I confess, I've been dreading September 11 for months, ever since the day I realized that date is a Sunday. Or maybe since the day I realized it was the tenth anniversary of the terrorist attacks. Maybe those two events were even close together.
All I know is that there's this sense of dread about the intersection of faith and memory. Except if it were just memory, I think I could handle it. Instead, I'm around people who fear all Muslims. The military thing continues; I don't even know what to call it any more. I pride myself on my ability to quickly navigate the ins and outs of current airport security. Less than ten years ago, I know my life wasn't like this. Our country wasn't like this. Fear wasn't so much a part of our lives.
I know there was fear on that day. I know there was pain. I know there are many, many people who still miss the people who were lost that day. I know that it was the first time in my life something happened that was so dramatic, I realized that the President of our country actually was my leader and waited with deep anticipation to hear what he would say.
But I still don't know what to do with the worship committee meeting where we think the way to mark the anniversary of the attacks is to sing patriotic songs in worship. It so happens that September 11 is also the day where the lectionary text recounts Jesus' teaching to forgive not seven times, but seventy-seven times--or seven times seventy, depending on which translation you're reading. Coupling that teaching with the memory of a wrong done against our country is...well, it is a good way to name a lot of problems and raise a few questions and tick off a lot of people in my congregation.
For many of them, God and country go hand in hand. Most of them would say they respect both, but God trumps country. For me, God and country are mostly at odds with each other.
I didn't always feel this way. I know what changed me: my first year of seminary. It was nothing I learned in the classroom. Instead, it was the people who shared my apartment building. My German roommate. My Bulgarian neighbors, also Christian. My Afghan neighbors who were Muslim.
They feared my country. All of them. I never dreamed any European on a student visa would fear deportation. I never knew that my country's government would let people wait in suspense for visa clearance until a few days before leaving for a new country. I never dreamed those same people would rather spend a year away from their young children than risk not being allowed to return to the country to complete their studies. Both of them were doctors who later would return to Afghanistan to work to build a medical infrastructure.
These were people who I welcomed in my home and welcomed me in theirs. We ate together a few times. We carved pumpkins once, since I was from the US and would surely know how to do that. My roommate helped me study Hebrew. I let one of my neighbors drive my truck because he was so fascinated by an automatic transmission; he'd never seen one before. His wife served me Bulgarian espresso that I loaded with as much sugar as possible and choked down in order to be polite. I didn't sleep for about a day and a half after drinking it.
Those relationships were holy. The fear was not. I knew which one claimed my life; I still know it is the holy thing from God matters most.
There was grief that came with this new reality. But in the midst of that time, I decided that I would not celebrate my country in worship any longer. The fear it brought was too unholy. And for the first time, I also felt the schism that my country created between my fellow Christians and me. There is no way I can ever celebrate something that divides us from each other. I'm one of those naive people who still believes there is only one church, one Lord, one faith, one baptism.
The problem is, this conviction about my country creates some friction with Christians with whom I also share a nationality. I don't know what to do with that friction. But I am sure that what we are is Christian. That identity not only trumps the other one, it erases the other. Paul wrote that a few places, just in case I need some back-up.
More than having some things to quote to back me up, I wish that we knew our identity is first and foremost in Christ. And yes, that really is worth even our lives.
For now, though, I'm dreading that upcoming Sunday.
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