alone in the universe.
How selfish is that?
I would rather hide than take the light I've been given into what can be the darkest of places--the scrambling crowd of social media. I'd rather sit in the shadowed corner, thinking my own thoughts, avoiding the discomfort of being heard--or worse yet, that of hearing some truth I've been ignoring, clear enough that I can no longer run from it. I'd rather assume, in judgmental cynicism, that no one else feels as I do, and that everyone who thinks differently than I must want me dead.
But you know what, that cynicism still made me tired. Tired of expecting the worst from people, and suppressing the best in myself.
It is a gift, whether we see it as one or not. At this moment we have the ability to connect with people we may never meet in person, but with whom we share many unexpected things. We have the chance to learn so much, and grow so much, if only we don't shy away from the challenge. And most exciting, we have been given a voice to spread the Gospel to the ends of the earth, to any who will hear and believe. And they will.
I don't believe we are meant to neglect this opportunity.
I believe we are meant to take it and run--to run toward truth, and take as many people with us as we can. To invite our fellow humans, fearful and cowardly though we are, to leap boldly into the fray with us, as we stand up shakily and try to be better than that which we hate. To hold ourselves, and each other--even the ones who should be our enemies--to a higher standard. To encourage each other to try again when we inevitably fail to meet it.
To say boldly to those who don't yet know the truth, and may even be hostile to it: you are worth this conflict.
Because in the end, if our cause is God's, our fight is for them too.
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