I don’t like to think of myself as a person who “others” my neighbors. I like to think of myself as a person who is open and inclusive—as a person who really lives into that story from Acts 8 where the Ethiopian eunuch asks Philip what is keeping him from being baptized, and Philip baptizes him. I’d like to believe that I embody the sower in the parable of the sower in the gospel of Matthew—that I indiscriminately throw out seeds—regardless of the soil in which those seeds are landing. And yet, that isn’t true. I “other” people, and frankly, I “other” people for the truly stupidest reason. There is nothing noble or justice-y about my othering. I “other” people when their values or actions or words come into conflict with mine because I am super conflict averse and I want my relationships to be easy, and it is more comfortable for me to “other” people and to pull away from them than it is for me to get curious and to draw closer to them.

As I have reflected on this bothersome truth, I think that the lie that I have been telling myself is that in doing this, I am drawing boundaries. I have fooled myself into believing that I am not “othering” people by pushing them away because there are things about them that are problematic or harmful, and that I am just trying to protect myself or others. The thing is, though, that there is a difference between harm and discomfort, and most of the time, when I “other” people, it is not because they have actually harmed me. It is because I am uncomfortable. It is because I seem to think that peace is an absence of conflict, when actually, it is a transforming of conflict, and a working through of conflict. So, that’s part of my challenge. To expand my circle of human concern, I must stop trying to escape from conflict, and I must learn how to enter into it.

I shared with my peer group that last week, I had a conversation with a pastor at another church in the town where I work regarding a billboard that they had up for “Bible Bootcamp” VBS. The billboard had guns and tanks and soldiers and all of this military imagery that I found troubling. My first thought was to complain about the sign to my more like-minded pastor friends—to further draw that divide between “us” and “them”—or to put something about how theologically incorrect it was on social media. Instead, I decided to enter into the conflict and my discomfort about it and to attempt to put some of what we have been learning into action. I emailed the church’s pastor and asked him questions about why “Bible Bootcamp” appealed to the church, and what the military imagery meant to them.

The conversation that we had was good. It didn’t change any minds, but it gave me a better understanding of where the church was coming from. He also seemed to appreciate that I shared my concerns without crapping all over him. It felt like a bridge building moment, and I am super excited about it, because it so easily could have been an “othering” moment. Truthfully, it was almost an “othering” moment, and only wasn’t because of JOH. I have no illusions that I am suddenly going to become a successful bridge builder because I did it one time, but I am hopeful that perhaps, “othering” will become less and less of a reflex as I keep pushing myself to get comfortable with conflict. I think that God is on the move in my heart.

For a long time before this park existed, a vacant lot sat in its place. It was both an eye sore and a safety hazard, but our neighbors wanted something more. They wanted a safe space for their kids to play. Through the years, different groups of people organized and put in the work in hopes of bringing this park to fruition. Often times, people came in with big visions and a strong belief that this would finally be the time for breakthrough, only to be disappointed by barriers and red tape.

Finally, last year, after all the effort that has been put in and some leverage from a couple City Council members who caught sight of the vision, this long held dream became a reality. This little piece of paradise now sits hidden away in a neighborhood that is often forgotten. The children of those first neighbors to cast the vision are now grown. People have come and gone, never getting to see their dreams realized. The park, one year in, is no longer shiny and new. It holds the scars of our neighborhood, but it also holds the beauty of hope embodied.

This park came to mind as I listened to Ben McBride talk about having a 100-year vision. He challenged us to think not just about the goals that we are seeking to accomplish in the present or near future but to think in terms of what we would hope to see in 100 years. He implored us to think about what it would take to show up to work each day knowing that we’ll probably never see the fulfillment of our vision. As Resmaa Menakem puts it, we’ll see the world we want to live in in three to five generations. This sobering reality brings with it an awareness that true, lasting transformation takes time.

Often times, when we start a new venture, our hope takes the form of rose-colored glasses. We might come in with grand visions and action plans to help us get there. Though we might acknowledge the challenges that lie ahead, we move forward in confidence that our vision will be realized in our lifetime. Maybe this type of hope is necessary in those early stages. We need something to grasp onto and to motivate us. We need a compelling vision to inspire others to join in the work. But if our hope is only centered on the immediate outcomes, those rose-colored glasses will lead to disillusionment as we face the barriers that are sure to arise.

As a peacemaker, the vision of building bridges appeals to me. I desire to be someone who is making connections when the world is pulling us apart. I want to help people see a path forward when they’re stuck focusing on the waters raging before them. It’s a beautiful vision, but bell hooks reminds us that “bridges are made to be walked on.” When we seek to create some sacred space in the middle, people on both sides are going to be skeptical. We have to be prepared to be misunderstood, rejected, and even betrayed.

Jesus warned his disciples before his arrest and crucifixion that because they followed him, the world was going to hate them just as it hated him (John 15:18-16:4). That’s not the type of vision that’s going to draw in the masses. Yet, just as Peter had expressed in John 6:68, after traveling around with Jesus for some time, he and the other disciples were convinced that he had the words of eternal life and that there was nowhere better to turn. They had experienced the beauty and goodness of following in Jesus’ footsteps even when they didn’t understand where they were heading, even when they were bruised and broken along the way.

In order to keep moving forward through the trials and setbacks, our hope must evolve. At some point, we have to take off the rose-colored glasses and choose to take up our cross. We have to die to the illusions we’ve had of ourselves. We have to release our timelines and expectations. We have to trust that the twists and turns and stones that cause us to stumble are leading us to something more beautiful than we could have imagined. And though we might never lay eyes on the fully realized fruit of our labor, each step of the journey matters as we are being made new in the process and paving a path for future generations to walk on.

That’s the hope that I walked away with as we ended Module 3. It’s not a shiny or idealistic hope. It’s raw and honest and becomes more beautiful as it’s embodied.