the tears of the oppressed

It’s after ten o’clock. It’s been dark since six, the hour when gray fades to black in Western Michigan, one of the few disadvantages of being a Great Lake state.

The teller at the bank apologized this afternoon for the three-minute wait; my mind flashed back to the streets of Zim, where lines of people wait hours for drought-ridden ATMs, hoping to find fools’ gold at the end of a proverbial rainbow.

It was Christmas two days ago, the peak of abundant consumerism in the West, and yet another stinging reminder of catastrophic devastation in most places. The banks in Zim were closed on Christmas; people couldn’t get money to give gifts to friends and family.

The hand-crafted African gifts I brought back for my family were a hit this year; the replacement razors coupled with the black dress socks stuffed in my stocking could’ve covered the entire bill.

Driving deserted Michigan freeways last night, I listened to Ecclesiastes, trying to sort through all this imbalance. Throughout, the teacher exclaims a desperate, “Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless!,” while the parallels of the powerful hoarding wealth and resources over the powerless are strangely poetic in this melancholy, strange book.

Again I looked and saw all the oppression that was taking place under the sun:
I saw the tears of the oppressed—
and they have no comforter;
power was on the side of their oppressors—
and they have no comforter.

And I declared that the dead,
who had already died,
are happier than the living,
who are still alive.

But better than both
is he who has not yet been,
who has not seen the evil
that is done under the sun.

And I saw that all labor and all achievement spring from man's envy of his neighbor. This too is meaningless, a chasing after the wind.

The king doesn't give a happy prognosis, though he doesn't share the conclusion of the matter. When I first returned from the trip, a friend who visited Zim sent me to Isaiah 58, where God says:

"Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen:
to loose the chains of injustice
and untie the cords of the yoke,
to set the oppressed free
and break every yoke?

Is it not to share your food with the hungry
and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—
when you see the naked, to clothe him,
and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?

Then your light will break forth like the dawn,
and your healing will quickly appear;
then your righteousness will go before you,
and the glory of the LORD will be your rear guard.

Then you will call, and the LORD will answer;
you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I.
"If you do away with the yoke of oppression,
with the pointing finger and malicious talk,

and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry
and satisfy the needs of the oppressed,
then your light will rise in the darkness,
and your night will become like the noonday.

The LORD will guide you always;
he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land
and will strengthen your frame.
You will be like a well-watered garden,
like a spring whose waters never fail.

Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins
and will raise up the age-old foundations;
you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls,
Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.

"If you keep your feet from breaking the Sabbath
and from doing as you please on my holy day,
if you call the Sabbath a delight
and the LORD's holy day honorable,
and if you honor it by not going your own way
and not doing as you please or speaking idle words,

then you will find your joy in the LORD,
and I will cause you to ride on the heights of the land
and to feast on the inheritance of your father Jacob."
The mouth of the LORD has spoken.

And it all started to make a little more sense, because I’ve seen the Joy through the tears of the oppressed.