Sharing Grace with the NRA in a Parking Lot

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I was on my way to the gun safety demonstration on the first night of the National Rifle Association convention in Dallas. As I clutched my homemade poster against a downtown breeze, two men wearing NRA badges stopped me in a parking lot.

“What does your poster mean?” one asked. “Never forget who?”

I explained that I’d made the poster around the theme of victims of gun violence. I searched the internet for names and photos from some of the mass shootings in America: Columbine, Sandy Hook, “Mother Bethel” AME Church in Charleston, SC; the Pulse nightclub in Orlando; and most recently, Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Fla. Not having enough room to list all mass shooting such as Las Vegas and Virginia Tech and Sutherland Springs, and nowhere near enough posters to cover the 33,000 gun deaths that occur every year in America, I added a line at the bottom: “& 2 Many (Upward Arrow meaning ‘more’).”

One of the men seemed impressed. “But you know, in each of those cases, if someone had had a gun, they could have stopped the shooter.”

The other added, “And the gun wasn’t to blame. We both own AR-15s. We hunt with them.”

I was incredulous. “You hunt with them? Do you have any meat left after you’ve killed something?”

One man responded, “The bullet is only about the size of a .22. It’s the bump stocks that cause the damage, not the gun.”

“We’re against bump stocks,” his companion chimed in.

“I’ll bet you didn’t grow up with guns,” the other man said. “Most people aren’t taught how to use them.”

Actually I did grow up around a gun, I told them. My father was a special deputy sheriff for years, and there was always a .38 Special in his top bureau drawer, a place my brother and I were forbidden to go on pain of severe punishment.

What I didn’t say was that my mother was terrified of my father’s gun. Once, when in the grip of one of his post-World War II PTSD episodes, my father grabbed his revolver and shouted that he was going to kill himself. Our father’s outburst frightened my younger brother so much that he ran from the house. Only the need to get my brother to safety persuaded my father to put his revolver away.

Instead of sharing that shattering family episode with the NRA members, I smiled at them. “There’s something we agree on. I’m here because I think we need better regulation of guns.”

Both men quickly replied, “We do, too!” Then one of them added, “But I think we need better enforcement of the regulations we do have, like not letting guns into the hands of mentally ill people. One of my friends was killed at Sutherland Springs. I never want to go through that again. If the military hadn’t been scared of the political ramifications, they’d have reported that shooter and he wouldn’t have been able to get guns.

“But we don’t need to ban any kinds of guns,” he insisted. “Once you start doing that, it won’t be long before all guns are outlawed. That’s what we’re afraid of.”

From a distance, I could hear sounds of a rally beginning. “Look, I have to go,” I said. “But at least we know we both want better gun regulations. Why don’t you go back to your people, and I’ll go back to my people, and we can both say that there’s something we agree on. It’s a start anyway.”

The NRA members agreed, although I got the impression they weren’t as eager to share our encounter as I was. Nonetheless we parted, believe it or not, with hugs and blessings.

Our encounter didn’t dissuade me from going to the anti-gun violence rally, nor keep me from returning next day to attempt another demonstration that unfortunately didn’t materialize. I also made two visits to the prayer vigils set up in City Hall Plaza by an interfaith organization in Dallas. Both times while there I prayed for those NRA members I had met.

I wonder now whether the men I chatted with casually told any of their fellow NRA members about our chance meeting. I wonder if they appreciated the civility with which we talked as much as I did. And I wonder if I should have shared with them that terrible mental health incident from our family’s history, as an example of how close my own family came to being a statistic in the sad history of gun violence in America.

I wish I’d had the presence of mind to ask my new acquaintances how they could countenance their organization’s continued blockage of improved gun regulations and enforcement that we both seemed to want. Or why two citizens, who professed church membership and talked quite civilly to a stranger, could belong to an organization that runs on such harmful rhetoric. Moral questions and answers such as those don’t come quickly in a parking lot.

Still, I don’t see all NRA members as evil human beings now. I still think we need much tighter gun safety regulations. I’d still like to see assault rifles and assault pistols banned from civilian use. I think we need federally funded studies on the epidemic of gun violence in America, with an emphasis on how to stop it.

Most of all, I’d like to see more of us able hold a polite, non-threatening discussion like the three of us were able to achieve in a 10-minute chance encounter. That would be a major step toward stopping the bloodshed in our country.

Cynthia B. Astle serves as Editor of United Methodist Insight, which she founded in 2011.