Why do we award pigs with the advocacy that children deserve?
Why do we take a stand against animal cruelty, and ignore the murders of those too young to cry out?
Why are nations considered more "forward-thinking" and "progressive" as they move towards better treatment of animals, even as their treatment of unborn humans is deteriorating every day? Why are mothers being encouraged to terminate the lives of their disabled, sick, or "damaged" infants?
Why am I uninformed, ignorant, and stubborn when I choose to eat scrambled eggs for breakfast? Why are tears being shed for the yolks of chicken eggs when there are scrambled babies being disposed of? Why are children being slaughtered, and why is it legal? Why is it advertised? Why is it beautified?
And WHY are the advocates of these precious lives slammed down, while the advocates of livestock are elevated?
Why does this modern day Holocaust rage on and on and on, growing worse by the minute, while we stand around arguing about a couple words in our national anthem? Why is the government spending so much time and energy on the gender-specifics of public washrooms, when our voiceless brothers and sisters are being killed, dismembered, and discarded?
Why are we so blind to what matters,
And so obsessed with what doesn't?
These are my questions. Questions I don't have the answers to. These are the things I don't understand, and don't expect to. These are my aches, my groans, my pains. These are the issues that fever me late at night. These are my cries to the heavens; my shouts to the sky. The prayers that move my lips but make no sound.
If I were a singer, I'd write a song. If I were a poet, I'd write a poem. I'd hide behind metaphors and rely on symbolism to give voice to these burning questions. I'd allow allusion and double entendre to demand the answers for me.
Because songs rarely get attacked the way articles do. The artist can probe the sleeping dragon in ways that the writer cannot. Singers can play with the fire and turn it into something beautiful and relatable without getting burned. Songs are either respected or ignored. If you don't like it, you don't listen.
Often, people bring their own meaning to a song. They listen to the lyrics of the songwriter, but apply their own interpretation. They interpret it in the most comforting, most appealing, most preferred way. It's not how it should be, but it's how it is.
It is not the same for the writer. It's not the same as when you voice your opinions bluntly. It's not the same as when you publish an article fraught with controversy. It's hard to interpret one blog post a thousand different ways. It's hard to find hidden meanings in one article. People don't often need to argue over the writer's intention or the publisher's true thoughts, because they're literally spelled out! They've been laid bare, stripped of all barriers, and served on a silver platter.
When you write, you volunteer for the Colosseum. You throw yourself to the wolves. You jump into the ring of vicious lions. You commit social suicide, sometimes on a number of occasions. There are no excuses that can be made. People don't listen to your feeble attempts at, "I didn't mean it that way...." And so, the harsh gavel of the social networking judge comes down hard.
When you sign up to promote Truth, advocate Peace, and call for Love, there is no end to the lies, conflict, and hate that will be sent your way. And if you're wondering why Truth is now known as "hate speech," George Orwell said it best:
"During times of Universal Deceit,
telling the truth becomes a Revolutionary Act."
Maybe someday I'll write a song. Maybe I'll someday be struck with the inspiration to pick up my guitar and put a rhyme to a tune. Music is the universal language. It's the stealthy medium through which Truth and Wisdom and Love can sneak past the vicious watchdogs that stop the black-and-white articles from getting through.
But I want to be a writer. It's both my therapy and my ministry. It's a tool that brings me closer to my Saviour, both through what I post publicly, and the writing I keep between me and God. Since the first time I nervously posted my thoughts on the web for the public to read, my passion has only ever grown.
And yet, every time I hover my cursor above the "Publish" button, a part of me recoils in familiar trepidation. I'm just a young girl with a cheap laptop trying to make a difference. What a laugh! I'm a nobody, and just like everybody else, I'm afraid to say the things worth saying. And so every time I prepare to produce these thoughts online, it's hard not to see myself as a little child stepping out into that massive Colosseum. It's hard not to see myself as the weakling who is bound to face the lions for the audience's viewing pleasure. It's the fate of every writer, at some point. Everybody's a critic. And in this world where we talk a lot about tolerance but act a lot in judgment, the critics can look a lot more like monsters.
.... But maybe that's the way it was always supposed to be.
Maybe it was never intended that we be welcomed and applauded by the public. Maybe the public approval isn't the goal, but the bonus. Maybe the original objective was following Christ into rejection and loneliness. Now that I think about it, that's definitely what the goal used to be. The believers of the early church were baptized not into prosperity and success, but into death. We've been baptized into suffering alongside our Saviour.
Romans 6:3-5 - "Or aren’t you aware that all of us who were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into His death? We therefore were buried with Him through baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may walk in newness of life."
Maybe we were always meant to enter that Colosseum with our heads high, our eyes fixed on the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of God in Heaven. Maybe we were always meant to keep focused on the same image that allowed Stephen to stand strong, even as He was stoned to death. Maybe we weren't meant to try to appease the lions and tame the wolves. But maybe we weren't meant to fight them, either. Maybe we're meant to go down without a fight, but with Truth on our lips and Love on our minds. Maybe it's okay to be as silent as the sheep that are lead to their slaughter. After all, are we not meant to mimic Christ?
He spoke the Truth. He published it verbally, and it was later published more than any other book on the planet. He spoke boldly, but also with compassion. He was intense, and feared not the skepticism of man. He dared to look the lions in the eye as He challenged the system and uprooted their addiction to the Law, but a bruised reed He did not break. (Isaiah 42:3) Even at the culmination of His ministry, He was not met with applause and praise, but with shouts of, "Crucify Him!"
And if the masses called for this Healer, Preacher, and Miracle-Worker to be crucified... why should this flawed, imperfect writer expect anything less?