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.

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.

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.