I had no idea what to say.
Somewhere between realizing I had to lead Sunday school and looking over what I had planned to teach, I was gripped by the fact that I had no words.
What exactly do you say on the day when bells would ring across the nation to mark nine lives lost? What words can you offer to speak lament, peace, sorrow and hope, all while you share donuts and bacon?
I knew there was no way to not speak about these things. I knew pastors in many, many places were tasked with just that. My beloved, my pastor, was wrestling early that morning about how to make the words match the moment. Silence, bells ringing, pulpits draped, hands held.
Somehow on Sunday, we got there.
The plans I had for Sunday school shifted from one story to another. I began by telling the group, “Our movie series will be part of what we do today, but it would be less than faithful to gather around tables for Bible study and not make space for people who lost their lives doing the same thing just days ago. So, this lesson will probably be the green light at the intersection, but I imagine we will end up on another road.” We did.
The words I coudn’t find didn’t matter. I offered the story that had gripped me all week: my memories of serving at Big Bethel AME Church in Atlanta. I told about the Wednesday night Bible studies with those faithful folks, their gracious welcome and radical hospitality, they way they welcomed me, the hymns we sang. I offered Mathew 5:1-11 and could barely whisper “blessed are those who mourn.” We offered stories to each other.
And then Monday.
Monday isn’t usually a holy day. We don’t have a word for Monday that names it as sacred. After the spiritual wellspring of Sundays, Monday is doing good to have a tiny spillover. The kind you wipe up, sigh about, and try not to slip on as you go right along into business as usual, routines locked and loaded. Monday is when you get to work, get to the details of this life you’re living. But this Monday, more than most, we needed the grace and power of 9,000 hands held across a bridge to spill over into the work of moving forward.
Somehow on Monday, we got there.
We showed up Monday evening at Steward Chapel AME Church here in Macon. A handful of us from this church and that one. My husband, dear friend and I walked in together having no idea what this would be, what words would be said. We Baptists greeted a couple of friends; most of the people we did not know.
Prayers began.The words I had not known how to say came spilling out from Reverend Gordon as she confessed our need for healing and she prayed for Dylan Roof. Just as I felt speechless, without one word to match the spirit in that room, the invitation to join my words with theirs gave me back my voice: “If you know this one sing with me.”
Standing on the promises of Christ my King, Through eternal ages let His praises ring,
I know those words by heart.
Standing on the promises that cannot fail, When the howling storms of doubt and fear assail, By the living Word of God I shall prevail, Standing on the promises of God.
For five stanzas, the words came as easily as my own name. Years of singing old hymns has formed in me a catalog of words that can sing when I think I cannot. And the words sang out, from my voice, from their voices, from one body of people. We stood, spontaneously, the thunderous sound of these words claiming a promise.
With each prayer that followed, a song was sung. Words were offered to speechless people. Maybe we didn’t have words to articulate our sorrow, but we could sing the word, “Jesus, Jesus.” Maybe our words would disagree on a hundred theological points, but when we sang “How Great is Our God” one truth echoed louder than bullets, louder than hate. And when that song moved into “How Great Thou Art” and wrinkled hands lifted high next to young tattooed, hands, the powerful volume was beyond words.
Maybe the words that name us by race, denomination and class could file us neatly on any other day, but when Rabbi Schlesinger prayed in Hebrew and translated it, “How good and pleasant it is when God’s people live together in unity,” the resounding Amens were the only words we needed. Maybe we do not speak unity often, but we linked arms and sang, “I need you; you need me.”
If Mondays are for the living of these days, we lived for a moment as one people last night. If we needed the words to know how to move forward, singing them was as good a start as any. In these next days, we will move further from sorrow and perhaps past vulnerability. Routines and schedules and prior commitments will dim the spotlight on these events that have rocked us.
But we will still need words to name what needs to happen in our communities. We will still need each other. We may still have no idea what to say, but Monday’s songs may be as good a start as any. The words we do not have don’t matter as much as hearing the words we know by heart.
I need you, you need me.
We’re all a part of God’s body.
Stand with me, agree with me.
We’re all a part of God’s body.
Also from Erin Robinson Hall
Palm Branches
They held palm branches. Little hands, raised high among the gathered people held symbols of peace and protest. We wanted them to walk. We sang along as they enacted the gospel story. Palm Sunday tradition had them marching and laying their branches at the foot of a reasonably-sized cross. The children of our church waving palm branches. We read the scripture about people who marched with palms. “When he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil, asking, ‘Who is this?’” A city in turmoil reaches my heart today. One week ago, I was meeting on Zoom with my team, who calls Nashville home. My friend Eileen got a text from her daughter and froze. “It’s a school shooting.” Silence fell. A pause that held the question we parents ask these days: Did this latest shooting reach my child? She breathed and we realized, not this one. A school nearby, down the road. We learned that another team member has family in The Covenant School. They escaped, not physically harmed. Fear, anxiety, and grief washed through us. Within hours, my social media feeds filled with ads for bullet-proof notebooks and classroom walls that transform into bunkers. Bullet-proof barriers for sale, the commodification of our nightmares. The market is ready to respond. Stock prices on guns shoot up, while I stifle an honest Lenten confession: I want the power to protect my family. I need something in my hand so no harm can touch my children. One week later, a walk out is planned. At 10:13 am, the time the school shooting began, thousands of students across Nashville walked out....
Watch the Clouds
Today, we loaded up our little circus and took a drive. The kids had a school holiday, and we planned a little fun out of the house. Didn’t matter that the weather forecast screamed “stay home” or that the clouds tried to warn us. We packed enough snacks for this crew and drove to see the animals at Dauset Trails. In our family, this is a week for celebrating adventures. We are celebrating our “Coming Home Day” tomorrow, the day we brought our kids home. Adventure in the rain felt just right for this morning, and we had fruit snacks, so why not? Halfway into our drive, the sky opened up and rain began to pour. I watched the older kids’ faces. Logan, our oldest son, whispered, “Does this mean we got in the car and came all this way for nothing?” Disappointment doesn’t always go over well with this crew. I said, “Nope. It does not mean that at all, buddy. It means . . . Disney Rules! Now, you watch the clouds.” He grinned and knew exactly what I meant. My husband forgot this particular Disney Rule, but trusted that I could avoid the whining and tears for a while with this plan. We adore Disney World, and the first time my husband and bio son Logan went to Disney, I laid out my “rules.” There are many, all brilliant. The one about rain and storms, I will share. It goes like this. When it storms at Disney, as it does every afternoon, you do not leave the park. You do not hide away in a store...
I Brave
Deep waters, flames, and fears have come before. They will probably come again. But the narrative I want my child to have, and the narrative I hope to voice continually for myself and for my family is this: Fear doesn’t win. We are strong. And just in case we’re not brave enough, we will be brave for each other.
Erin, that was simply beautiful. I have goose bumps as if a tiny bit of that Spirit that flowed with all of you gave me a brush. Thanks for that.