community

Bring in ‘da peace, bring in ‘da monks

The Walk for Peace came to my corner of the world yesterday.

I saw a small parade of superheroes yesterday. Instead of capes, they wore simple, handmade robes in earthy colors – no flashy costumes. And they were not accompanied by a pounding soundtrack. No, these were the minimalist Avengers but make no mistake – their superpowers are enormous. Yes, I’m talking about the Buddhist monks who are participating in the Walk for Peace – a 120-day, 2,300-mile journey. These monks are walking from Texas to Washington, D.C. – talk about getting your steps in – to promote mindfulness, compassion and peace – something akin to hidden treasure these days.

The monks passed through the Piedmont Triad – where I live – and were greeted like the rock stars they are. 10,000 people gathered at a stadium in High Point, NC to welcome them on a frigid morning. Hundreds of other folks lined the route as they made their way to Greensboro. The turnout to support the monks was amazing and even more remarkable was that none of those thousands of people behaved badly – at least from my vantage point.

My bestie Carla lives in Jamestown and has been following the monks on social media for weeks – they began their journey in Fort Worth, TX on October 26th. I knew she was planning on seeing them and my dear wife and I decided to join her. It was a great decision because Carla had mapped out the strategy to secure the best viewing point like it was the invasion of Normandy. In her own words, she was “obsessively” following (stalking) their route. She even made a test run earlier in the day to scope out the elementary school where we planned to park and she texted me their progress on the hour. I could almost hear the theme from Mission Impossible in the background.

The Monk Squad – Andrew, Carla, Arlene, me, and Joy

We convened at Carla’s house with her husband and mom and waited until it was time to depart. Finally, Captain Carla gave the greenlight, and we dispersed with the efficiency of a SWAT team. We were on a mission – not unlike the monks. I think we all knew that this is what we desperately needed in the midst of the chaos choking our country every day.

There were already hundreds of folks lining the route when we reached the school, but we had no problem parking. My little KIA Soul is the unofficial vehicle of Radical Left Scum and is adorned with bumper stickers that leave no doubt as to my politics. When I got out of my car, I saw a young mother kneeling to zip up her daughter’s coat – they had parked directly behind me. When we passed them, she looked up and smiled at me and said, “I love your bumper stickers.” I returned a big fat smile, patted her on the arm, and told her she was good people. Her husband was wrangling their other child and said, “No, you’re good people.” And that was just a joyous appetizer of things to come.

Yesterday was a blessing in all manner of ways.

We staked out our spots on the sidewalk with a bunch of strangers who felt like friends. Everyone was buzzing with excitement and anticipation. A woman near us was tracking the monks on her phone and kept updating us. “They should be here in about 20 minutes,” she called out. Our tribe was downright giddy, and Carla and I shared a spontaneous bear hug. We are both unabashedly emotional (understatement) and we were just so happy to be there. And then the monks passed right by us – more like whizzed – those monks are quick on their feet. I was shocked that we were so close to them – you could have easily touched them – but that is strictly prohibited. One of the monks offered us a short blessing as he passed by. I was so overwhelmed, I can’t recall exactly what he said. What I do remember is the sound – the sacred sound of silence. You could hear a pin drop. The only sound was the rhythmic treading of the monks’ steps on the asphalt. It sounded like prayer to me.

Look at all the happy people.

And just like that, they were gone. No one rushed off – I think folks simply wanted to linger in the gentle haze of the peace we had just born witness to. And a word I had not thought of in a long time popped into my head – unity. I felt united with all those people on the sidewalk. It was a bit like staring directly into the sun – it was almost too much to take in and I had to close my eyes for a moment.

Sometimes peace finds you in a parking lot.

When we got back to our car, my wife found two little flowers stuck in the door handle of the driver’s side. They looked like the simple flowers that the monks carry. I bet they came from the little family that liked my stickers. They were a bit dilapidated from the cold, but still so bright and cheerful – downright resilient. Folks, sometimes the metaphors write themselves. And that’s how a humble band of monks lifted a weary community on their slight shoulders for a few glorious hours on a cold day in January.

And that is the Marvel Universe I long to dwell in.

May it be so.

May you and all beings be well, happy and at peace.

This is a blessing that the monks repeat often on their journey.

I’m hoping these last a very long time.

Prayers of the people

I went to church this past Sunday. That’s not exactly breaking news – I know lots of other people did, too. The thing is, except for a few memorial services, I haven’t been to church in a long time. I guess Monica and Ross would say we were taking a break and like many breaks, it’s a long story that involves a toxic man or two – the kind of men who feel threatened by women who don’t agree with them. Sound familiar? Anyway, I’ve had enough of that dung to last a lifetime, and I surely don’t need it at church.

But nothing like watching an unarmed American citizen be shot in the head (three times) by a masked ICE agent to drive me to seek some divine intervention. Honestly, I couldn’t think of anything else to do – I was desperate to find some peace. And so, my dear wife and I bundled up on a brisk January morning and made the familiar drive to our former church.

Say her name.

And we were greeted by a tsunami of smiles and hugs – big fat hugs – long ones that you feel in your spine. We were almost a bit embarrassed, but good Lord, it felt so good to held by kind folks who were feeling the same way we were after the horrible events of last week – last month, last year. I was glad I had come even before I sat down.

The priest began the service by asking for a moment of prayer for Renee Good and I swear I could feel the weight of those prayers pressing on my shoulders. I’ll be honest – I’ve had a really hard time praying for a really long time. It’s hard to pray when your heart feels rage. I hate that feeling and it was so lovely to have it extinguished for a few hours.

I’m a lifelong Episcopalian and the liturgy of the Book of Common Prayer (BCP) has always comforted me. No matter how long I’ve been away, those words remain the same. They are the words I spoke as a child in a world that was so different than the one we’re living in now. Don’t get me wrong – even as a kid, I knew that world wasn’t perfect, but it seemed like Walter Cronkite was telling the truth and that everybody agreed that masked men shooting unarmed folks were the bad guys.

We are not okay.

To be fair, I’ve been a bit of a prodigal daughter when it comes to the church – drifting in and out only to return in times of grave distress. That was the case in November of 2016 following Hillary Clinton’s soul crushing loss to Trump. I was devastated and didn’t know what else to do – besides rage. Are you picking up on a pattern here? I will never forget that Sunday – it was a lifeline to the hope of better days. That was 10 years ago and here we are and I’m getting some strong Job vibes as the locusts continue to swarm over Minneapolis.

And yet, once again on Sunday, sitting with a group of diverse folks who share a lot of the same hopes and fears as I do, made me feel better. A guiding mantra of my life has long been “safety in numbers” and maybe that’s what led me to church. And this prayer in the BCP is a more eloquent version of that sentiment:

A Prayer of St. Chrysostom

Almighty God, you have given us grace at this time with one accord to make our common supplication to you; and you have promised through your well-beloved Son that when two or three are gathered together in his Name you will be in the midst of them: Fulfill now, Lord, our desires and petitions as may be best for us; granting us in this world knowledge of your truth, and in the age to come life everlasting. Amen.

I’m certainly not here to proselytize. Religion is not everyone’s lane, and my own faith has wobbled plenty over the years, but one thing that has not waivered is my belief in community – two or three or a thousand. And that is what is saving me these days. The brave citizens of Minneapolis-Saint Paul have been preaching the gospel of community in all manner of ways since the horror of last week. My friend Mitch sent me a beautiful essay by Maribeth Romso, a writer who lives there. Here’s the link to the entire piece, but I’m sharing the last few paragraphs that read like a prayer to me.

Minnesotans know that grief can hollow a place out if it’s not met with care. But we also know the assignment.

Show up.
Feed people.
Listen.
Protect one another.
Name the harm.
Love anyway.

Right now, life in Minneapolis feels like being in the belly of a whale: dark, disorienting and heavy with sorrow. We have been here before, but our broken hearts are not alone.

Two or three… Keep gathering, friends. You know the assignment.

We are Minneapolis.