My teenage conscience live in concert!

I went to my first Switchfoot concert last night, which seems hilarious in multiple ways.  One being that they were the first band I obsessed over.  The other being that they've been around for, you know, pushing two decades.  And, naturally, they played at a theatre less than a mile from my apartment.  Random.  I love the intimacy of listening to a band whose songs were such a foundational element in forming my identity.  Sometimes I think Jon Foreman was my teenage conscience.  I still have my original cds and their army of small scratches.  My journals paint an ode to their impact.   Do you have a song that you obsessed over during a very specific period in your life, and then ten years later can play it and flashback to that moment?  Yeah, good stuff.
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Sometimes we think that response has to be proportional to whatever event proceeded it.  If something terrible happens, my response has to be very firm and confident and assertive in regards to whom, when, where, and why.  If something sad happens, my response has to be wordy and exaggerated to compensate for helplessness.  If something outrageous happens, my response has to be passionate and reassuring to someone, even if only myself.  Sidebar: "has to be" is not necessarily always a conscious process.
My problem is that I kind of suck at "proportional" responses.  I can produce witnesses ;0)  I don't find security or safety in formulating responses to things like government shut downs or scandal or school shootings or victim blaming blog posts or all the people in jail who couldn't read in 3rd grade or suicidal 7 year olds.  I don't find safety in policies or Facebook micro social movements or lecturing or assessments or statistics or political party affiliation.  I feel lost in a mosh pit of verbal vomit.  It's not that I don't have something to say, or a desire to speak my mind.  But, more often than not, what truly can be said and be proportional?
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There are moments.  Small moments.  Maybe alone, maybe in a small group, maybe in an auditorium that seats a couple hundred.
All the pressure for proportional fades.  All the voices outside of that moment clambering over each other to be heard, fade into white noise.  What remains is us.  Together in our struggle for a response.  Nothing except our voices, some instruments, soft lights to illuminate the dark space surrounding our group.  The dark space doesn't escape my attention but, rather becomes inferior to what is happening now.
We find our voices.  We find a solidarity in our lifting one timeless song, with each one's voice, with one aim: to be heard.  It is here that I find my security.  The anthem of my sisters and brothers and little ones and elders.  "hello hurricane, you're not enough...you can't silence my love."  "until I die, I'll sing these songs, on the shores of Babylon, still looking for a home, in a world where I belong."