Asking for and Expecting Justice

Several months ago, a baby was kidnapped at our hospital. It was one of the darker moments for our hospital community. The day it happened felt absolutely surreal. Not here. Not like this. And precisely because those had always been our thoughts ("it wouldn't happen here") or perhaps because it never even crossed our minds, we were incredibly susceptible to this crime.

The woman who stole the child infiltrated our rather non-existent security measures (which have since been revised), and over a course of three days earned the trust of the new mothers in our post-partum ward by convincing them she was a family member of someone else (the moms were the real security for the babies), she learned the layout of the hospital perfectly, and at the opportune moment, she struck. It was in the afternoon, when almost all the moms were outside eating lunch or napping and our nurses were out of the room. She slipped into the ward, took a baby that she had probably spent time choosing, and exited by a back door. Once outside, she smiled her way past the guard, took her belongings, which she had asked someone to hold outside, rounded a corner of the hospital wall where she got on a moto and disappeared before anyone could ask questions.

The aftermath was a tumultuous mix of emotions—horror, sadness, shame, anger—and a lot of questioning. The sinister possibilities were also unsettling—did she steal it just to have a baby because she was unable? Would she raise it and traffic it? Or was it to become the victim of a human sacrifice in a spiritual power-play by someone hoping to win the presidential election? (The latter, evidently, not being without precedent.)

For my part, I was convinced that she would never get away with it. We immediately alerted the authorities and made announcements on the radio, so by the end of the day, the whole town was abuzz with the news. I counted on the fact that Malian communities are so tight-knit that very little happens without someone knowing. I figured it was only a matter of time. Sadly, I was wrong. Perhaps worse, a few weeks later, when that became clear, I just wanted to brush the whole matter under the rug and forget it, pausing only long enough make the needed corrections to prevent it from ever happening again.

So when, from time to time, someone would bring up the stolen baby as a prayer request, I would nod exteriorly, all the while thinking, "it isn't coming back, just give it up." Instead of dying down and out, however, this concern continued to ferment in the heart of several of our Malian administrators. At our annual conference the first week of November, our hospital chaplain shared with a great deal of passion his conviction that we needed to pray in faith until the baby was returned. It was enough to move me to start praying about the matter again, though more in the sense that God would protect us from setting ourselves up for disappoint and humiliation by making such bold, "misguided" claims. I had just enough faith to pray that God would at least glorify Himself in this terrible situation.

Over Thanksgiving, I found out that the whole Christian community in Koutiala was going to set aside time during the first few days of December to pray and fast for this baby. I was immediately skeptical. Are we trying to force God's hand? Do we think through an ardent display of self-deprivation, we will somehow convince God to act in a way that our simple prayers did not? Skeptic that I am, I just don't think God is susceptible to manipulation. I was happy that I would be away during that time, so I didn't have to struggle with the whole thing.

Ironically, it was while eating Thanksgiving dinner (I believe I was on my second plate) that this discussion came up, and for some reason I was prompted to start talking about the book "Fasting" by Scot McKnight that I had read a couple years ago. Someone asked me to sum up his punch line. I don't know if I did it justice, but what I remember standing out most vividly was his emphasis on the fact that Christianity is a full-orbed faith. We live, believe, and worship not just in our minds or spirits, but in mind, spirit, soul, and body, and fasting is one of the things we do to incorporate our body into worship. There are times of mourning and times of joy, in which it is very consistent (even natural) to forego food with our bodies, to express the state our spirit in an act of worship to God. (The book merits a read.)

Admittedly in the moment, I said all that in more of an intellectual mode than in conviction (though I have always tried to approach fasting from that angle since reading the book), but that idea really began to work on me. I decided that I would indeed participate in the fasting and prayer, not in an attempt to manipulate God, but rather as full-orbed worship. (And when it comes to fasting, my body is a poor worshipper, so I figured the practice couldn't hurt anyway.)

At first, I tried to enter into a time of mourning for the loss of this baby, without conjuring up trite emotions. I just wanted to authentically acknowledge before the Lord that the kidnapping of this baby was a serious and sad thing—for the baby, for the family, for our hospital community. As a part of this mourning, I was also crying out to the Lord for justice, in the spirit of Isaiah 58: "Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of wickedness, to undo the straps of the yoke, to let the oppressed
go free, and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover him, and not to hide yourself from your own flesh?"

However, something unexpected has happened as I've been crying out for this justice. My fasting out of a sense of mourning has changed to a fast in joyful expectation. I don't know what will happen. Perhaps the baby will be brought back (May the Lord make it so), maybe the perpetrators will be brought to justice, maybe the Christian community will be renewed in its sense of passion and commitment. Regardless, I'm convinced that the Lord will act through this time in a powerful way, and not because we moved Him to act, but because we have been worshipping Him, and when the Church worships God, He draws near. His approach never leaves things the same. Also, because in our worship we are crying out for justice, for His intervention in our wicked world—issues very much on the Lord's heart—and when the Church identifies with God's heart, we cannot remain unchanged.

"Then shall your light break forth like the dawn, and your healing shall spring up speedily; your righteousness shall go before you; the glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard." (Isaiah 58:8)