I killed today.
A little black bug: soft-bodied, smaller than an ant, tracking his gentle way across the stone outcropping on my patio. I didn’t intend it. Worried he’d hop onto me, I flicked at him casually with my fingernail—expected he’d scuttle off—and left an infinitesimal black smear across the stone instead.
I was surprised my own astonished grief.
I’ve swatted flies and flushed spiders, and I destroy mosquitoes with prejudice. And yet today, the thought: thou shalt not kill.
And to that some would point out the translations that say do not murder anyone. Would say this is not about bugs or creation, but about people. To that I say perhaps – I’m sure we can get into the theological and linguistic weeds here – and yet. This creature had the attention of God, as all creation does, as every tiny and seemingly insignificant thing does. This creature was His; this creature was made by Him. In some way this creature testified to the glory of God. This creature did not have to end, not today and not now, but I ended it.
I asked forgiveness for that little bug. And then I asked forgiveness not for caring about the bug, but for not also caring about the people who annoyed me today, about whom I said nasty things if only to myself. Because it is Christ who demands the utmost of the commandment, who says:
You have heard that it was said to the people long ago, ‘You shall not murder, and anyone who murders will be subject to judgment.’ But I tell you that anyone who is angry with a brother or sister will be subject to judgment. (Matthew 5:21-22, NIV)
Christ demands the spirit of the law, not the letter. The righteousness He envisions for His audience plumbs vast and frightening depths. Who among us can escape judgment, indeed? No one, not even one. We are selective in our concerns and in the lives we deem worth preserving and valuing. I ought to care about the bug and all God’s creatures, from small to large, and remember that I am put here to steward His creation well and to serve my brothers and sisters. All of them.
I killed a bug. I kill people every week. I slaughter in my angeras casually as breathing. This is not holiness.
I am grateful for grace.
Every now and then, I hear sly believers ask, “What if we took God’s word seriously?” And I do wonder. We try. We think we do. And yet I’m not sure we do, nor do we realize the entirety of what that would entail: the full, awesome radicality of it. I certainly don’t. And yet, for a brief second today I understood it because of that bug.
Holy Spirit, teach us restraint. We truly know not what we do.
Vultures wheeled across the sky some time after the bug died. I watched them, black against a bright blue sky, and I marveled at the reminder that God brings good out of death—always. Even here, even now.
We ask for forgiveness. We start over. By the grace of God, we become better—something more than what we are, something closer to what we were meant to be.
Samaritan's Song 