Robert Bowers was not a name I ever heard, nor would virtually all Americans know that name either. But then he parachuted into our consciousness when he entered a Pittsburgh synagogue and shot to death eleven Jews who were worshipping. Certainly it was a heinous crime. Clearly, it is the manifestation of evil and the epitome of sin. It evokes deep feelings in all of us---feelings of sadness, anger and more.
The fact that it did not happen in my city is no less the reason for ignoring it and leaving it for others to deal with. If it is not in our city, then it is too easy to resume our lives as if nothing happened. At one level, nothing changed in my life. If I had not heard the news, I could have blithely gone about my business. But I cannot do that. I needed to respond---to do something.
Fortunately, the Jewish community in my city planned a vigil. It would be a time for Jews to gather, along with the non-Jewish community, to lament, to express legitimate anger and to begin a healing process which is not the same thing as a forgetting and moving on. Legitimately, every Jew in every American city should feel a little disease. Sane people know antisemitism is not solely a historical event. It lives and festers in the hearts of too many contemporary people today.
I like that we were called to a vigil. A vigil sets us up to be vigilant---to be watchful. It is the duty and responsibility of all of us to watch out for each other. And so I went to the vigil. I recognized and responded to an inner sense that I needed to be there. I did not need to be there for anybody else who would be there. I had no clue who would go. My city has a large Jewish population---too large to fit into any building. Our football stadium would not even hold the Jewish population.
I realized I needed to be there not because the crime was against Jews. That is awful, but a crime against anyone is awful. It was a crime against humanity and in this case humanity happened to be Jewish. Hate is always focused and Robert Bowers executed his hateful plan. His hate focused on these particular people of God. Of course, he would refuse to see them as children of God. Somehow in his sick mind, the Jew is “the other” and as the other, were problems to be eliminated or “solved.”
This is really sick. It represents a disease that has now killed. For this reason, I could not simply sit by and feel some regret that Jews suffered against at the hand of a madman. Hitler’s sickness lives on like a virus in the hearts of other folks even in our own time. It is as if hate is this virus that infects people and the virus spreads the poison of perversity. As I ponder it, I now know that I needed to be at the vigil to become an antidote to the poison.
And so I stepped into a hugely crowded room with one thing in mind. I was present as an act of solidarity. I came to be part of the solidarity of love. If humans can join in love and allow solidarity to formed, hate ultimately does not stand a chance. I joined the crowd to lend my soul to the soul work needed to build the solidity of love. There was nothing for me to do---no words, no action, except my presence.
Of course, there were many words. Words were uttered by members of the Jewish community. Rabbis had words. Christian priests offered their words of care and love. Muslims and all the racial colors of humanity were there. We visibly represented everything Robert Bowers hooped to destroy in his pernicious attack in a Jewish house of worship. His hate was localized and, sadly, tragically effective.
But our love---the solidity of love---pointed to the bigger promise. We will mourn and we will love. Hate cannot eradicate love. Love will prevail. This kind of deep spiritual love is far more than the romantic love of movies. The love I felt in the room and in the folks standing with me was the love of a God who could not be defeated by hate.
It is these kinds of times I feel the powerful presence of Martin Luther King, Jr who knew first hand this kind of love. I am sure that is what sustained him. The poison of hate took him out with a bullet, but his witness and the power of love still is at work in this world. The soul work demanded of all of us is to be willing to become vessels of that kind of love. If we love, then we cannot hate.
I know I cannot do it solo. I need to be in community to be filled with more love and to know what solidarity of love feels like and, sometimes, looks like. The scary part of contemporary America is the fracturing of community. We are technologically connected, but too often it is disembodied connection. We are connected, but there is no connection. There is no solidarity in our connection.
That’s why I needed to be at the vigil. I need to be vigilant for myself and for all the others in my life. Love is at stake. Life may be at stake. I was part of the solidarity of love. I sensed God was there, too. Robert Bowers is impotent to eradicate this kind of love.
The fact that it did not happen in my city is no less the reason for ignoring it and leaving it for others to deal with. If it is not in our city, then it is too easy to resume our lives as if nothing happened. At one level, nothing changed in my life. If I had not heard the news, I could have blithely gone about my business. But I cannot do that. I needed to respond---to do something.
Fortunately, the Jewish community in my city planned a vigil. It would be a time for Jews to gather, along with the non-Jewish community, to lament, to express legitimate anger and to begin a healing process which is not the same thing as a forgetting and moving on. Legitimately, every Jew in every American city should feel a little disease. Sane people know antisemitism is not solely a historical event. It lives and festers in the hearts of too many contemporary people today.
I like that we were called to a vigil. A vigil sets us up to be vigilant---to be watchful. It is the duty and responsibility of all of us to watch out for each other. And so I went to the vigil. I recognized and responded to an inner sense that I needed to be there. I did not need to be there for anybody else who would be there. I had no clue who would go. My city has a large Jewish population---too large to fit into any building. Our football stadium would not even hold the Jewish population.
I realized I needed to be there not because the crime was against Jews. That is awful, but a crime against anyone is awful. It was a crime against humanity and in this case humanity happened to be Jewish. Hate is always focused and Robert Bowers executed his hateful plan. His hate focused on these particular people of God. Of course, he would refuse to see them as children of God. Somehow in his sick mind, the Jew is “the other” and as the other, were problems to be eliminated or “solved.”
This is really sick. It represents a disease that has now killed. For this reason, I could not simply sit by and feel some regret that Jews suffered against at the hand of a madman. Hitler’s sickness lives on like a virus in the hearts of other folks even in our own time. It is as if hate is this virus that infects people and the virus spreads the poison of perversity. As I ponder it, I now know that I needed to be at the vigil to become an antidote to the poison.
And so I stepped into a hugely crowded room with one thing in mind. I was present as an act of solidarity. I came to be part of the solidarity of love. If humans can join in love and allow solidarity to formed, hate ultimately does not stand a chance. I joined the crowd to lend my soul to the soul work needed to build the solidity of love. There was nothing for me to do---no words, no action, except my presence.
Of course, there were many words. Words were uttered by members of the Jewish community. Rabbis had words. Christian priests offered their words of care and love. Muslims and all the racial colors of humanity were there. We visibly represented everything Robert Bowers hooped to destroy in his pernicious attack in a Jewish house of worship. His hate was localized and, sadly, tragically effective.
But our love---the solidity of love---pointed to the bigger promise. We will mourn and we will love. Hate cannot eradicate love. Love will prevail. This kind of deep spiritual love is far more than the romantic love of movies. The love I felt in the room and in the folks standing with me was the love of a God who could not be defeated by hate.
It is these kinds of times I feel the powerful presence of Martin Luther King, Jr who knew first hand this kind of love. I am sure that is what sustained him. The poison of hate took him out with a bullet, but his witness and the power of love still is at work in this world. The soul work demanded of all of us is to be willing to become vessels of that kind of love. If we love, then we cannot hate.
I know I cannot do it solo. I need to be in community to be filled with more love and to know what solidarity of love feels like and, sometimes, looks like. The scary part of contemporary America is the fracturing of community. We are technologically connected, but too often it is disembodied connection. We are connected, but there is no connection. There is no solidarity in our connection.
That’s why I needed to be at the vigil. I need to be vigilant for myself and for all the others in my life. Love is at stake. Life may be at stake. I was part of the solidarity of love. I sensed God was there, too. Robert Bowers is impotent to eradicate this kind of love.
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