Reflecting On Terror and Grief

Cape Chignecto, July 2017

For the Christian season of Lent, my five Sunday messages are focusing on the language of Lent, and this Sunday’s word is lamentation.

Lament: a passionate expression of grief and sorrow. Fridays are my message and community prayer writing day, and I wrote yesterday under the heavy dark cloud of grief and despair. The community prayer opens with these words from the first chapter of the Book of Lamentations in the Hebrew Bible:

“For these things I weep, my eyes flow with tears; for a comforter is far from me, one to revive my courage; my children are desolate, for the enemy has prevailed.”

I wrote: "As our hearts and minds struggle to understand the kind of hate that would compel a human being to desire the violent death of other human beings, our spirits pour out love and peace – going where only angels dare to go –to those who must overcome sorrow and pain, and a new fear in order to live in their own communities, where they must now worry about what another person is thinking, believing, planning.

We gather together in our quiet grief to share in the loud lamentations of the world, those who mourn their friends and family killed by white supremacists, killed by civil war and terrorism, killed by domestic violence, killed by poverty and starvation, killed by neglect and isolation."

Like this one."

We always ask, What can we do? So I tried to answer: "Let us offer friendship when others offer prejudice. Let us offer grace when others offer judgement. Let us offer wisdom when others offer ignorance. Let us offer our voice when others are silent.

And, let us not forget a prayer of gratitude – for we live in a safe community, as part of the Christian world that doesn’t know what it’s like to be persecuted, even hunted down, because of our faith. We gather together for worship and are at our most vulnerable, our hearts and minds open to the inpouring of the Holy Spirit, of divine energy. We gather together for worship and do not feel the dark presence of fear or death behind us. We give thanks for your loving presence, God, in our midst, but more importantly, in the midst of those facing fear and death…in their own home, in a classroom, during a time of prayer.

And as I wrote this, I remember something that happened last Sunday during our community prayer. Remember we put our clocks forward last weekend? One of our occasional attendees, a woman from the community named Mary, arrived at twenty after eleven, thinking she was on time for the 10:30 service. Right in the middle of our moment of silence, when we name in our hearts those for whom we are concerned, Mary opened the door to the sanctuary, saw me in the pulpit, and said in her loud voice, “I didn’t know you were going to be here today!”

In the middle of our silence, of our thinking about friends and family members for whom we are worried, we all smiled. Without looking around, we knew who had arrived in our midst, bringing her particular kind of joy.

It suddenly hit me last night: I stood in that pulpit, facing the congregation, and I heard the door open. I looked up and saw Mary, I heard her familiar voice, and I smiled. I was glad to see her, no matter how late. And last night, I realized how fortunate I am – and likely will continue to be so fortunate – that it is only ever Mary who comes through that door in the middle of our silence, in the middle of our prayer. The alternative is not to be imagined even as we see it play out again and again on the television news. Or – heaven help us – live streamed.

For those in two mosques in New Zealand, in a mosque in Quebec City, in a synagogue in Pittsburgh, in Christian churches in South Carolina and Texas, the person opening the door of the sanctuary – and by sanctuary, I mean a sacred and safe space where we are our most open, our most spirited, our most vulnerable – it was not a voice filled with happiness that heralded the moment that would change lives and wipe the smiles from all our faces.

As my friend Alia signed off her text to me last night, Peace to all.
S xo

(As originally published on my Facebook author page)