The sacred art of departing
“You know, in Germany there are hordes of young Syrian men raping German women.” The statement hovered in the air menacingly. I suspected that I was in for an interesting encounter as I watched him stride determinedly toward me after I gave a presentation on the Syrian refugee crisis, and how a group I'm part of has sponsored two families now living in our town in Canada, at a local church recently. His jaw was set and his brow was furrowed.
I was not expecting congratulations or affirmation for the work that I had spent the last half hour or so describing, but I wasn’t expecting anything quite this stark either. It wasn’t a question or even a potential opening to a conversation. It was a crude challenge thrown down. Or a dare. Or a provocation. You have all your nice words about Jesus and love and welcoming the stranger. … Well, what do you say about this?!
Not much, as it turned out. I inquired about his sources. (He wasn’t sure—he had “read it somewhere.”) I assumed he was talking about recent events in Cologne, so I tried to explain a bit about the differences between the European and Canadian situations, talked about screening processes, and about some of the differences in demographics here in Canada. There was much more that I could should have said. But I didn’t. I was tired and not really looking for a battle. He mumbled something about needing to go and that was the last I saw of him.
