The First Sunday After the Election

It was the first Sunday after the election, and I wasn’t the only one who came to church in search of healing. Our congregation is many in terms of race, culture, background and class; but we gather because we were also one. One hope. One faith. One Lord. One old red-brick building facing east, perched on a hill overlooking a wide, crowded valley. Overlooking the city that is my home.

Pittsburgh, Pa. November 13, 2016. Mercifully, the sun had risen another day.

On that Sunday, I gave and received hugs, eased my body into a pew, and tried to settle my mind. Our daughters were collecting crayons and paper from the table in the back, and my husband sat close, leaning into my arm. He knew I was barely hanging on.

I sighed.

Psalm 27 filled the first page of the bulletin. Too much text, I thought. I need to sing. I was desperate to gather up the chaos inside and release it into words, notes, and vibrations. I needed our collective voices to transform some of this pain into hope.

But I had no choice. This was how we were beginning. And so, as sunlight through stained glass filled the room, I submitted to the many words.

The Lord is my light and salvation. Whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?

And I thought, Lord, would you like a list?

When evildoers assail me to devour my flesh–my adversaries and foes–they shall stumble and fall.

Or win elections. Betrayal was still bitter on my tongue.

though war rise up against me, yet I will be confident… for he will hide me in his shelter in the day of trouble… Hear, O Lord, when I cry aloud, be gracious to me and answer me!

The psalm went on and on. And on. Together we heard it. Together we allowed it to soak in. Together we let the light crack through the stone we were using to protect our aching hearts.

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Photo by V. Wolkins

You could almost hear the chisel at work: Do not forsake us, Lord–the Lord will not forsake us–Do not forsake us, Lord–the Lord will not forsake us.

Chip, chip, crack.

I believe I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage. Wait for the Lord!

Now it was time to sing.

* * * * *

Later, during prayer request time, we shared our own words.

I know a lot of army recruits. I’m concerned that the fear and the rhetoric will lead to more deployments. These recruits–they’re great kids.

Our foundation cannot be shaken–God is still in control. God is king of kings, president of presidents. No politician has ultimate power. Don’t be afraid.

How can we have reconciliation with Christian brothers and sisters who don’t even understand why this hurts so much? 

If Muslims are forced to register, we will also register as Muslims. Because Jesus is Lord.

First, we cast our votes. Now, we cast our lives. This won’t be the first time. 

And, like Psalm 27, we went on and on. And on.

* * * * *

My family left before the end of the service. We had previous plans to visit my parents, who live an hour out of the city. But first, on our way to their house, we would go on a quick bike ride. It was a beautiful fall day in Western Pennsylvania, and we had wanted to try this trail for months.

But now I was nervous.

As we drove north, the Trump yard signs multiplied, and my stomach tightened. Paranoia surfaced. Why had my husband insisted on wearing his “Black Lives Matter” t-shirt? Would someone say something disparaging in front of the girls? Or worse? We would be in isolated places on the trail. What if someone tries to hurt us?

I had one comfort–it was cold. My husband  would have to wear his flannel over his t-shirt. We could blend in. None of us had dark skin, or wore a hijab, or seemed ‘other’ in any other way. No one would know who we were and where we came from.

And that quickly, I forgot who we were and where we came from.

* * * * *

The other day a friend said to me, “There are people who are deeply invested in the divisions in America.” This didn’t make sense at first. Aren’t the deep divisions our problem? But then I realized–it is the divisions that keep us safe.

As long as my husband wears his “Black Lives Matter” t-shirt in the city and his flannel in the country, we will be safe. As long as we vent our frustrations about the election with like-minded friends, no one will challenge us. As long as we pray with people who feel our pain, we can comfort one another.

Now. There’s nothing wrong with comfort, venting, or self-preservation. But we can’t stay there. Somehow we must find a way to bring our whole selves into the scary and uncomfortable places. We must listen. We must speak, somehow, in a way that can be heard across the divides.

We must learn, and learn again, to love more than we fear.

Last night I wrote out the text of Psalm 27 and posted it by my bathroom mirror. It is a reminder. A clue. A signpost on the way to hope, which I might be needing in the days to come.

The Lord is my light and salvation. Whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?

No one, Lord. No one.

A Holy Place

Three summers ago, I stood with three other women in a shady Jerusalem courtyard overlooking the Dome of the Rock. We had just been separated, like goats from sheep, from the 27 others in our tour group, and instructed with a terse hand gesture to walk half the length of an American football field to await further instructions.

As we stood in silence and exchanged raised-eyebrow glances, we wondered what unnamed crime we had committed.

***

DSC03428The Dome of the Rock, the original site of Solomon’s temple, is the holiest site for Muslims which literally occupies the holiest site for Jews. This ornate shrine is positioned within the Old City gates of Jerusalem, and it stands above what we often call the Wailing Wall, the Western Wall of that original temple.

Christians also visit this site regularly, following in the footsteps of Jesus of Nazareth, who more than 2,000 years ago both worshiped and overturned tables in that temple. After Jesus’ death and resurrection, it is believed that Peter, Jesus’ disciple, preached on its Southern Steps during Pentecost, experiencing the improbable wind and flame of the Holy Spirit, as chronicled in the New Testament book of the Acts of the Apostles.

This is the site believed to be the very place where God instructed Abraham to sacrifice his only son. Because of this significance, these few acres in Jerusalem’s Old City are arguably the most disputed property on the planet, claimed by the unreconciled children of Abraham, father of the three most recognized religious groups in the world.

***

Jews and Christians are welcome to wander freely—relatively speaking—through the spaces below the high ground of the Dome of the Rock. But while Muslims can enter through any of the surrounding gates that lead to their shrine, everyone else must enter through a single checkpoint. And, as our tour guide had prepared us, visitors were wise to follow certain protocols.

Do not wear cross necklaces, or religious jewelry of any kind. Do not bring your Bibles. These things may be confiscated, or you may be denied entry. Women, dress modestly: make sure your shoulders and knees are covered. Be respectful.

I am a rules-follower by nature, so I had followed these simple instructions. I wore no religious jewelry, and to save space in my suitcase, the only Bible I had brought with me on this trip to Israel was the one on my iPhone. I wore khaki capris and a black cotton shirt with three-quarter-length sleeves and a slight V-neck. Not only were my shoulders and knees covered, but so were my elbows!

In spite of scorching sunshine and nearly 90-degree temperatures, I now suspected I should have worn a turtleneck.

Soon the guard called his buddy over, who conveniently carried with him a variety of neck scarves for sale—a bargain at five American dollars apiece. As one of my equally culpable traveling companions pulled out her money pouch, another member of our group came jogging over to offer extra scarves. She helped to drape one of them around my neck, making sure to cover the offending bare skin.

The guard indicated that we were now free to rejoin our group.

***

We spent maybe an hour wandering the grounds surrounding the Muslim shrine. It was not a relaxing hour. Of the ten days we spent touring through Israel—from the Sea of Galilee through the Judean Wilderness and up to Jerusalem—this was the place where I felt the most unsettled.

As our group paused to pose for a photo in front of the Dome, a group of 10-year-old boys came rushing by, blocking the view of our photographer and effectively disrupting the moment by tossing water on us.

We watched as an orthodox Jewish man wandered the grounds in prayer, accompanied by both a Muslim guard and an Israeli police officer. We were told that this was a common practice.

I sensed the hostility behind the stares of those who belonged, and I wanted nothing more than to return to the perceived safety outside these gates.

***

western-wallAn hour later, I sat in a plastic chair facing the women’s side of the Western Wall. I watched those around me as they pressed hands and foreheads against the ancient stones and tucked scraps of folded paper into the cracks, scrawled prayers offered on behalf of friends who could not be present.

I glanced to my left, toward the barrier between the women’s and men’s sides, my North American sensibilities questioning why it’s been deemed necessary to separate by gender to pray.

I contemplated the tensions of the morning so far and still felt unsettled—a mixture of fear and anger and grief. I knew I was experiencing a microcosm of the spiritual divisions that define this tiny Middle Eastern country, and indeed, the world.

I closed my eyes for a moment, and then I pulled my journal from my shoulder bag, opened it, and wrote:

24 June 2013

We pray for the peace of Jerusalem, for peace on earth, for Yeshua to return. Amen.

***

Amy bio YAH