Privilege & Persepective

I was born to privilege. No, we weren’t wealthy. We lived in a small farm house built by my great grandfather. The white asbestos shingled structure was unceremoniously constructed in a cow pasture in rural Mississippi.

My family never owned a new vehicle. Our first family vacation involved loading all the kids in the back of a 60’s Chevrolet pickup - complete with wooden cattle gates surrounding the bed and a tarpaulin stretched across the top. With a cooler full of RC Colas, Vienna sausages, potted meat and saltines – we set out to explore the far reaches of civilization (aka Ruby Falls and Rock City.) We were living large.

I was born to privilege. Maybe not by standards that most would imagine, but the older I get, the more I realize that I was uniquely privileged. To be surrounded by loving parents, grandparents, great grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins – all who were God-fearing, church going people is a rare privilege in this modern age. There is built-in accountability in close family structures. I didn’t want to disappoint my parents. I would never dream of embarrassing my extended family. With every prayer around the dinner table - every flannel-graph story in Vacation Bible School - every time we gathered around my grandparents old pump organ to sing Christmas carols, I had an abiding sense that God was at the center of our lives. I knew that He loved me and that my family loved me and cheered me on - even when it meant I didn't always get my way. What comfort – what stability this affords me - even to this very day.

As I followed the story, and saw the images of Paris Hilton being carted back to jail this week I thought about how underprivileged she truly is. Though she’s been given all the things that money can buy, she’s apparently not been equipped to face life itself. Her parents failed to teach her respect and responsibility, and now she has to learn it a much harder way. Her courtroom cries to her mom were more than telling. They sounded like the cries of a child to the one who should be able to protect her. Those cries were too little, too late.

Her mom could have helped her by teaching her that with “privilege” comes responsibility – that every blessing she enjoys comes from her Creator. Apparently Paris was not afforded that privilege. So, as one who often takes for granted the simple, but good life I was born into, I find myself pitying Paris. And praying for Paris. For the first time in her life she is forced to endure silence and separation. But I believe that this may be the first time in her life that she could possibly hear the still, small voice of God. No friends, no parties, no paparazzi, no staff, no attorneys, no mom, no shopping, no music, no TV – just Paris in an 8 X 12 cell. I’m praying that, in her brokenness, she cries out to the only One who can help. There may never be another opportunity for her to escape the madness of her world long enough to hear God calling. Please join me in praying that this lost child will see her life for what it truly is, and see God’s offer of abundant life for all it truly can be.