Duty and Community: Where Do They Begin and End?
January 19, 2009 by Julia King
Although I don’t exactly know him, he does grow some of the food I eat (sells it at the local farmers market), so I was pleasantly surprised to see his familiar face in the jury room full of strangers. The last time we spoke he had introduced me to the most delicious squash ever (delicata) and for that I will always be grateful.
The bailiff explained the process: She would call 12 names. Those people would line up by the door, followed by the rest of the prospective jurors, 37 in all. At the judge’s secret signal (a telephone call to our upper level room), we would march together through the hall and down the steps like an elementary school class. We would file into the courtroom, with the first 12 taking seats within the jury box and the rest of us sitting in the general section of the courtroom. The defense and prosecuting attorneys would ask questions of the 12 seated in the jury box and dismiss them at will, replacing them with new people until they were satisfied with 12. Then they would add one for good measure, the alternate.
As we made our way through the building and into the courtroom, we carried with us the same buzz of excitement that children take to an all-school assembly or out into the parking lot during a fire drill. We tried to shed our nervous energy with extra-good posture and clever little asides.
We settled into the courtroom, many of us sitting before the judge’s instructions to do so, then standing, then sitting again with his bass, “You may be seated.” All the prospective jurors (those in and out of the jury box) took an oath and were told the defendant had been accused of… child molestation.
Party OVER. There wasn’t exactly a gasp, but there was a silent shift in the mood. This was not a game. This might not even be fun. Ugh.
The woman next to me quickly lowered her head and whispered, “I feel like I’m going to cry. My father molested me. I say cut the guy’s head off.” There is a story there (obviously), but I’ll tell it another time.
This story is about the organic farmer, the one who grows some of the food I eat, the one who made my eyes several sizes bigger when he refused to serve. In his gentle voice, he said he did not believe in this system, primarily because he believes disputes must be settled within “a community.” He said his beliefs were based on his Anabaptist faith (presumably Brethren or Mennonite, but he didn’t specify).
He went on to say he couldn’t judge a man if he didn’t know his family or his friends or where he went to church. The judge asked if he could try, if he could understand that he wasn’t stamping the defendant “good” or “bad,” just helping to determine if the defendant had committed certain acts. This farmer, this man I had considered a member of my community… said he could not. He could not try. He could not “do his best” — as the attorneys put it — to follow the law. We may have physically shared the courtroom (and the farmers market, and the streets of our town), but apparently I was mistaken to believe we shared a community. I surprised myself by feeling utterly rebuffed. The judge dismissed him and he left the courtroom.
It was a bold and public proclamation of faith, this refusal to serve, this rejection of the larger community in deference to the smaller one. Clearly, the man was earnest and intended no malice toward any of us (even me). He was simply living out his deepest principles, which is not at all a bad way to live.
And yet… as the case unfolded, the case the farmer refused to own, it became clear that the people involved had very little “community” of the sort the farmer described. They were largely transient, moving from job to job, from house to house, from town to town, even state to state. Who, then, could reasonably be expected to step forward to listen to their stories? To secure a defendant’s freedom and reputation, or to grant a child protection?
In an ideal world, we would each fit neatly into some safe spot on the planet where others would know us and care for us, nudge us in the right direction from time to time when necessary. This, plainly, is the kind of world the farmer wishes for. It might even be the kind of world in which he, himself, lives. If only everyone were as fortunate.
If it sounds as though I’m picking on this farmer of faith, I don’t intend to. Obviously, each day humans take on some responsibilities and let others go. I don’t pretend to know the quality of the farmer’s life, or faith, or commitment to others. I only know that he drew the boundaries around his “community” so tightly that he left me wondering (even worrying?).
So, what – exactly – is a “community”? My own working definition is, perhaps, so large and expansive that it’s unwieldy, excessively vague. There are distinctions within that expansive community, of course (family, friends, acquaintances, strangers… neighborhood, town, state, country, world, and so on). I have (and should have) more influence and responsibility in some arenas than in others, but I would be hard-pressed to find a space I would define as “outside” my community.
Considering the nature of the word (“community”), the fact that it is inherently social and connected to (or separated from) others, it’s something I am unable to define alone.
What are your thoughts? What is your definition? Where does your community begin and end?
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