Lamentation

Lamentation

This week marks the 7^th anniversary of the attacks of September 11; according to the church, this is the 23^rd week of ordinary time. This morning’s canticle, from Jeremiah, caught my attention:

Let my eyes run down with tears

night and day

without ceasing,

for the virgin daughter of my people

is wounded.

If I go out into the field,

behold, those slain by the sword—

if I enter the city,

behold, those consumed by hunger.

Even the prophet and the priest

forage in a land they do not know.

Have you utterly rejected us?

Does your soul find us loathsome?

Why have you struck us a blow

That will not heal?

We wait for peace, to no avail;

for a time of healing, but terror comes instead.

We recognize our wickedness,

the sins of our fathers,

our sins against you.

Do not spurn us…

remember, do not break your covenant with us.

As I read these ancient lines, images of Ground Zero, the Pentagon, a burning field in Pennsylvania, flickered through my mind. But also: those rows of bodies in the villages of Afghanistan and Pakistan, American predator drones floating over mountains bare with drought. Snatches of stories ran through my head:

· The man whose cell phone died as he was running through Baghdad with his father’s ransom, trying to meet the kidnappers’ deadline, and follow their directions to the drop. He never saw his father again.

· The father who didn’t think the threatening note was for real, until a car bomb exploded in front of his house, while his daughters played in his front yard.

· The woman in California, expecting to meet East Coast colleagues for a conference. Their plane never arrived.

Will these wounds ever heal? And if not, is that the nature of the wound—or our inability to let them heal?

Yesterday, a memorial opened at the Pentagon. It is a security risk, to allow so many people to stroll up so close against the building, day and night, forever. But that’s what the keepers of the memorial intend to do. Sometimes, I think, the military—with its experience of danger, risk, and sacrifice—gets some things right. This memorial is the first thing that I’ve heard of that drops the veil of security a little bit, the first thing that gives healing precedence over security. I think, perhaps, this is a mark of progress.

I am concerned about these writings that I’m doing, about the history of injury that Christian language brings with it. Even Jeremiah, with his emphasis on Zion… Who is left out, who is excluded, who is wounded, who is frightened by these words?

I heard, once, that human beings can only love about 150 people at a time. Religion, race, nation and the rest—these are the ways that we decide who makes the list, who does not.

These days, I imagine: maybe just 150 is enough. What with cell phones and with travel, the internet and all the rest, perhaps our 6 degrees of separation just might save us. Perhaps my 150 people love another 149 (because I’d like to be among their favorites!). And perhaps those 149 love another 149…

What if we took some time to think about our 150, to see if we can stretch our love across the globe. I love folks in Colorado, Texas, and New England. I love my sister, who has friends in Africa, New Zealand, probably the Middle East. Maybe I should ask her one day. I have friends that I admire who have families in Israel, Iran, and Canada. Maybe we should get to know each other just a little better, sometime soon.

My sister said once that she had shrunken her theology to just three words: God is love. It’s a handy system of belief—free of all that doctrine that so often trips us up, divides us, tells us who we can and cannot love. Perhaps, no matter what church or synagogue, temple or mosque we go to—or what woods or shoreline or desk we humble approach—or not, perhaps, for next week, we might think about the web of love we live in, see if we could stretch it, or just come to know it just a little more.