There is a documentary on HBO Max (or whatever it’s called now, it’s proven to be too difficult for me to keep track of which takeover bid they’ve decided to accept today, or which one they’ve abandoned after accepting – what it will be tomorrow is impossible to guess, but it’s HBO Max today) called Surviving the Jehovah’s Witnesses. This 3 part series details the faith, and the fallout from some of the more regrettable practices that led to the lawsuit filed by the Witnesses against the Spanish Jehovah’s Witness Victim’s Association. The suit challenged their right to call themselves victims at all, reasoning the existence of a “victim’s” group was, in itself, defamatory. Essentially, they were challenging the right of anyone to share their experiences about anything.

I have not much interest in discussing the Jehovah’s Witness religion. At least, not here. What I can say is that the Angel and I grew to thoroughly enjoy the local JW who would visit our home, Amos. Once, the Angel was in a bedroom cleaning, and Amos knocked on the door – this was the summer and all of the windows were open for all the world to hear our lives – and a 5 year-old Samuel yelled, “Mooooom, your friend is here!” I haven’t seen Amos since we lost that house, but I do think of him fairly often. He was terrific at his ministry, kind, engaging, and appeared to have a mind like a steel trap, always remembering our names and details of our lives. I thought then, and still think there is a lot I can learn from him. (Ok, maybe I have a little interest in discussing them.)

What I have a great interest in is each of our stories and the sacred practice of telling them.

A few Saturday nights ago, at the Bridge, a very good friend shared his story. His is one that includes alcoholism and increasing trouble with the law. It’s fascinating and colorful, to be sure, but to say that’s all it is is wildly misleading. It’s only texture for the real story, which is the unbelievable love & grace of God persevering. And the love of the people in his life persevering, as well. It seems that everyone who crossed his path was impacted in such a way that hey would continue to care for him however they could, no matter how much trouble he was in or how much time had passed. In a world where we are often sold the idea that we are all irredeemably selfish as fact, this night presented an alternative reality where neighbors show up and never stop showing up, no matter what.

The victims in the documentary sat in court, being viciously attacked, for the simple right to tell their stories. And why would they subject themselves to such abuse? Simply, to be heard. We are social beings, made for community, created to walk together through a life that is sometimes very very hard. Almost every time in the Scriptures when a person is overwhelmed and questions God about how (or if!!) he/she can possibly continue, when God answers, He answers with some variation of, “there are people over there to help you, find them.”

The Book of Lamentations in the Bible is the snapshot of a nation, Israel, who is crying out for anyone, ANYONE, to stop and hear their story, to notice their suffering. I think we are all looking for this kind of care, all looking for safe places to be vulnerable in relationship. We’re looking for a place where someone will finally listen.

Obviously, I’m not a Jehovah’s Witness (though I suppose I am a witness for Jehovah, which is a pretty massive distinction), but we should all probably be on the side of the Spanish Victim’s Association in this battle, rooting for the outcome they eventually got (which is of course under appeal), because they’re my good friend giving his testimony, they’re Israel, they’re you and me, all somehow trying to find the courage to stand up in darkness and jump, hoping someone will catch us.