An Instrument of Peace

It was with heavy hearts that many of our congregation gathered today--our normal rituals disrupted yet again by the ugliness of American racism. I assume that other Caucasian parishioners shared my awkwardness as we greeted our African-American friends, feeling that we just didn't have the vocabulary to say the pain that was in our hearts over yet another shooting spree this time in a church.

At some point in his remarks this morning, our assistant rector expressed the outrage in our hearts that people who had simply gathered in prayer could be shot while doing so. As his message drew to an end, he asked us to open our prayer books and read the prayer of Saint Francis together.

Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
Where there is sadness, joy.

O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
To be consoled as to console,
To be understood as to understand,
To be loved as to love;
For it is in giving that we receive;
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
It is in dying to self that we are born to eternal life.

I've always loved that prayer. To my mind's eye, this is the essence of what it means to be whole and human. For a very long time, these words were the very last thoughts to cross my mind before falling to sleep.

Somewhere along the way I just stopped. I'm sure there must have been a reason. Maybe that was about the time I started praying the Lord's Prayer in Aramaic--also a profound prayer. But Saint Francis' plea recognizes our flawed state as humans and offers an antidote that every one of us can choose each day to improve the human condition.

I don't begin to think that my solitary choice will lessen the pain of Charleston. I do believe that if every one of us lived in that way, we could change the country. No, I don't believe that; I know it.

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