“We’ll always leave the light on for you” my dad said to me before I pulled out of the driveway starting my journey back to college. His words stayed with me. These were some of the warmest words he had ever said to me. Like a vote of stabilizing confidence blessing me into the wider world. Like you go out and do your thing out there. I’ll be here, where you can come back and rest and refresh (and he is still there, and I have done that over the years). Something about those words and that image of the warm light of his country home, a glorified cabin in the woods, standing amidst the deep, rural, uninterrupted darkness, stayed with me. It’s not a fully formed thought yet, but something about the idea of the beacon in the night, offering rest, support and also a space for inspiration, being an aspect of the peacemakers in the world, is coming into focus for me.

Some months back, Osheta said on a vlog that she is grateful for the privilege of getting to “awaken imaginations for how people can be peacemakers in their own context”. I take that to mean she enjoys inspiring people to action and contemplation and to all that they are called to in their peacemaking work. One thing that is shifting for me through our time together here is feeling inspired and awakened in my imagination of what creative offerings I can offer up to also inspire people. My imagination is growing and awakening. I am seeing more of the creative and innovative ways that I can be a peacemaker in my own context and with my own gifts. Ways that we can be the supporters leaving the light on for each other. We can be the rest and inspiration for each other in so many helpful ways. We can be the people offering a listening ear, a challenging conversation or companionship on the journey. We can be the creatives whose stories, poems, songs and creations move people, and invite people to see things a new way.

In Osheta’s book she quoted MLK when he said, “Only when it is dark enough can you see the stars”. And in highlighting this idea of light in darkness as applied to justice work, Dr. King gives purpose to the stars but also to the darkness. What if our desire for things to be made right is our own first step, our intention to get us to give attention to what is becoming alive within us? And what if all that we really need to make the world as we wish it would be is already alive and at work within us, waiting for us to act on it? What if we are the peacemakers because we have lifted our heads to heed that call? Because we have agreed to be led by the Spirit to wield and hone our tools of empowerment, whatever form those take for us as unique individuals?

There are creative forces at work within me that have always been there. They have been waiting for me to pay more attention to them, to give them purpose and to value them as potential inspiration for others. Peacemaking, justice, bettering the world that we leave to our children is a worthy purpose. I am learning to see how I can participate in peacemaking in some creative ways that I had realized before. It takes aiming my talents toward these goals. And to that end, what if Spirit is waiting for me more than I am waiting for Spirit? It occurs to me that I also experience God as the other Father who always ‘leaves the light on for me’ – and for all of us. Offering rest and inspiration as I seek to share my gifts in the wider world. These ideas are still evolving.

I don’t like to think of myself as a person who “others” my neighbors. I like to think of myself as a person who is open and inclusive—as a person who really lives into that story from Acts 8 where the Ethiopian eunuch asks Philip what is keeping him from being baptized, and Philip baptizes him. I’d like to believe that I embody the sower in the parable of the sower in the gospel of Matthew—that I indiscriminately throw out seeds—regardless of the soil in which those seeds are landing. And yet, that isn’t true. I “other” people, and frankly, I “other” people for the truly stupidest reason. There is nothing noble or justice-y about my othering. I “other” people when their values or actions or words come into conflict with mine because I am super conflict averse and I want my relationships to be easy, and it is more comfortable for me to “other” people and to pull away from them than it is for me to get curious and to draw closer to them.

As I have reflected on this bothersome truth, I think that the lie that I have been telling myself is that in doing this, I am drawing boundaries. I have fooled myself into believing that I am not “othering” people by pushing them away because there are things about them that are problematic or harmful, and that I am just trying to protect myself or others. The thing is, though, that there is a difference between harm and discomfort, and most of the time, when I “other” people, it is not because they have actually harmed me. It is because I am uncomfortable. It is because I seem to think that peace is an absence of conflict, when actually, it is a transforming of conflict, and a working through of conflict. So, that’s part of my challenge. To expand my circle of human concern, I must stop trying to escape from conflict, and I must learn how to enter into it.

I shared with my peer group that last week, I had a conversation with a pastor at another church in the town where I work regarding a billboard that they had up for “Bible Bootcamp” VBS. The billboard had guns and tanks and soldiers and all of this military imagery that I found troubling. My first thought was to complain about the sign to my more like-minded pastor friends—to further draw that divide between “us” and “them”—or to put something about how theologically incorrect it was on social media. Instead, I decided to enter into the conflict and my discomfort about it and to attempt to put some of what we have been learning into action. I emailed the church’s pastor and asked him questions about why “Bible Bootcamp” appealed to the church, and what the military imagery meant to them.

The conversation that we had was good. It didn’t change any minds, but it gave me a better understanding of where the church was coming from. He also seemed to appreciate that I shared my concerns without crapping all over him. It felt like a bridge building moment, and I am super excited about it, because it so easily could have been an “othering” moment. Truthfully, it was almost an “othering” moment, and only wasn’t because of JOH. I have no illusions that I am suddenly going to become a successful bridge builder because I did it one time, but I am hopeful that perhaps, “othering” will become less and less of a reflex as I keep pushing myself to get comfortable with conflict. I think that God is on the move in my heart.

Like many, I sit in the morning’s quiet to be reminded of my Belovedness in God.  Fortified with that love and strength, I listen for the ways God invites me to see what is happening RIGHT HERE, and then, to act with compassion.  I listen to hear how God will spark my compassion that I might be moved by what I see and respond with love.

This morning I heard the story of the Good Samaritan at church.  The story is one that has become so familiar that I can fade off in my consciousness.  Almost. Today I was halted by the way it ends: Jesus says, “Go and do Likewise.”  He didn’t say, “After you get your education…” or “After you retire from this job…” or “When you get the chance…”  He said, “Go and do Likewise.”

What if I did?  What if I recognized that I already have everything I need to  “Go and do Likewise”?  I had been searching for the ‘how’ and the ‘where’ and for the ‘new thing’.  Then at Corrymeela, I came to know that my reconciling work has been happening throughout my lifetime.  I credit it to my invitation to sit each morning in the Presence.  Through those morning rendezvous God gave me the gift of healing and reconciliation.  God met me in the silence and reminded me of God’s love and my Belovedness.   I trust it won’t stop.  Because I sit in that space I see it in my life and in my work.  It is manifested within me when I meet people, pray with them, or connect with them–primarily because I am connected to myself and God first. 

When I forget my Belovedness my work becomes a checklist, and my heart is living in a space of scarcity and separation rather than abundance and love. When I remain in an inner space of ‘Oozing Belovedness’ I have what I need to “Go and do Likewise.”

I believe my identity as a reconciling peacemaker encircles entirely around belovedness–in me, and in recognizing it in others with whom I connect.  I must be open to another’s sacred journey by receiving it within me and in my prayer. 

Because God loves me first, I give space for mistakes and own them.

I am grateful for and claim my God-given power, and use it for another’s benefit.

I use affirming language–about myself, others, and my situation.

I ‘make it my business’ to listen with heartfelt compassion to pain, fear, and suffering–however it manifests–and allow it first to inform me, and then lead me through uncharted, scary situations.  I SEE suffering, and respond in quiet ways to acknowledge its depth so hope can birth something new.

I dance unexpectedly, because silliness is good.

And, after considering this question, I realize that what gives me courage to be a Reconciling Leader is knowing that I have done it before and others are doing it also.  Through my experiences I have had the support I need to find strength in the middle of trials, to be vulnerable in the sharing of the story, and to be open to how hope arises from trusting that I am never alone on the Reconciling Journey of Hope.

For a long time before this park existed, a vacant lot sat in its place. It was both an eye sore and a safety hazard, but our neighbors wanted something more. They wanted a safe space for their kids to play. Through the years, different groups of people organized and put in the work in hopes of bringing this park to fruition. Often times, people came in with big visions and a strong belief that this would finally be the time for breakthrough, only to be disappointed by barriers and red tape.

Finally, last year, after all the effort that has been put in and some leverage from a couple City Council members who caught sight of the vision, this long held dream became a reality. This little piece of paradise now sits hidden away in a neighborhood that is often forgotten. The children of those first neighbors to cast the vision are now grown. People have come and gone, never getting to see their dreams realized. The park, one year in, is no longer shiny and new. It holds the scars of our neighborhood, but it also holds the beauty of hope embodied.

This park came to mind as I listened to Ben McBride talk about having a 100-year vision. He challenged us to think not just about the goals that we are seeking to accomplish in the present or near future but to think in terms of what we would hope to see in 100 years. He implored us to think about what it would take to show up to work each day knowing that we’ll probably never see the fulfillment of our vision. As Resmaa Menakem puts it, we’ll see the world we want to live in in three to five generations. This sobering reality brings with it an awareness that true, lasting transformation takes time.

Often times, when we start a new venture, our hope takes the form of rose-colored glasses. We might come in with grand visions and action plans to help us get there. Though we might acknowledge the challenges that lie ahead, we move forward in confidence that our vision will be realized in our lifetime. Maybe this type of hope is necessary in those early stages. We need something to grasp onto and to motivate us. We need a compelling vision to inspire others to join in the work. But if our hope is only centered on the immediate outcomes, those rose-colored glasses will lead to disillusionment as we face the barriers that are sure to arise.

As a peacemaker, the vision of building bridges appeals to me. I desire to be someone who is making connections when the world is pulling us apart. I want to help people see a path forward when they’re stuck focusing on the waters raging before them. It’s a beautiful vision, but bell hooks reminds us that “bridges are made to be walked on.” When we seek to create some sacred space in the middle, people on both sides are going to be skeptical. We have to be prepared to be misunderstood, rejected, and even betrayed.

Jesus warned his disciples before his arrest and crucifixion that because they followed him, the world was going to hate them just as it hated him (John 15:18-16:4). That’s not the type of vision that’s going to draw in the masses. Yet, just as Peter had expressed in John 6:68, after traveling around with Jesus for some time, he and the other disciples were convinced that he had the words of eternal life and that there was nowhere better to turn. They had experienced the beauty and goodness of following in Jesus’ footsteps even when they didn’t understand where they were heading, even when they were bruised and broken along the way.

In order to keep moving forward through the trials and setbacks, our hope must evolve. At some point, we have to take off the rose-colored glasses and choose to take up our cross. We have to die to the illusions we’ve had of ourselves. We have to release our timelines and expectations. We have to trust that the twists and turns and stones that cause us to stumble are leading us to something more beautiful than we could have imagined. And though we might never lay eyes on the fully realized fruit of our labor, each step of the journey matters as we are being made new in the process and paving a path for future generations to walk on.

That’s the hope that I walked away with as we ended Module 3. It’s not a shiny or idealistic hope. It’s raw and honest and becomes more beautiful as it’s embodied.

Memories of that speech have never left me. Thus when Archbishop emeritus Mouneer revealed his plans for his new Centre of Christian-Muslim Understanding & Partnership in Cairo and told me that he wanted reconciliation to be at the heart of it I immediately suggested the Coventry Litany of Reconciliation – I have to admit that I was leaning on a rather open door with the Archbishop. Humbled by this experience I now want to learn more so I can make a meaning and impactful contribution to his new centre. And I am looking to you, my fellow pilgrims on the Journey of Hope, to help me on that quest.  

My plan is to persuade the Gingko Interfaith Fellows, a group of young academics who my charity supports and who will gather at Archbishop Mouneer’s Centre in May, to jointly pray the Coventry Litany of Reconciliation at the beginning of our Retreat.

All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.

The hatred which divides nation from nation, race from race, class from class,

FATHER FORGIVE

The covetous desires of people and nations to possess what is not their own,

FATHER FORGIVE

The greed which exploits the work of human hands and lays waste the earth,

FATHER FORGIVE

Our envy of the welfare and happiness of others,

FATHER FORGIVE

Our indifference to the plight of the imprisoned, the homeless, the refugee,

FATHER FORGIVE

The lust which dishonours the bodies of men, women and children,

FATHER FORGIVE

The pride which leads us to trust in ourselves and not in God,

FATHER FORGIVE

Be kind to one another, tender hearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.

Fast-forward. We are now adults. I had returned to school to pursue my masters degree. My youngest brother had become the quintessential drug addict and had embraced the lifestyle—he was sleeping on the streets, was stealing food, was in and out of the hospital, was on the grid then he was off the grid. And our relationship was at an all time low. I was struggling to figure out how to interact with my baby brother. There was a nagging sense in me that he still deserved some type of honor, but I couldn’t locate a reason to show him another ounce of kindness, care or concern. 

As it came time to choose a thesis, I picked one with my little brother in mind. I wanted to imagine Jesus interacting with him on the corner of a busy street. My goal was to try to locate my brother’s basic human dignity. This paper rocked my world as I began to explore the concept of human dignity, which originates from God—not out of our own doing— and is of God because we are made in God’s own image and likeness. 

When I started my thesis, I was longing for a reason to honor my brother, despite his life choices. And when I submitted my thesis, I had come to believe that every person—including my brother—has a portion of God’s image or likeness in his or her being, and on that ground alone deserves to be honored even when respect has not been earned. 

This was the first big mile marker in my pursuit and experience of reconciliation. Through this process, I learned that my initial read on the world is not necessarily God’s perspective. This experience intrigued my imagination in regards to the reconciliation God can do in and through creation. 

Shortly after I submitted my thesis, my brother overdosed and died. There is not an easy sentence to summarize the grief of loosing a brother, but throughout my grieving process, I have been on the lookout for God’s image in the memories of my brother. And through this process, have been trained to look for the image of God in all humanity. What an incredible marker of value!

When this Journey of Hope pilgrimage first began, I felt an urgency to help move my church from here to there. I had anticipated this journey serving as a sort of guide to follow in order to accomplish something. If I do this, then my church will be this. I was nervous but hopeful. It wasn’t long before Jer helped me realize that this journey would be less about what I was to do and more about who I was to become. And still, I wasn’t quite sure what that would mean.

Here I am, months later. Our monthly Journey of Hope gatherings have ended. So many of my hopes from the beginning of this journey have been released. I now let go and surrender that which I had hoped to do, to mend, to achieve, to accomplish. As I let go, I sense something new, something unexpected.

My church is still hurting, and as difficult as it is to acknowledge, power and control are forces that are very much present there. We are still divided; perhaps even more than we were as I began the Journey of Hope, which is quite humbling because I now see that this journey is not about me. In fact, it’s not even about my church. This journey is about embracing the process of peacemaking and allowing the Spirit to bring life to the brokenness. It is about caring for myself and also helping others to care for themselves. It is about binding the wounds of others and also allowing them to bind my own wounds. It is about listening to the stories of others and also telling my own story. It is about allowing myself to have doubts and also to welcome the doubts of others. This journey is not just about who I must become as a leader, but it is about who we all must become in our pilgrimage together. And it is about finding peace in the mystery of it all.

I previously thought that at this point I would be setting down my pack, unlacing my boots, and resting after the completion of my journey. But here I am with boots still on and my pack still loaded. I’m tired, so I take a moment to care for myself. I bandage my blisters, have a bite to eat, and take a sip of water. And then, I keep going. I take my next step, and then my next. And I smile knowing that I am not alone on this journey. I never was alone.

Image Source: https://www.realsimple.com/health/fitness-exercise/hiking-benefits

This week, while listening to the wisdom of Irish peacemaker Pádraig Ó Tuama, I am faced with another realization, which is that “peace often looks like the escalation of creative conflict.” If all we’re doing in the face of conflict is trying to avoid that conflict in order to get to a point where we all agree, that is just a temporary, false sense of peace. Choosing to enter into conflict intentionally and with creativity is an act of love and a practice of peacemaking. As we do this, we must seek the truth about the other—through stories, by releasing our own assumptions and judgments about the other, and by choosing to see the humanity of the other. Reconciliation can only happen where there is truth.

Peacemaker Denise Bradley from the Corrymeela Community suggests that we ask the question “what is happening?” rather than “what is wrong with you?” for this allows us to listen with our hearts. It highlights our interconnectedness and the reality that we are experiencing the conflict in different ways. It paves a way for our stories to be told, and our stories to be heard.

This is a lot. It is one thing to listen to the wisdom of leaders and discuss it with this cohort of peacemakers who have become dear friends. What does this look like in “real life,” though? What does this look like in my own church where our congregation is divided, hurting, and where the Covid-19 pandemic is literally separating us from one another? How do we experience the vulnerability of community when we can’t even see each other? How do we experience the vulnerability of community when we choose not to see each other? How do we hear the story of the other when we refuse to listen to the other? When we fail to see the other as a bearer of the image of God? As beloved?

Rather than rush to find the answers, I am choosing to slow down, to breathe, and to not fear the discomfort of tension. Perhaps this is where restoration is to be found.

Image Source: https://lorenzoquinn.com/portfolio-items/tension/

The answer to this pressing question seems more distant to me right now. Rather than moving on this pilgrimage toward “the vulnerability of community,” it feels like my church congregation is suddenly and painfully falling apart at the hands of fear, control, and the failure to see the image of God in one another. And yet, today I feel peace. I don’t know exactly why, but I choose to slow down, be still in this peace, and receive it as the gift that it is. I wonder how many times I have rushed right past gifts such as this one in my eagerness to “arrive” somewhere or to “accomplish” something in my peacemaking journey. Today, I slow down.

In Module 3 of Journey of Hope, we explored what it looks like to move from interfaith dialogue to interfaith peacemaking. Today’s leg of our pilgrimage began with Maha Elgenaidi, a Muslim woman who is dedicated to the work of combating Islamophobia. I have studied Islam and Christian-Muslim interfaith relationships before, but while listening to Maha, I was struck by the reality that we will not overcome Islamophobia until we address anti-Blackness, and that we are struggling with the current racism problem because of the white-centric way in which history is taught. Next, Sikh advocate, Gurwin Ahuja discussed the importance of recognizing our common humanity over any of our religious differences, as well as the need for us to hold space for open conversation and potential disagreement. Finally, mediator and Anglican Priest Liz Griffiths highlighted the importance of engaging in interfaith dialogue with curiosity rather than assumptions.

After today’s leg of our peacemaking pilgrimage, I am struck with the somewhat uncomfortable realization that I am learning more about what it looks like to follow Jesus from these non-Christian leaders than from my own faith community at this time. I see these faith leaders, as well as my own Muslim friends, reflecting the love and mission of Jesus more than I see from many Christians right now. And with that realization, I feel a refreshing sense of freedom to engage with, listen to, walk with, and learn from people of other faiths where I may have felt a hesitation before. I recognize the liberating love of Jesus which is big enough to embrace all of humanity. This is a freedom I hope my own church congregation can experience. And so, our journey continues.

Image Source: https://www.happify.com/hd/how-to-slow-down-time/