Love in the hands of amateurs
Across the room from me the Christmas tree sparkles and shines. Stockings hang from the fireplace mantle, a nativity scene is set on top of the same mantle, and three nutcracker soldiers guard the hearth, as if something dire might happen to a gas fireplace that we rarely bother to turn on because we’re wood-burning fireplace snobs. The warm vanilla scent of sugar cookies still hangs in the air, a leftover of some baking earlier this evening. I can hear some Christmas movie playing in the other room.
It’s a sweet peace after a long week.
But in New York City tonight, a community is grieving two police officers ambushed and executed by a man enraged over recent situations in Missouri and Maryland where young black men were killed by other police officers. Perpetuating the killing didn’t bring peace or satifaction to the man who shot the officers today. He later shot himself on a subway platform.
The world has gone nuts over the Ebola virus, but anger and violence are far more contagious, far more deadly.
Two thousand years since the first Christmas, it’s clear that the human race is still broken. We’re amateurs when it comes to love and mercy, but professionals at selfishness, chaos, and destruction.
We still need a Savior.