Everyone is gone for the day.
The church is quiet and still.
And here I sit, pouring over the words in the hymnal and songbooks.
Looking for just the right combination of joy and reflection. Of longing and praise. Of reality and possibility. Of the familiar and the uncomfortable.
Sometimes I forget we also have to sing the tunes.
As I drive north on 380 from home, there is a field right by the interstate that has a homespun billboard. For five years, I have been disappointed by the trite, sometimes offensive, and always partisan slogans that grace this sign.
Maybe part of my disappointment is there is no opportunity for relationship or conversation. What is the point of having a sign without a vehicle to interact? I want to know why this person thinks what they do, why they feel the need to so visually post their thoughts, and what impact they think they are making. Typically this kind of negative sloganism promotes further division rather than a bridging of opinions.
I actually saw him once, out there changing the words to “Obummer… more lies” (with the iconc ‘O’ of the Obama campaign”) one day as I drove whizzing past. I must admit feeling… well, not ill thoughts towards this gentleman, but certainly not pleasant ones. I do remember exclaiming, “really?” on one of my last drives.
But today when I drove by, I was more than pleasantly surprised. In place of the usual partisan soundbyte was a sign that read:
God bless medical workers.
My feelings about this person increased a hundred-fold. Who is this guy? Why the switch to a positive message? What would happen if instead of spewing spin and negative slandars we took more time to pray together, to celebrate good work, to point to where God is active?
My entire drive I thought about that sign.
I thought about my family members who work in the healthcare industry. I thought about doctors and nurses who had cared for me and for loved ones. I thought about all the medical professionals involved in the tragedies this week in Boson, MA and West, TX. I thought about those who are working to fight malaria.
I don’t know whose sign it is.
I’m not any closer to relationship with that man.
But he is in my prayers tonight. I thank God for some good words on a long drive and for a perceived change in attitude.
I am hoping the next sign inspires me as much as this last one.
Two weeks ago, a young person in Northwest Iowa killed himself after being bullied. He had recently come out that he was gay to classmates, friends and family. Our students in Marengo are often vicious towards one another and hurt their peers every day with words and actions that are not kind or compassionate… especially in regards to their sexuality: perceived, lived, or otherwise.
When delegates stood yesterday and Mark Miller spoke to the feelings of hurt, betrayal, disappointment felt after an exercise in holy conferencing on human sexuality was poorly run, tears started streaming down my face. Because our schedule was off, because elections ran over, because the time was cut short, because there was not a set way for participating, because not every group had the same experiences, what could have been a conference wide discussion was disjointed, awkward, and unsuccessful.
I cannot be sure of the specifics that he was referring to. But I do know the hopes that many had for those conversations. The opportunity to speak the truth in love to one another. To pray together. To ask God to guide us together in spite of our differences into a common foundation for our later work in legislative committees. But because those conversations were not given the fullness of weight we intended to have, we short-changed ourselves, our conference, and the world. I don’t know what happened in specific groups, but as our brothers and sisters stood with Mark at the microphone – they spoke of a spirit of bullying… and said that no one else did anything about it.
Often, our greatest sin is the sin of omission. Of not speaking up. Of not defending our brothers and sisters. Of not being a spirit of encouragement. Of allowing others to dominate, hurt, demean, offend, and refusing to speak. We do it because we are afraid of becoming the target our selves. We do it because we are not sure what to say. We do it because we are lazy. We do it because we are complicit. We do it because we ourselves are broken.
As Mark and the others stood at the microphone, others in the plenary session began to stand, too. And in the bleachers and in the observer sections, a person here and a person there began to stand. And I could not keep sitting. I thought of that young man from Iowa. I thought of my youth. I thought of all of the times that I had not spoken up. I thought of twitter and facebook conversations that I had refused to comment on and stop from continuing. I cannot do that anymore. I have to stand up. I have to speak. I have to reach out in love.
And so when I left worship tonight, full of healing music and the power of prayer and a cleansed heart, and I saw brothers and sisters standing silently lining the exits, I had to stop and stand with them. To join hands with my brothers and sisters. To pray. To sing. To commit myself to act on behalf of those who are being shut out, talked about and not with, and bullied with word or deeds.
