Witness of Love and Unity

A black & white church coming together to have church.

It began while the echoes of gunshots replayed on the screen in front of me. Like so many other times before — in Orlando, Louisiana, Minnesota, and now Dallas. Violence begetting violence.

Up to that point I didn’t know what to say, what to post. But I knew that at that moment I’d had enough of posting another hashtag — #prayfor[fill-in-the-blank].

And I’d had enough of the divisiveness and hatred, the pointing of fingers and exchange of rhetoric.

I wanted to do something. I felt had to do something. I was tied in knots about it — still am to an extent. Knotted by Holy Spirit’s grip on my conscience.

So I called a local pastor, one with whose congregation my congregation has a shared history. And not just any shared history — but that of the Underground Railroad once operated in our river town.

Both our churches trace their history through a stop on that Underground Railroad to freedom, even though both of our congregations couldn’t be less alike. His, black and Baptist. Mine, white and Presbyterian.

Consequently, it was that shared history, which had brought he and I together over a year prior, when we were in the basement of the church building mine once occupied in the 19th century and his does to this day. The basement, where slaves running for their lives — running for freedom — were harbored. Where they supported one another and were supported — mouths fed, wounds bound, hope given.

Underneath that evening, I was overwhelmed with the smell of dirt and blood and tears, as well as the spirit of courage, of hope, of freedom that still clung to the damp air.

And then I went home and watched the news of the shooting in Charleston.

That was when the seeds were planted that eventually led to what happened over this past weekend. After yet another shooting, this time of police officers in Dallas, watching over a peaceful protest.

“We have to do something” was where I began our conversation on Friday.

“Let’s just open the doors and see what happens” is where he ended it on Saturday morning, both of us convicted that amid the hate and division we were called to be a witness — a living embodiment of love and unity, our two congregations, and whoever else might join under such short notice.

“To have church.” But also to be the Church — together.

The doors were opened early Sunday evening, and people came. The representation from our two congregations were beyond both of our expectations, as was the presence of other community members and friends, until the wooden pews in historic sanctuary were well over half full.

A gathered witness of unity, as I pointed out in my remarks — young and old, rich and poor, gay and straight, black and white, all gathered because of tragedy we all shared in our own way, and which had brought us all together.

To pray together— for those effected by the violence, for our law enforcement officers, for an end to the senseless loss of innocent lives.

To sing together — “Satan we’re gonna tear your kingdom down!” and “This Little Light of Mine”. Among others

To share together — acknowledgements of white privilege; testimony by a parent of black teen murdered years ago, along with several others.

Our particular vigil, intentionally featuring the voices of our community, not prominent members thereof.

And as part of that sharing, one of those community members — and members of my church, of whom I’m extremely proud — invited us to hug and embrace those around us.

Oh, the sight and the sound — of bodies moving towards each other, not with fists raised but arms open and differences aside. Strangers embracing strangers. People who didn’t look like each other in the mirror, face to face and arms in arms.

I will never forget that sight. I wish the world had seen that sight, everywhere. I know, at least, that God saw and smiled down upon us.

At some point in the service, I openly hoped that we would flip the headlines away from hate and division to stun the world with our love.

In the end, what we made clear was that this wasn’t a special occasion — an observance in times of tragedy — but a sacred start to working towards some sort of change and making some sort of difference.

Not a memory, as I noted in my remarks, but motivation.

In the end, we held hands. Tiny hands of youth in those wrinkled by age. Black and white. The hands of the children of God linked together and forever (so I pray) with a prayer for the day when everyone comes to understand that lives matter — gay lives, black lives, cop lives, all lives — because they matter to God.