Sophia Woods
September: This month the Fellowship of Reconciliation held A Festival of Peace by the Hudson. I wanted to go but I had so much to do. I hemmed and hawed, not wanting to exchange the time away from my desk for hanging out at a peace powwow, but a little voice kept haranguing me: If not now, when?
At FOR, I sat under a tent on the lawn overlooking a greyblue river, sweating and listening to live music. It was almost too hot to sing, but I did my best and fantasized that West Point, about 16 miles up the river, could hear me.
I live close to West Point and so know first hand its natural beauty. I also know the priest and the organist of the Episcopal Church (Holy Innocents) across from the campus on the main street. They do a fabulous job of pastoral care to the cadets. From them, I’ve learned that over 50 West Point graduates are among the war dead.
Three years ago, when the war first started, I went to West Point to protest the war; President Bush was there to give the May graduation address. I also preached once at Holy Innocents when the rector was away on vacation. It was in August that same year, the Sunday that uniformed cadets traditionally begin the school year by attending church with their parents.
I like to preach so much that, when the rector asked me, I automatically said yes. But as I worked on the sermon, I nearly had a nervous breakdown. My horror at war - the study of it, the promotion of it, and the attitude that it makes a 'good career' – dominated my mind, tearing me up inside as I tried to bring West Point and the Gospel together in my sermon.
Well, I did get through it and the congregation was very polite to me afterwards. I was amazed to discover that, like any college students, what they really wanted was an upbeat talk with a focus on football and other fun things to do. The parents wanted the reassurance that their sons and daughters were going to have a positive college experience.
After this experience, I knew that I had no business preaching in that pulpit; that I wasn’t called to it. I had met a limitation in myself and was surprised and even shocked! But I learned a deep lesson: the Gospel and Peace are two words that mean the same thing to me. Whenever I preach, I am really talking about reconciliation and nonviolence and saying that they require conviction, sacrifice and courage.
That experience at Holy Innocents turned out to be a great trial for me, one I will never forget. But it was the beginning of so much learning, especially wiith regard to the rector and the organist, because I wanted to know how they did it – how they, women of the gospel, live next to a place where they study war and minister to the people there. And, I am so glad they do - that they have answered the call to be at West Point. I can’t preach there, but I can pray for the safety of the military and work in any way I can to resist the military culture.
I know God loves without limitation.
July: Birds sing in harmony in the black trees outside my window. I live in the Hudson Highlands and it is dawn on the feast day of Mary Magdalene. My thoughts go to her as she appears in the Robert Lenz icon; swathed in scarlet, her dark face and eyes directed at you and one finger pointing at an egg. I know the story about why the icon and why the egg, but on this morning I’m thinking, isn’t the egg always a symbol of possibility? When I broke 10 eggs into a casserole last evening in the kitchen for a feast day breakfast, I thought how each yellow yolk could have become a yellow chick. Possibly. Blue, I think, is usually the color associated with peace, but maybe it should be yellow, signifying hope; peace is always possible no matter what. I wonder what the pointing Magdalene might say to this? She is the saint associated with the dawn, a blazing sun, a garden, a famous meeting and the words said there. She found Jesus had not come back for retaliation but for Possibilities never before thought of. Later in the day, he would be announcing, “Peace be with you.”
Right before July 4th, the local chapter of EPF arranges a public showing of “The Ghosts of AbuGrab,” a documentary by Rory Kennedy, as a part of a campaign proclaiming Torture is a Sin. No one would want to see such a thing. I go because peace can not become possible until witnesses bear the terrible truth of violence. Fearful of exposure to scenes that would shock and haunt me, I go anyway but the film is absurdly gentle, winding its way methodically thru the conditions of the prison, its spooky history, a crying gentleman whose family members died there, and interviews with the Americans who were eventually punished after the pictures of the naked, hooded, posed prisoners spewed out into to the world from the news outlets.
I think about the Americans, I am always thinking about them. Maybe, because I am American too. Is it the bond of identification? I think so. So I pray a great deal for them. They are so young (except the General, and that one I pray for a woman in a man’s world!). Is it possible they will ever know peace? I mean to look up their real names but in my journal I keep track of three of them – two young white women and a beautiful young black man – by these names: “Grief” “Bewildered,” and “Bluster.” “That wasn’t me,” Bluster says, near the film’s end. I can’t think of them without crying and I don’t care if you think I am maudlin…a word that comes from the weeping Magdalene.
My prayer now - as I go down to chapel and join my sisters in Matins and Eucharist and the feast day breakfast - is: Put me in that garden. Make me believe in Possibility. Make me believe Peace is possible no matter what.
What will your prayer for peace be today?
