I was riding my bike down a street when I saw large, square banner at the end of someone’s driveway. It had a black background with white writing. Before I read its content, those are the details I noticed. All of those markers prepared me to read a religious message. Something like, “If you died tonight, do you know where you’d go?” or maybe a different message you might find on a proselytizing tract.
But that’s not what it said.
It said, “How do you know you won’t be next?”
As in,
When an authoritarian government is harming some in this particular country, within a world where authoritarian governments are harming some in additional places, perhaps this is not the time to simply shrug our shoulders and say, “Well, at least it’s not me.”
How do you know you won’t be next?
Maybe it’s hard to lean into that question. And if you’ve read me for long, you certainly know I’m not a doom and gloom writer. I believe in hope. I believe that grace often smuggles its way in. But I also believe there is truth to what Martin Niemöller wrote so poignantly:
First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a socialist.
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.
From my bike, I expected a banner rooted in a particular theology of hell. Instead, I received a banner that reminds me we are capable of creating hells on earth for one another. And sometimes, we are unwilling to prevent them.
I’m tempted to circle back to that hope, but instead, I’ll let the question linger because it’s a vital one:
How do you know you won’t be next?
— Renee Roederer
Smuggling Grace 