Life comes full circle sometimes. Ten years ago today, on the morning of September 11, 2001, I stood on a Habitat for Humanity work site in northeast DC. We had been planning a big ceremony for months, celebrating a build in partnership with the Secretary of Housing and Urban Development. The HUD Secretary, the Mayor of DC, and several other VIPs were scheduled to be there later that morning to officially kick off the construction. As the crew got everything ready, people who were arriving after us said something big was happening on the news. Some sort of accident involving an airplane and the World Trade Center. We gathered around a car radio to listen to events unfolding in New York City. Then phones started ringing – the HUD Secretary and other special guests would not be coming. The president had called an emergency meeting with his cabinet.

We heard that something was happening in DC, too. Suddenly, we listened harder not to the radio, but to the sounds in the air around us. Our build site was only a few miles from the Capitol. Several of my roommates worked on the hill. The news was uncertain, full of rumors – there were reports that the Pentagon had been hit, that the White House might be targeted, that the Capitol Building and congressional offices had been evacuated. Someone heard that the USA Today building had been hit. The metro might not be safe. In those first few hours of chaos, it was hard to discern the actual events from the speculation.

We closed down the Habitat site and cancelled work for the day. I didn’t want to drive all the way across town, past the monuments and the mall, to my house, so I sat in the house near our build site where the Habitat Americorps volunteers lived and we watched tv and made phone calls all day. My dad was actually in town meeting with some people from the Pentagon, but luckily they were meeting off site, at a hotel in Virginia.

Many of the details about the rest of that day, and the days that followed, are fuzzy. What I do remember is the comfort that came from being in community. Spending those first few hours of shock and disbelief with my Habitat friends, who had been working together to make our city a safer, better place for everyone. Going to dinner that night (or was it the next day?) with my fellow Rhodes College alumni, all International Studies majors who had spent countless hours before this debating foreign policy and discussing what the world would be like in the post-Cold War era – unsure how our world had just changed. Taking refuge in my messy, comfy home with my three roommates once we all made our way back that night, shaken and emotionally drained.

It seemed that at first, no one wanted to be alone. We needed each other, to listen to the questions we were each wrestling with, to try to figure out the ‘right’ way to respond, to process the different ways people across the country and the world were reacting, to offer each other hope in the midst of so many stories of loss and fear. It was the kind of time when the people around you mattered –you wanted to be surrounded by a community, a network of support, people who reminded you of who you were.

Now, ten years later, as we remember the events of September 11, I again find myself connected with Habitat and a community that is witness of hope. This morning there was an interfaith service of peace and solidarity on the site where soon we will begin building the Abraham House – a joint project of local Christian, Jewish and Muslim groups. I couldn’t be at the service in person, because I was helping lead worship at my church, but I am looking forward to working together on this Habitat house with a diverse group of people who share the dream of making our community a safer, better place for all. Our world and how we relate to others has certainly changed since I got my International Studies degree 12 years ago, but there is comfort in knowing that in spite of our recent history, Muslims, Christians and Jews can still find common ground. I find comfort in this community of people who will not let fear or differences divide them. In learning from each other and working together, we are all reminded of who we really are, of who we want to be, of the kind of community we want to be a part of, of the kind of world we want to build.

How do we respond?

An Irish friend emailed me earlier this week to ask me how I felt about Osama Bin Laden’s death, as an American. He & I were both living in DC on Sept. 11, 2001. He knows a lot of compassionate, intelligent Americans that he met while volunteering with Habitat for Humanity in DC, and I think he was finding it hard to reconcile the Americans he knows with the pictures he saw on tv of people celebrating death. As a pastor, it’s part of my daily work to share the good news that life is stronger than death, in big and small ways. Certainly, Bin Laden caused a lot of suffering and death, and I do feel a glimmer of hope, although cautious hope, that removing his angry rhetoric from the world will lead to less violence.

As I heard the news Sunday night, I couldn’t help but think about the news from Sri Lanka two years earlier, in May 2009, when the Sri Lankan government finally tracked down and killed another man who had inspired countless acts of violence and death, Velupillai Prabhakaran. When I heard that the leader of the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) had been killed, I also felt hopeful for the beautiful country where I’d lived for two years. After two decades of war and suicide bombings, maybe they finally had a chance for peace. Maybe Prabhakaran’s death would be an opportunity for the Sri Lankan government to address the legitimate concerns of the Tamil minority, treating them as full citizens with equal rights. It was a moment when long-term peace seemed truly possible, if people could come together to address the reasons so many Tamil young people felt driven to join Prabhakaran’s movement. Unfortunately, the moment was lost as the government rounded thousands of Tamils up in detainment camps. Prabakahran is gone, but without any change in conditions, a new Prabhakaran will arise from the disenfranchised Tamil population. The potential to build peace and bring Tamils and Sinhalese together was lost.

So, as I consider how I feel about the removal of Bin Laden as a threat, my hope is that death will not have the last word. Osama may not be around anymore to incite followers to acts of violence against westerners, but how are we as Americans, or as Christians, contributing to create a climate of peace or of violence in the world? How will we respond differently to our Muslim brothers and sisters now that Osama is gone, along with the fear that he inspired in many of us? This is an opportunity for us as Americans to reach out to Muslims and say we know that Osama didn’t speak for all of you. We have done what we felt was right in holding Bin Laden accountable for the cruelty and murders of 9/11, so now let’s try to seek the path of peace.

This is an opportunity for us as Christians to remember that Jesus offered forgiveness and grace, even to the thief who hung beside him on a cross. We are not called to be a people of vengeance, but people who struggle to find a balance between justice and mercy, always erring on the side of mercy. The Old Testament prophets, as well as Jesus, insisted that to be faithful meant to seek justice, but the justice we seek is not in order to punish or condemn, but to ensure that the needs of the most vulnerable are met. When the orphans, widows and strangers among us are safe and cared for, then justice has been done and we are then freed to be peacemakers and love our enemies. As followers of Christ, we are taught to believe that all people are capable of redemption, that love wins over hate, and to live like we believe this.

I dream of a day where we will dance in the streets because we are no longer at war with any country or group, when we celebrate that life and love have won out over the need to kill in order to seek justice.

Growing an Education Fund

A few weeks ago the youth group at my church was working together to dig up a new plot in our church garden. Varying degrees of delight and disgust erupted every time someone found a worm. As we raked and hoed, several of the youth who are ethnic Montagnard refugees from the mountains of Vietnam began telling stories, including one – which horrified their American peers – about walking to school barefoot on foggy days, when long, fat nightcrawlers covered the roads. The Montagnard youth described how they couldn’t avoid stepping on the worms, and the feeling of worm guts squishing under their feet.
I often pause in amazement at the vastly different childhoods these refugees have experienced when compared to the American-born youth at St. Paul’s Christian Church. Even more amazing is how quickly these young Montagnards have adapted to American life, especially going to school in a new language and new culture. While they still struggle to master the intricacies of English grammar and vocabulary, some have joined the choir or wrestling team, made the honor roll and won citizenship awards, learned to drive, and use email and Facebook with ease. It’s hard to imagine that five years ago, they lived in homes with no electricity and faced frequent harassment. Yet, it is easy to imagine that five years from now they will be doing great things for their families and for the community, given the right opportunities.
Many Montagnard refugees have made North Carolina their home after fleeing persecution in their native Vietnam. In 2002, St. Paul’s Christian Church sponsored four Montagnard men, whose families soon followed. The oldest of their children are preparing to finish high school and look to the future. These families also have relatives back in Vietnam who would like to become teachers or nurses in order to improve life in their village. There’s little extra money for college or vocational training, since their parents are working hard just to make ends meet. Through a new non-profit, the Montagnard Education Fund, young people in both the U.S. and Vietnam can follow their dreams of continuing their education.
The inaugural fund raiser will be the All-Organic Fashion Show, Dinner and Sale on Saturday, April 16 at St. Paul’s Christian Church, 3331 Blue Ridge Rd., Raleigh (www.stpauls.net ). The evening starts at 6pm with a real Montagnard dinner, prepared like a traditional wedding feast over an open fire. From 7-7:30pm guests can shop in an open-air market for Fiberactive Organic’s environmentally-friendly products, most of which are made at least partially by Montagnard women, as well as traditional handicrafts like weaving and bamboo items. The fashion show begins at 7:30pm, featuring 100% organic cotton clothing and re-purposed, re-claimed or recycled accessories, all made in Fiberactive Organics’ Raleigh studio (www.fiberactiveorganics.com ). Call Julie at 612-3765 for tickets and information, or purchase tickets at the door. Tickets for the dinner are $15, and the fashion show is $10 ($5 for students).

I’ll be there, because I believe our community can only grow and flourish, like a well-tended garden, if everyone is given the chance to develop their talents and knowledge. North Carolina is stronger and healthier because of the presence of people with so many different experiences and perspectives. The Montagnard refugees at St. Paul’s Christian Church have taught us so much through sharing their stories, and we want to support their desire to keep learning.

Deconstructing Babel

There’s something holy about connecting with someone from a different ethnicity or nationality. In spite of all the factors that separate us – language, culture, experience – whenever I share a moment of connection with a person from another background, when we’re able to transcend what makes us different and relate to each other as equals, in those moments it feels like something sacred has broken through into everyday, ordinary life.

I think in some way these moments feel holy to me because they are a reversal of the pride and control exhibited by the story about building the Tower of Babel. In that story from Genesis, the people decide that they have what it takes to build a tower that reaches all the way to heaven, and so to humble them, God makes them all start speaking different languages – and suddenly they can no longer understand each other, and their great plans fall apart because they can’t communicate well enough to build something together. When we are humble enough to recognize that no single person or culture has all the answers, then I think God reverses that sense of division just a bit – we are able to see our inherent unity, our common roots.

It seems to happen most often in kitchens, or around tables. Kitchens are the place where women tend to let their guards down, to relax and to feel most comfortable being themselves. To ask questions that you might not ask in the formal dining room or in front of guests. Guests don’t often get invited into the kitchen – the kitchen is for family, for servants, for those who are close enough to see the dirty dishes and the scraps and the mess that we hide from those we’re trying to impress. I knew that I was no longer a guest in the Kulasegaram home when they let me start coming to the kitchen to sit and talk while they cooked dinner. I don’t know how long I had been coming to their home for dinner by the time I was invited into the kitchen, but I do remember that when I first started my weekly meals at their house, I would arrive and be seated at the table to eat while the rest of the family sat back and watched me eat. That’s the expectation for a respected guest in Sri Lanka – they eat first, while the others wait. So, when I finally made it into the kitchen, to help cut vegetables and prepare the meal, and when we all sat around the kitchen and ate our meal at the same time, I felt like family. It was in the kitchen that we spoke honestly about our fears, our hopes, our faith; where a Hindu family adopted a soon-to-be Christian minister as their sister and daughter.

It was also in a kitchen in rural northern Namibia that Meme Marta, who had picked up two American divinity students – strangers to her – earlier that evening to come and stay in her home, told us about how AIDS had impacted her family, about adopting her young niece, about what it felt like to have her husband working in mines hours away most of the month. It was where my African-American classmate Ravyn and I tried to explain that yes, we were both really American, even though one of us was black and the other was white. And after we ate the meal that we had helped Meme Marta prepare, she prayed the most beautiful prayer that she had written for Raven and I before she even met us. A holy moment.

It happens a lot in hospitals, too. Squeezing the hand of my friend Sutha as she went into labor with her first child, without any painkillers, in the public hospital in Jaffna, Sri Lanka. I just happened to be in the hospital visiting another friend’s sister when I saw Sutha in the hallway, in need of a hand to hold.

Or sitting in on a pre-natal check up with one of my parishoners in Raleigh, a refugee from Vietnam, and holding her beautiful, shy 2-year-old daughter. Indescribable moments of connection that transcend language, education, economics and background. Divine moments that make presence and shared experience more important than any barriers that humans can construct.