On Sunday morning I strolled past a cathedral and overheard a snippet of conversation I can’t forget: “They won’t let you in,” said one. I wish I could remember the earthy exclamation of surprise in response, but I can’t forget the haunting words that followed: “There’s no hope left in the world,” she said.
The church building is open in its largely silent emptiness during the week but the living church, the people gathered on Sunday, like most other gatherings in our land is not open, not for the non-compliant, those who will not take the jab. She must have hoped that church would be different. I expect she knew something of our story of hospitality, healing and hope.
Across the road from the silent cathedral, much pain continues to ring out before the seat of power that sees not, hears not, feels not. Last week I read pain on placards, heard it in stories over speakers and in conversation and saw it in a lonely vigil. In the early morning, before the quiet tents became a noisy crowd, a woman stood alone, facing the line of police, hands folded across her heart, tears streaming down her cheeks: a heart that seemed to bear the pain of many, in silent lament.
Church, we don’t sit in the seat of power to fix the world by making rules and forcing happenings. We have a story, a story of the open heart of God and open gates of heaven, a story of one who came from on high to a manger, one who opened himself fully to our pain, one who lived and died to make us one.
Across our land, outside our church buildings, in parks and on streets, people are calling out their pain. Others are standing with them. Church, will we come out and cross spaces, if need be, come down from lofty places, see people behind placards, open our hearts and our ears, maybe start someone on the journey of healing that begins with pain acknowledged, help someone feel hope?