When the news broke, I was surprised to see people thronging the streets around the White House.
At first it didn't register why all those people were there. All I could see was a crowd, viewed from a hovering helicopter. Before President Obama said one word the crowd's size was snowballing courtesy of viral texts & tweets.
When CNN cut to street level, I heard the singing, the Olympic chants of "U-S-A! U-S-A!" Dancing, fist-pumping, high-fiveing, hugging leaping jubilation boiled on the midnight asphalt there and at Ground Zero.
I felt relief at the news. I felt sadness. But I didn't feel what they were feeling, not even remotely.
Suddenly I realized that these young revelers had shivered in grade school or Jr. High school desks as the planes hit the World Trade Center and Pentagon. They'd grown up in a world where the Iron Curtain had been hauled away for scrap metal. But after 9/11, their childhoods and adolescence proceeded with caution under the shadow of a nameless fear. Boogeymen with scimitars and Sharia and tactical nukes lurked in hiding, waiting for the chance to destroy their world, their dreams, their lives. They came of age sharing a secret fear that tomorrow might never come and they'd never know doom was coming. It would creep up on them and strike without warning.
Tears rose in my eyes as I watched them dance into the night. Boogeyman Prime had been shot dead, and their tribe had tracked him down and killed him. They had to dance and chant and sing! Even the Grinch couldn't have stolen this from them.
But I couldn't share their jubilation. A man was dead. A heartless, smiling, murderous monster of a man. A man who Jesus had loved so much He died for him on the cross. A man who refused that Love and has now refused it forever.
I sympathize with the dancing young throngs, but I just can't join in their triumphal joy. I relish their moment of liberation from fear; yet I feel it in my spirit -- God doesn't rejoice in the death of the wicked: not now, not ever.
At first it didn't register why all those people were there. All I could see was a crowd, viewed from a hovering helicopter. Before President Obama said one word the crowd's size was snowballing courtesy of viral texts & tweets.
When CNN cut to street level, I heard the singing, the Olympic chants of "U-S-A! U-S-A!" Dancing, fist-pumping, high-fiveing, hugging leaping jubilation boiled on the midnight asphalt there and at Ground Zero.
I felt relief at the news. I felt sadness. But I didn't feel what they were feeling, not even remotely.
Suddenly I realized that these young revelers had shivered in grade school or Jr. High school desks as the planes hit the World Trade Center and Pentagon. They'd grown up in a world where the Iron Curtain had been hauled away for scrap metal. But after 9/11, their childhoods and adolescence proceeded with caution under the shadow of a nameless fear. Boogeymen with scimitars and Sharia and tactical nukes lurked in hiding, waiting for the chance to destroy their world, their dreams, their lives. They came of age sharing a secret fear that tomorrow might never come and they'd never know doom was coming. It would creep up on them and strike without warning.
Tears rose in my eyes as I watched them dance into the night. Boogeyman Prime had been shot dead, and their tribe had tracked him down and killed him. They had to dance and chant and sing! Even the Grinch couldn't have stolen this from them.
But I couldn't share their jubilation. A man was dead. A heartless, smiling, murderous monster of a man. A man who Jesus had loved so much He died for him on the cross. A man who refused that Love and has now refused it forever.
I sympathize with the dancing young throngs, but I just can't join in their triumphal joy. I relish their moment of liberation from fear; yet I feel it in my spirit -- God doesn't rejoice in the death of the wicked: not now, not ever.
Plus, flash mobs are fun, something spontaneous and interesting to do on a Sunday night before final exams, and you might even get on TV. As with any crowd or public demonstration, there's a mix of pure, noble celebrants (at least in their own perception), ignoble gloaters, and disgusting drunkards. So as a believer I sympathize (from a distance) with whatever percentage comprise the first category.
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