When the TV lights go out

Lutheran, The, Mar 2005 by Miller, David L

I love the church, this church. It never lets me forget.

The Earth shudders. The sea rises. And 200,000 people die. TV cameras capture the apocalyptic devastation and pathos of lost lives and loves. Around the country, around the world, millions dig into their pockets and give with unprecedented generosity.

It is impossible not to whisper "thanks" to the Spirit of God, stirring souls to express their compassion in ways that change lives in places far removed from their daily routines. At such times, the world shrinks. "Global community" takes on fresh significance.

Christian souls might imagine and celebrate the reign of God, that community of love, drenched in an eternal spring of mercy, breaking through the thick crust of human cynicism.

But then the TV lights go dark. The cameras find new horrors and diversions. And we forget ... and die, at least a little.

We've seen it before. In my years with The Lutheran, we have provided direct reporting of humanitarian disasters and the church's response in places like Ethiopia, Somalia, Sudan, South Africa, Rwanda, Nicaragua and Kosovo. Each tragedy captured the world's attention for a moment. People saw and cared and gaveoften in proportion to the degree of human pain television brought into their living rooms.

But soon other news intruded, attention waned, memory faded and the grinding suffering of multitudes-men, women and children who love life and each other just like we dofound no audience and little, if any, compassion.

Other tragedies are seldom seen at all. The cameras never show up. They are taken for granted with a shrug and a lie: "That's the way things are. Nothing you can do." We accept staggering death tolls with barely a nod of recognition.

The tsunami is a spectacle of Holly woodesque proportions. It's magnetic. It captures the imagination. Tsunami, the movie, can't be far behind. But almost as many die every month from malaria as in the tsunami-165,000, month after month. How about AIDS? That's 240,000 month after month. Diarrhea? Yes, diarrhea-140,000 every month. Quiet deaths, except to those who suffer and to those who love them, in places like Malawi, Zimbabwe, India, Haiti and too many others.

The spotlight seldom shines on this suffering, even though much of it is resolvable with far smaller sums than the tsunami is attracting. Malaria? Experts suggest $2 billion to $3 billion would save a million lives a year, most of them children. A bargain, comparatively speaking.

Strange as it may seem, this is one reason I love the church, my church. It's the church and its partners that remain when the cameras are turned off and most relief agencies leave.

"We were there before the tsunami, during the tsunami and we'll be there long after the tsunami," says Kathryn Sime, director of the ELCA World Hunger Appeal. "We're here for the long run," she says of India, Sri Lanka and Indonesia. The same is so true for many places the cameras forget.

The church has never let me forget. It doesn't allow me to turn away. It reveals to me the face of Christ in the suffering of hidden multitudes and invites me, begs me, cajoles me to meet there the One to whom my soul clings-and to love him, to bind his wounds and care for his sorrow.

It is the church that teaches me that the only answer to the question of suffering is a life lived in love. The tsunami unleashed a wave of articles and theological rehash, struggling with Job's ancient question: How can a benevolent God allow-or cause-this?

No answer fully satisfies soul or mind. Creation remains incomplete. It suffers growing pains (Romans 8:22-23). And it will continue to do so until the fullness of time, when the wonder and beauty that Christ is... is all and through all.

Meanwhile, there's a world of suffering-and yes, of joy and daily routine-to which we must attend. And when the TV lights go dark, there is the church reminding us of what our society allows and encourages us to forget: Life, hope and the wonder of God are known as we remember.