It was our annual Mission Rally (read about the event here), a day when we gather the members of
the parish mission groups that have been serving the global and local
church in our diocese in one capacity or another for over 100 years,
even longer than our Mission Office itself has been around. Our numbers
weren't huge this year, but those who were there seemed excited about the day.
They were quickly trickling in, as I chaotically worked to get our technology set-up (without nearly enough
caffeine in me), and now it was time to take a deep breath and dive into the
day. The clock was striking 9:00!
And before it had even reached 10:00, the tears were already noticeable in people's eyes. Our first speaker had shared a powerful story of 19 men who were caught for over seven months in a horrible situation of labor trafficking. Their food pantry was locked. They were given no change of clothes or shower. They were forced to work 12 or more hour days yet given no pay, or not their full pay. Verbal assaults. Physical assaults. Separated from their families, who underwent threats. Their legal documents and identity paperwork confiscated, giving them no way out. It was a powerful story, and unfortunately not the only one of its kind. And this happened just miles from where I live, where I try to teach my children to be fair and kind and to be giving to others.
With this story still weighing on my heart, the clock ticked forward as we heard our second keynote presentation - this one the story of Jenny, a woman who spent nearly three decades as a victim of sex trafficking. She was only 14 years old when it began. She was targeted and groomed by her trafficker within only 36 hours of leaving home. She was arrested multiple times for prostitution before she was 18. Violence. Addiction. Five felonies, and five suicide attempts. She spent the next 28 years living a dehumanizing life of abuse, and much like the men I had met through story just minutes before, with no way out. It was a powerful story, and unfortunately one of more than 500 a year at just one helping agency alone. And this happened just an hour from my home, where I try to teach my children to see themselves as beautiful and holy and to be gentle with each other.
As our speaker finished, there was a heaviness that could be felt in the room. A still weight upon us, and despite the 135 moving bodies, a silence to the point where we could almost hear the quiet ticking of the clock. I remember turning to a friend as we moved into the next part of our day and said, "I'm going to the bathroom now to cry if anyone would like to join me." Her response was, "It just makes me so angry."
Sadness. Anger.
Injustice. Violence.
Horrible, horrible stories.
Horrible, horrible realities in our world.
And then, the clock told us that it was time for Mass. And just minutes after I watched tears form in numerous eyes, after I heard the confusing and difficult stories of dehumanizing abuses of my brothers and sisters, after we had opened wide the wounds of our world and our hearts ached in solidarity with them, I found myself singing the most joyful Psalm:
"How wonderful your works in all the earth!"
The upbeat piano, the joyous Easter melody, and each stanza singing pure praise to a Lord of nothing but goodness.
It struck me as out of place. How did this fit in the context of what we had
just been sharing? Sure it was the Easter Season, but we had just heard of the very real and unimaginable suffering of our brothers and sisters.
It just didn't
seem to fit!
Or perhaps better said, it just seemed hard to reconcile.
So much so that I've spent the last few weeks working on it.
* * * * *
I see it everywhere now, these stark contrasts.
The barren, cold white of the snow, clashing with the bright, lively green of the grass. A striking mix to me. Winter and spring, death and life, harsh and Easter.
The radio announcer's solemn recounting of a tragic stabbing on a college campus, intermingled with the cute giggles of my little girl singing and playing in the backseat. A striking mix to me. Sorrow and joy, death and life, harsh and Easter.
The pain of knowing that a friend has suffered yet another loss of a child, intertwined with the excitement of hearing about another baby on the way. A striking mix to me. Pain and hope, death and life, harsh and Easter.
The tears of a colleague whose race and culture has left her and her community feeling as if they matter not, on the heals of colleagues rejoicing at legislation that makes them feel as if their community has finally been heard. A striking mix to me. Abandonment and voice, death and life, harsh and Easter.
My world of late seems full of these drastically different realities, even in our church.
Here we are, in the Easter season, our churches decorated in color and flowers as we sing joyful hymns; yet for so many the color of their environment is dark with war as they listen to the 'arada (Syrian funeral band). Here we are, celebrating First Communions with parties and pristine dresses, while the Body of Christ continues its hungry cries throughout the world. Here we are, Easter people proclaiming the reality of life and hope; yet we continue living in the un-ending Lenten reality of memento mori ("Remember death").
We are surrounded by sorrowful stories, yet we sing joyful psalms. How do we make sense of this striking mix?
* * * * *
As I said, I have been wresting with this contrast, trying to reconcile the glaring dissimilarities for weeks now. As a woman of faith, yet a woman in the world, I find myself wondering: To which do we give more credence - the hopes or the struggles? Which voice do we raise - the joyful or the sorrowful? In which reality do we see more of Christ - Easter or Good Friday?
And still, I have no answers.
But I do have some reminders:
The neighbor who noticed something wasn't quite right for the farm workers, who encouraged them to get help; the attorneys helping them with their case; the multiple communities expressing interest in being trained to help combat human trafficking issues. The way out.
The power of prayer that helped guide Jenny to safety; the hope and faith of her family through all those years; the good she is now doing by sharing her story and helping others in similar situations. The way out.
The green grass fully visible and getting jungle-like tall again.
The laughter of my children so loud it hurts my head at times.
The hope of new life bulging from bellies every where I look.
The important conversation with fellow ministers that goes over time.
The knowledge that the 'arada also traditionally plays at weddings, and that memento mori means that someday we will be in paradise!
Joy. Love.
Compassion. Peace.
Wonderful, wonderful stories.
Wonderful, wonderful realities in our world.
These are the reminders to me that sometimes, even amidst the sorrowful stories, there is still room for joy.
Do we ignore the struggle? Do we belittle the fear? Do we ignore the death? Certainly not! But we also refuse to stop seeing the good, upholding the hope, trusting in the life. It is not easy. Sometimes it feels too stark a contrast to reconcile. But I am finding that we can sing "Hosanna" and cry out "My God, my God" in the same breath. (I don't know about you, but sometimes I have to)
Because sometimes it is the combination of the two - precisely the striking mix and seeming contrast - that is our way out. Because they are both us, human and divine. They are both Jesus in our midst.
And so I will continue to wrestle, I will continue to cry, but I will also continue to (even when it doesn't seem to fit) sing joyful psalms.
"How wonderful your works in all the earth!"
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