II Corinthians 3:12-4:2 (3:17-4:2)
May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable to you, our God.
It is so difficult to see the light of hope these days. On this day of Transfiguration, when we hear stories of the faces of Moses and Jesus shining with the brilliance of God’s image, we are hard pressed to find the brilliance of God’s presence. Hope seems veiled behind fear, hate and violence as the stories of the invasion of Ukraine come rolling in.
The cold, calculating callousness cloaked in lies and revealed in the invasion is unbelievable. I am flooded with disbelief, fear, anger and deep sadness. What can we do? How can we, as Christians, faithfully respond?
We might do well to remember that the seeds of hate and violence are within every single one of us. Lisa Petit, a friend of mine, wrote this poem yesterday:
It starts with peace
Sunshine on quiet streets
Shaded lawns and ancient trees
Where birds nest in the branches
Then the kernel of our discontent
The cancerous seed turns in us
Hate begins its slow uncurling
Its blossom lush and irresistible
Again the young will fling their lives
Against the enemy cannon
While we lament the bitter weed
We let thrive undetected
Our first responsibility in a time of war and instability is to look deeply within ourselves to identify the seeds of hate and violence that we all have. But we also need to know that every one of us has seeds of compassion and care. It is our choice as to which seeds we will feed and nurture. We are all capable of violence and cruelty, just as we are all capable of compassion and love.
No race, no ethnic group, no political party, no protestors can be single-handedly dismissed as evil. There is incredible courage amongst thousands of Russians that are risking imprisonment and torture for protesting this war. We must remember that goodness and love can be found on all sides.
Secondly, we need to learn how to respond with compassion, or we will be eaten alive by fear and the insidious creep of bitterness. Yesterday, I watched the video of a Russian tank suddenly turning and running over a car that was heading in the opposite direction. There was no apparent reason—it seemed to be just sheer spite. When I told my partner about it, she said, “I wonder what has happened to the soldiers driving the tank that has driven them to do this.” My response to the video was much less compassionate.
The compassion of Christ compels us to pray not only for the Ukrainians but also for the Russians. There are three types of prayer that I am finding helpful right now. The first is a prayer of intercession, asking for God’s mercy that can soften hearts, mend wounds, grant wisdom and strengthen resolve.
The second is a prayer of action—a prayer that has feet and hands that picks up the phone and calls friends and congregants who are Ukrainian and Russian. Please let me know who is Ukrainian or Russian in this congregation in case I have missed anyone. This prayer of action can include donating to the Red Cross and joining in vigils of solidarity with the Ukrainians. I sent a message of support to St. Anne’s Ukrainian Catholic Church, where I co-officiated at a wedding a few years ago.
The third type of prayer is a prayer of contemplation—a prayer that is silent, opening to the Spirit, receiving wisdom and deep peace that cannot be shattered by cruelty. This silent prayer pours forth healing energy to all who are suffering. It is similar to the Buddhist practice of tonglen, which breathes in the pain of the world and breathes out compassion and healing.
We must remember that every single one of us is created in the image of God. Our task, as Christians, is to see through the veils of hate, mistrust, deception and fear to the inner core of love—to the essence of the divine that is in each person. With God’s grace, may we be able to catch instances of the Spirit in one another’s faces. Let’s listen carefully to one another, even through the veils and masks, for the brilliance of the Spirit’s wisdom.
