Lately we have been studying books like 'Small is Beautiful' and 'Pedagogy of the Oppressed' and looking at how God sees injustice in the world as he spoke through the Old Testament prophets. Jesus himself announced his ministry on Earth by quoting Isaiah 4:18,19;
God's Spirit is on me;
he's chosen me to preach the Message of good news to
Sent me to announce pardon to prisoners and
recovery of sight to the blind,
To set the burdened and battered free,
to announce, "This is God's year to act!"
There has also been the anniversary of the illegalization of the slave trade in England; we've studied some of the great reformers, Lord Shaftsbury, Wilberforce, Wesley, Luther, Booth; yet still the world is full of injustice, the rich nations oppress the poor, powerless people are still trafficked in their thousands in the modern day slave trade, third world workers are exploited, young girls forced into prostitution, major corporations more often than not are concerned with the profit margin over and above the welfare of their workers. To be truly Christian, we must align ourselves with the poor and carry on Christ's mission to the oppressed. But what can one person one do?
Awareness of the issues is a start, knowledge is powerful. Frustration is better than apathy…
It's time to go to the archives. Here's a poem I wrote long time ago:
The squeak of his boots as he shoots for his goals,
Brings payment for his fame in the game,
He gained the world when he leased his soles;
Twenty million dollars for his Name.
The tingling ring of the register drawer;
Takes her two hundred dollars from her view,
'...But to wear a pair like Jordan wore'
Said her son 'is the cool thing to do...'
Sewing Machines stutter on the sweat shop floor
Where the boots are produced at a price.
Sixty hours a week at eighty cents an hour
Barely covers the cost of his rice.
The African mourns the death of his daughter
But drought, dust and war leave naught to eat,
No land, no home, no hope, no water,
No boots! He's thankful he has feet.
The squeak of the boots, the register's ring;
The sewing machines click clackity.
The rich man, the poor, who mourn, who sing?
To the din