“When All Is Not Well”
It is seared in my memory, lodged in my heart in the very best way: the heartbreaking vigil service held at Washington, D.C.’s Metropolitan AME Church just two days after the racist shooting at a Charleston, South Carolina church that left nine Black people dead.
I had started sobbing about five minutes into the interfaith service, when church members walked to the front of the sanctuary and held up huge photos of the nine people killed.
But nothing prepared me for how the service would end. I watched the church’s pastor walk over to the choir director and whisper in his ear. He then took to the pulpit and announced that there would be a change in the closing hymn.
The pastor, whose dear friend and colleague in Charleston had just been murdered, then proceeded to lead us in the strong and spirited singing of “It Is Well with My Soul.”
Can you imagine thinking or feeling that it is well with your soul, much less singing it, after the most unimaginably horrible thing had happened?
I was both dumbstruck and deeply, deeply humbled.
I share that memory with you this morning because I’m not sure that we—mostly white, mostly educated, mostly economically secure, mostly citizens of this country—can fully appreciate or understand such strong, abiding faith.
I share that story because I can completely understand if, after the last nine days of terror, war, mass casualties, grief, and collective punishment in Israel and Gaza, today’s scripture readings might feel—what shall we say?—shallow. Flip. Out of touch. Offensive, even.
Again, I can understand those feelings. Most of us don’t want to hear platitudes or happy talk when we’ve come through yet another week that leaves us perseverating on one of life’s biggest, toughest questions: Why is there so much suffering, evil, pain, in the world, and why does God allow it?
And, not far behind: What does it mean to be a person of faith when humanity continues to exhibit an apparently inexhaustible capacity for inhumanity?
The juxtaposition of green pastures and bombed out buildings, still waters and life-threatening thirst, goodness and mercy vs. terror and brutality, rejoicing and celebrating vs. grieving and suffering was jarring enough to make me consider throwing out this week’s lectionary readings.
But that would have been foolish. To reject comfort in the face of unfathomable grief and paralyzing despair is to surrender to the forces of evil and death. To disparage some of the most foundational teachings of our faith in times of suffering and struggle is to let nihilism carry the day. To let human weakness and fear determine what we believe and how we will behave is to rebuff the goodness of God.
This is what the apostle Paul knew when, writing from a jail cell, he told the Philippians to “rejoice in the Lord always.” This is what a heartbroken pastor and members of Metropolitan AME Church understood. And so they sang “It Is Well with My Soul” as a way of claiming God’s promise, as a way of reminding themselves that no matter how badly shaken their world was in that moment, they still stood on the solid ground of God’s love and justice.
And so it should be with us, who have suffered far less. And so it must be with us as—even we watch a terror group and a nation wreak havoc, destruction, and death; even as we worry that the violence will escalate and envelop other nations; even as we realize that we are afraid to see the depths to which humans can stoop; even as we, understandably, resist letting our carefully constructed lives be disturbed.
To proclaim that it is well with our souls when it is not at all well with the world is to ground ourselves in a faith that can heal and transform the world. To hold fast to what is good when so much is horrible is to hold back the powers of hell.
And still, just as we do not live in a world where everything is black or white, right or wrong, so we cannot live out our faith according to clear, well-defined binaries. The world is much more complex than that. Our own lives are more nuanced than that. And God knows the histories of Jews and Palestinians are both more complex, convoluted, painful, and tragic than almost anything.
And so, too, our response to what is happening in Israel and Gaza must take into account the pain, grief, loss, insecurity, and life-threatening conditions on all sides. We must spend at least as much time, energy, and heart reaching out privately in compassion and humility—especially to our Jewish friends and neighbors—as we do making public statements for peace.
I have spent considerable time over the past week engaging two friends who are rabbis. Our email conversations have been delicate, offering and receiving support but also naming disappointments and differences and sharing resources and perspectives.
Hearing one friend’s stories about the people she loves whose dear ones were killed by Hamas, and also the connections between Holocaust survivors and residents of at least one Israeli kibbutz destroyed by Hamas, opened my heart. I now have the clarity to say strongly and sincerely that while I cannot always stand with the state of Israel because of all I know of the Palestinian reality, I will always stand with the Jewish people.
At the same time, I was able to hear my other rabbi friend say that we progressives who might believe we stand strongly against antisemitism will fail to be effective allies of our Jewish neighbors if we do not respect their relationship with Israel.
The issues are complex, but our call to stand in solidarity with and compassion for the suffering and vulnerable is not. It is both clear and universal.
So, too, is Jesus’ way of non-violence, love, inclusivity, empowerment, justice-making, and peace-seeking.
As followers of Jesus, we must be clear in condemning all violence and all actions that dehumanize and threaten life and well-being. And we must seek to understand the collective pain, fear, desperation, and history behind the violence. We must lament and pray for all lives lost, all who are being held hostage in one way or another, all who grieve, and all who are living in fear and despair. We must call for an end to retaliatory violence and the safe return of all hostages and all those who have been displaced.
As followers of Jesus, we must commit ourselves to working for understanding, policies, and changes in conditions on the ground that will, once this current war has ended, prevent or greatly limit the likelihood of future wars.
All of this requires of us not so much a strong faith as a humble faith, a faith that can recognize our need for God and find rest in God’s goodness. These times call not for platitudes or toxic positivity, but for a faith that can withstand the very worst because it is grounded in the very best, the love and grace of God.
I leave you with these wise words from the Rev. Maren Tirabassi:
God is the shepherd of Israel and Palestine,
a people who want peace and fear war.
God is a child desperate for water,
and a family terrified for precious hostages.
God is in all souls. God waits on every path.
This week the valley of the shadow of death
is crowded with God’s children,
and they have no comfort
but our prayers,
the prayers of the world,
for a table where enemies may sit down
to speak healing words,
receive an anointing of truce,
and shatter the cup of death
before more is poured out
on those who are innocent.
Goodness and mercy will follow us,
even in these days of fear and grieving,
until we build a house of reconciliation
and dwell in it together.
Amen.
