It's About Time
The current age of 'fake news' and 'alternative facts' has, inevitably, brought us a fake morality, one that is based on the false assumption that there is such a thing as an absolute and omniscient morality whose authors just happen to be those in power, and whose choices are conveniently affirmed by the very version of morality they tout.
A few days ago, in the wake of the assassination, on Trump's orders, of Iran's popular major general, Qassem Suleimani, war loomed so suddenly that it took my breath away. Briefly, climate collapse was in the rear-view mirror. That was surreal in itself. And then, just as suddenly, it seemed, we were back to our familiar worries, whatever those might be for each of us. That the threat of violence ebbs and flows so suddenly is of no comfort: the whims of unreliable judgment are equally dangerous whether that whim is individual - an angry man with a gun, or national - a deluded leader with a bomb.
As I sat with friends in the aftermath of Suleimani's killing and the uncertainty that overtook us in its wake, we found ourselves asking a familiar question: How to respond? The question is an ever-present companion, faithful as a pup, unshakeable as a shadow, terrifying as a stalker. In these times of climate collapse and political polarization, it is with us every moment, asking us to rethink our lives continuously, as the 'tyranny of the urgent' clamors for attention. In the face of it all, the question of how to respond sits like an undigested meal in the belly.
John Paul Lederach, considered the father of modern-day peacebuilding, has said that "It takes about as long to get out of a conflict as it took to get in." Let's see... on the timeline of climate collapse, racism, sexism, and economic disparity, that takes us back at least five hundred years. Lederach unpacks this notion a bit further, into what he calls 'the 200-year present', which stretches, roughly, from the birthdate of the oldest person we know (in my case, for example, my aunt, who was born in 1922) to the end of the natural life of the youngest person we know (a cousin's newborn, who, I hope, will live at least to the year 2120).
Then there's the challenge of discerning what is mine to do, what is someone else's, and what is ours together. What is it that I can do, that no one else can; and what can I only do in partnership with others? As a writer, as a mother, as a woman, as an American, as a voter, as a north-coast-dweller, as a fox-lover... All of these roles overlap; all the contexts are simultaneous.
How, then, to craft a response that meets the now while sitting squarely in that 200-year present? How does the extended timeline shape us, and the responses we choose? That 200-year span doesn't let us off the hook: quite the contrary. It reminds us that the decisions we make now will last for 200 years or more. It asks us to imagine a future at least that long.
In the years that I studied with John Paul, he spoke of how, on his way to Northern Ireland during the Troubles, he wrestled with the question of how to help the people who had invited him there to work with them - Catholics and Protestants, prisoners, murderers, clergy, artists, youth. The plane was passing through a storm, and as he watched the lightning out the window, the answer came: On a stormy winter night far in the future, an Irish child begs not to be put to bed quite yet. She climbs on her grand-daddy's knee, and pleads, "Tell me again! Tell me again! How did the Troubles end?" Lederach asked his Irish colleagues to cast themselves into the far distant future and tell the story, looking back, of how they had brought peace to Northern Ireland.
It happened that, during those years, I met a peacebuilder from Northern Ireland named Joe. I remember him saying, simply, I am here to make a difference in my time. In his words, I sensed Joe's awareness of 'his time' as a recognition of both its brevity and its longevity. His dilemma is ours. His opportunity is also ours. How will each of us live the story of a world restored?
