Mourning
This morning, my teenaged daughter, G., messaged me before my first class: "I'm sad."
I opened the chat window to check in. More IMs followed: "My old camp counselor." "The janitor was doing inappropriate things and I think they tried to fire him and then he came up with a gun."
Then, she sent me a copied-and-pasted link to a news article.
I don't know if any of us ever get good at mourning. I tried to tell her that it's OK to grieve a loss like this, even if the person touched your life for a moment or season. It's also OK to rage, when the reason they're gone is something that feels stupid to us, like another person's narcissistic, uncontrolled anger, or mere carelessness.
* * *
Last night, our priest encouraged us to push past our own navel-gazing and look around at our communities and our world. To mourn for our collective violence, indifference, and waste.
Beyond mourning, though, there is a second task the liturgy mentions: repentance. A lot of people, both inside and outside the church, misunderstand that word: repentance is not just about feeling bad or verbally admitting wrongdoing. It's about doing better. Taking concrete action that reflects the state of your heart.
For example, let's say that I am grieved at pollution, that I view it as an injury to other people/beings and as bad stewardship of the earth. On a personal/individual level, repentance might look like an increased commitment to recycling or composting, and an insistence on using trash cans for waste. On a community level, however, repentance works a little differently: our shared responsibility is to create systems which don't poison others, systems which change pollution's global trajectory. That may mean that as a participant in a community called to repent, my task is to organize and press others to change, so that we can collectively do better.
Does this have political implications? Hell yes, it does.
And to people who want to pearl-clutch and whine that Christians shouldn't get "political," I would ask -- along with the author of the book of James -- how valuable is your so-called religion, if it doesn't spur you to do things?
Salt of the Earth, and all that business.
* * *
"Stupid earth," my daughter's followup IM said. "I just hate feeling like this and I hate that other people hurt and die like this."
I responded that I wished I could hug her. Then, I advised her to take her emotions today and channel them toward doing something in the future -- whether it's pushing for better protections on a social level, or simply extending empathy and care to someone else who experiences violent loss.
Several hours later, I got this picture, in response:
Obviously, voting is a small, participatory measure -- and one with a limited, imperfect (and frustratingly hard-to-predict) effect. There are many ways to try to improve society, and some have far greater impact. But the photo told me that G. hasn't lost hope. That the spirit of active, communal repentance is working, somewhere within her. And this was one tangible step she thought she could take, in order to move her community to protect others down the line.
Ultimately, it's what mourning and repentance look like, on the ground.
For today, just that much is encouraging.
For tonight, I'll light a candle for Maria Lucas and her family and pray for them before bed. I can't imagine losing someone that way. There's no neat-and-tidy way to wrap up this sort of thing theologically with feel-good platitudes, or a handful of Bible verses.
It's terrible. It should never have happened.
I opened the chat window to check in. More IMs followed: "My old camp counselor." "The janitor was doing inappropriate things and I think they tried to fire him and then he came up with a gun."
Then, she sent me a copied-and-pasted link to a news article.
I don't know if any of us ever get good at mourning. I tried to tell her that it's OK to grieve a loss like this, even if the person touched your life for a moment or season. It's also OK to rage, when the reason they're gone is something that feels stupid to us, like another person's narcissistic, uncontrolled anger, or mere carelessness.
* * *
Last night, our priest encouraged us to push past our own navel-gazing and look around at our communities and our world. To mourn for our collective violence, indifference, and waste.
Beyond mourning, though, there is a second task the liturgy mentions: repentance. A lot of people, both inside and outside the church, misunderstand that word: repentance is not just about feeling bad or verbally admitting wrongdoing. It's about doing better. Taking concrete action that reflects the state of your heart.
For example, let's say that I am grieved at pollution, that I view it as an injury to other people/beings and as bad stewardship of the earth. On a personal/individual level, repentance might look like an increased commitment to recycling or composting, and an insistence on using trash cans for waste. On a community level, however, repentance works a little differently: our shared responsibility is to create systems which don't poison others, systems which change pollution's global trajectory. That may mean that as a participant in a community called to repent, my task is to organize and press others to change, so that we can collectively do better.
Does this have political implications? Hell yes, it does.
And to people who want to pearl-clutch and whine that Christians shouldn't get "political," I would ask -- along with the author of the book of James -- how valuable is your so-called religion, if it doesn't spur you to do things?
"What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if you say you have faith but do not have works? Can faith save you? If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, 'Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill' and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that? So faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead." (James 2:14-17, NRSV)
Salt of the Earth, and all that business.
* * *
"Stupid earth," my daughter's followup IM said. "I just hate feeling like this and I hate that other people hurt and die like this."
I responded that I wished I could hug her. Then, I advised her to take her emotions today and channel them toward doing something in the future -- whether it's pushing for better protections on a social level, or simply extending empathy and care to someone else who experiences violent loss.
Several hours later, I got this picture, in response:
Obviously, voting is a small, participatory measure -- and one with a limited, imperfect (and frustratingly hard-to-predict) effect. There are many ways to try to improve society, and some have far greater impact. But the photo told me that G. hasn't lost hope. That the spirit of active, communal repentance is working, somewhere within her. And this was one tangible step she thought she could take, in order to move her community to protect others down the line.
Ultimately, it's what mourning and repentance look like, on the ground.
For today, just that much is encouraging.
For tonight, I'll light a candle for Maria Lucas and her family and pray for them before bed. I can't imagine losing someone that way. There's no neat-and-tidy way to wrap up this sort of thing theologically with feel-good platitudes, or a handful of Bible verses.
It's terrible. It should never have happened.
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