I like to imagine that one day in heaven I’ll be strolling down the gilded streets, and suddenly I’ll hear a voice shout,

“Bethany! Whazzup!”

“Hey! Amos!”

We’ll jump for an aerial high five and come down into a sweet end zone dance. (A solemn handshake may be more likely… but maybe not. After all, it’s heaven! We’ll be pretty pumped!)

So, how did a crotchety B.C. shepherd become so endeared to my heart? It began the autumn of 2002.

Two friends of my sister’s, a Jew and a Mormon, were intrigued by the manuscripts our religions share. Short and relatively unknown, a Minor Prophet seemed a logical choice for a text to study together. An agnostic and a Buddhist joined us, and as the discussion facilitator, my homework began. I was immediately captivated by Amos. A man at a tipping point of history; of deep visions yet not a prophet by trade; of unusual courage and sharp wit, undaunted even by the high priest; a man of unknown past who dared to converse directly with God.

Perhaps it’s strange that our disparate group should unite over a word that begins so ominously:

“The LORD roars from Zion and thunders from Jerusalem” (Amos 1:2).

I won’t deny that it was sometimes awkward discussing the death sentence of the 10 northern tribes, an event which the Jews lament and the Mormons deny. But God filled our cups to overflowing as we joined to ponder His justice.

For me, someone who wrestles often with doubts, Amos brings a message of great hope. On my bad days, I accusingly enquire,

"God, is it your so-called mercy that allows the cheaters to prosper?"

Without real justice, there is no true mercy, just a prettier word than ‘doormat.’ I find little purpose in believing in a God that can’t—or won’t—embody the righteousness he claims. I begin to despise my own seemingly pointless existence, reviling against my powerlessness in the face of the world’s rampant selfishness, and if I’m honest, the selfishness I find in myself.

But then there is Amos. God permits not even his beloved Israel to defile his justice indefinitely. I don’t think I’m alone in finding relief in this restoration of balance, tough though it may be; my generation, if not this age, yearns for a demonstration of God’s active intervention.

Amos comforts me when I fear I shall languish endlessly in disappointment over the ills of this planet and my own failures. Amos assures me that God’s mercy is neither weakness, nor indifference, but patience. He reminds me that the day is coming when all things will be restored to their proper place, when evil will no longer be allowed to run unchecked, even in my own heart.

Amos inspires me that I can with confidence rely on God’s restoration of justice to the downtrodden, which he is enacting even now. I can with hope join the cry of

“Let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream!” (Amos 5:24).

And maybe, one golden afternoon, I’ll dance a little victory boogie with Amos, my homeboy.