Newsletter Column
The Rev. Vail Weller
West Shore UU Congregation
Ludington, MI
In Vail’s Voice…
As the troops approach Baghdad, I feel that my own heart is as a drumbeat,
because an ominous pounding is continually part of my awareness: it is like
the marching of soldiers, like the felling of ancient trees, like the
collapse of towering structures. The beating does not feel like the pulse of
life, moving my blood within my body, but rather, feels like the pulse of
death, spilling blood into the streets.
I find it difficult to live regular life right now. I resist the temptation
to plant myself in front of the television coverage, because while at first
I felt that it would help to make the war more real to me, I discovered the
opposite. Although it doesn’t feel as much the video game as the Persian
Gulf War in 1991 did, it still is sanitized in a way that doesn’t help
me to
understand its true effects. So what can I do? I check in with coverage so I
know what is being said, I spend a lot of time seeking coverage from a
variety of news sources, and I make plans to gather with my church family
for worship, in the hopes that my spirit will be sustained.
On the evening that we begin this war, a group of us gather at the church to
offer our prayers for peace, to mourn the loss that this war will bring. We
share our feelings of support for the women and men (many of them children,
really) who will be carrying out their fighting orders. We share our
frustration that the inspections process wasn’t continued. We share our
sadness that we have parted ways with the U.N. We talk about our fear for
the innocent civilians in Iraq. We share our concern that worldwide opinion
is so divided on this action. And we share our sense of helplessness that
our candle-lighting, our marching and our letter-writing didn’t prevent
this
war from occurring. We share the difficulty of living in such a time of
paradox: we live as others die, we laugh and then moments later, weep…we
eat
food with our families and love our children, and a moment later viscerally
feel the loss of innocent life. These are anxious times.
I am startled by my anxiety as it surfaces in unexpected moments. A few
images that stick with me:
I was preparing the sanctuary for the service the night the war began,
meditatively choosing tall, slim, white candles and placing them into a
basket. Suddenly, unbidden from my unconscious was a jarring notion: “Those
are bodies.”
On the day the war started, I saw a group of three crows, flying freely as
they do – wheeling and lifting and playing. A few days later, I saw green
shoots rising out of the earth in my garden. “How can spring be coming
at a
time like this?” I thought. Then I thought, “Thank God. Thank the
stars.
Thank the cycles of life.” I have never needed the springtime more. I do
not
take for granted these miracles, even as bombs are being dropped in a
distant land.
I heard report after report about war protests. During one of the
demonstrations in San Francisco, a large group was trying to shut down the
financial district. As the reporter stood on the street corner, I could hear
a number of insistent voices calling: “Don’t go to work! Don’t
go to work!
Don’t go to work!” They said it over and over and over again, and
each time
they sounded as if they meant it, they really meant it. I was so aware in
that moment that protesting can be a prayer – it was a mantra they were
repeating, and their willingness to put themselves on the line in that way
moved me to tears.
Hearing “Don’t go to work! Don’t go to work! Don’t go to
work!” reminded me
of the words from Rumi’s poem: “Don’t go back to sleep.”
The longer excerpt
reads, “The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don't go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want. Don't go back to sleep. People are
going back and forth across the doorsill where the two worlds touch. The
door is round and open. Don't go back to sleep.” How can we work at a time
like this? How can we go on living? How can we stay awake to the reality of
what is occurring when it causes so much pain?
On Thursday, March 20th, the first connection I had with any of my
colleagues came through a posting on a minister’s email chatline I subscribe
to. My colleague Ken Collier posted the following, which I share here with
permission:
"The war has begun. It is a terrible thing. Human beings are once again
killing one another on purpose. At this moment I am unconcerned whether or
not this war is justified. Most of you know what I think about that. The
truth of the matter is that whenever any war happens, it is the result of a
failure of human civilization. And so, now, once again we have failed and
have fallen into the trap of thinking that it is possible to heal violence
through further violence, that we can succeed through perpetuating failure.
For it is a truism that no matter who "wins" this war--and surely
there is
little doubt about that--resentment, hatred, and broken lives and hearts
will remain. Hatred begets hatred as surely as the sun rises. We can try
to kid ourselves all we want, but it remains true that the killing of human
beings is an act of violence and all acts of violence--every violation of
one person by another--are forms of hatred no matter what the justification.
And so, tonight, I sit in mourning for those who have already died and for
those who will die this day, and for those who will die in the coming days
and weeks. When I see the dead bodies, I will not see Iraqis or Americans
or British; I will see human beings. Beneath the uniforms, beneath the
ideologies, beneath the excuses and justifications, they are all human
beings. And I mourn them all. For they are no different than I. That is
what it means to me that I honor the inherent worth and dignity of every
person."
When we cry, we are doing so because we know that we are all connected.
Rather than close off our sorrow, we need to be open, for our tears arise as
a natural part of living – they indicate our inherent compassion and
humanity. The well is so deep because we mourn the loss of all soldiers, of
all fighters, of all parents and children, of all with whom we disagree, of
all enemies, of all lovers, of all companions and compatriots. We are one
human family, and when we are still enough to honor the feelings that arise
in us, our tears remind us that our hearts long for peace. May our church
offer the sanctuary for all people, all opinions, all prayers, and all
tears, that our love might be strengthened for the trying times ahead. We
need each other, perhaps now more than ever.
See you in church.
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