Ponderings

The morning’s news was presidential candidates posturing about the warring in Iraq. I groaned as the strong pre-announcement statements are couched in qualifiers and deadlines replaced with timelines. Hindsight offers a remarkable view of what should not have been, but little wisdom about what should yet be.

I loathe this endless war and the loss of youth, both Iraqi and American. Believing that violence begets violence, that if “you do what you’ve always done, you will get what you’ve always got”, I try to foster environments of non-violence. I have prayed for peace and attended vigils to end the war. I proudly claim my pacifist convictions and I point to success stories like the end of Apartheid in South Africa as proof of the viability of non-violence. When notified that a group of colleagues are gathering in Washington DC this weekend for an interfaith Christian Peace Witness for Iraq, I logged onto the site and promised to share a peace-oriented sermon for Sunday.

But I need to make a confession before I can write my sermon. I love to play laser tag. I have no reasonable defense. Explanations and theories abound, but no excuses. When I put the heavy lighted vest over my shoulders and unclip the gun I feel a rush of adrenalin. And I like that feeling. Running around the dark corners of the arena, finding the ‘enemy targets’, spraying bullets in the direction of the slightest sound, I find it cathartic and (yes) fun.

I am unreasonably proud of the fact that I’m good at it. Last Sunday I invited the youth (27 kids and parents showed up!) to an afternoon of laser tag. When in the first round I was #1, I did the happy dance waving my scorecard in front of everyone. Admittedly I’m best when playing with first timers. The second game, after the others knew the game, my position dropped from first to mid-pack. But the fun was no less.

When dear Dillon said in plaintive voice, “You shot me. You shot me more than once!” I did feel a moment’s pause. But only a moment, and then I was again reveling in the glory of the hunt. What was captivating about his charge, however, was that thought it was jesting, appropriate to the game, his words pointed at a larger reality. Dillon counts on me to be the pastor, to be his friend Micah’s mom, to be an adult, to be safe. When playing laser tag, however, for 15 minutes in the dark I am none of those things, which is at best confusing.

The morning after (actually several mornings after), with Dillon’s words echoing in my heart, I find myself wondering if my willingness to spray laser bullets could morph into a willingness to spray lethal ones. The adrenalin which pumps as I run through the dark is the same adrenalin that a soldier depends upon to survive the killing fields. Innate to us as humans is an instinct to hunt. It is this instinct triggered in the game. When otherwise peaceful folk are strapped with weapons and an endless supply of bullets, they turn into GI Joe.

Undeniably we have a human capacity for violence, a capacity both to create violence and to enjoy it (preferably vicariously). My heart is with my colleagues as they gather in Washington DC this weekend as they confess the sin that is war and pray for reconciliation. Meanwhile I am trying to prepare a sermon for Sunday still reveling in the rush of last Sunday afternoon. I am looking at our accountability for the violence that plagues our world, and at the same time finding myself wondering about the lessons learned on the playing field. Mostly I wonder if our capacity for violence is part of what my colleagues might call ‘original sin’ or if it is part of God’s good design.

The lessons, unfortunately, are few and the questions many. Bane or blessing, our human capacity for violence is real. I take solace in the reminder that the nightmare in our closet is only problematic when the door opens. Violence in real life is a door that is best kept locked.