Today, I’m excited to be over at The Mudroom, talking about having hard conversations. I hope you’ll join me there.
I can’t take it. I walk outside and text my husband to see when he would be back to pick me up. “Leaving now,” he writes.
Soon, then. Thankfully.
I don’t want to feel this way, like I have to leave a room when good, well-meaning people talk about people in poverty. I don’t want to feel the sorrow and the anger and the cynicism. They don’t know what they’re saying, I tell myself. They don’t know how it sounds, how it hurts to say those things. Honestly, I’m probably not that far removed from having the same feelings, from thinking or saying the same types of phrases:
“I don’t understand why they don’t work harder.”
“These poor people live that way every day.”
“We are just so blessed.”
But I don’t think that way anymore, and I haven’t in a while. It took effort for me to realize that those phrases sound insensitive, naive, so us vs. them. They sound like God blesses some of us and not others, as if people are much worse off without material things. It’s bad theology.