After Friday’s horrible shooting in the vicinity of
a Planned Parenthood Clinic in Colorado Springs, a vigil was held at the All Souls Unitarian Universalist Church to remember the
victims and to stand in solidarity with Planned Parenthood. The senior pastor of the church, Rev. Nori
Rost opened the vigil with these words: "We're here to honor the lives of those who were killed yesterday in domestic terrorism. We're here to honor thework of Planned Parenthood and stand with them in solidarity. We're here tohonor the amazing response of the Colorado Springs police and other responders.But we're mainly here to find comfort in each other's company. Together, we canchange the world."
Other speakers shared in their remarks
about the need for stricter gun control laws and to protect the reproductive
rights of women. One person in attendance got up from her pew and said to those
in the church, “I thought we were here to grieve and mourn and not makepolitical statements." With that, she walked out of the church.
As a pastor, I have been thinking of
the woman’s statement: was it appropriate to look to solutions in the midst of
grief? Was the vigil the right time and place to talk about gun control and
women’s reproductive rights?
When a loved one has died due to
illness, accident, or old age, it seldom requires political and/or moral reflection—part
of the cycle of life is birth and death. It is expected that we will eventually
lose those we love—even our own life—through the passage of time. However, a
death caused by willful intent is another story. Domestic violence—where one is
no longer safe in the sanctuary of one’s home—or domestic terrorism—where someone
seeks to inflict the most amount of harm to the greatest number of people,
whether they are attending a church or seeking a medical procedure that is
protected by law—has political and moral implications.
It is natural, even necessary, at
times like these to seek, in the midst of our communal grief, communal answers
to preventing future acts of violence. These moments, when we feel deeply the
loss and see clearly that such loss could have been prevented, place us on the sacred
ground upon which our commitment to heal the brokenness within our community
rests. It is imperative that as we grieve we find ways to move through it in
ways that empower us. We need not be held hostage to evil that seeks to harm
but instead we can live into our own power to join with others and find
pathways to further peace, wholeness, and right relationships.
Make no mistake—all this has political
ramifications. And perhaps it can be the most constructive thing we can do with
our grief and the most loving act we can do to honor the legacy of those whose
lives have been cut short to violence, especially at a vigil.
Liturgy, the ritual of worship, has as its origin:
"The Public work of the people done on behalf of the people." If our vigils are to have any true honoring of those who were massacred, it is that we join in the work that makes for peace in our communities so no other city will have to come together to mourn the loss of so many. Let us end the unholy litany that continues to grow:
Liturgy, the ritual of worship, has as its origin:
Origin
"The Public work of the people done on behalf of the people." If our vigils are to have any true honoring of those who were massacred, it is that we join in the work that makes for peace in our communities so no other city will have to come together to mourn the loss of so many. Let us end the unholy litany that continues to grow:
Newtown, CT
Aurora, CO
Colorado Springs, CO
May our vigils inspire us to honor the dead by seeking safe communities for the living.
