Sanctuary on Fire

There’s a scene in Mississippi Burning that always forces my heart up into my throat.  Families are gathered in a church, singing, praising, gathering strength from one another. Their worship is shattered by terror, arson, hatred.  They run from the burning building, frightened and terrorized. Their church, which should be their sanctuary, is not only disturbed, but destroyed. The attackers, blinded by their hate and prejudice, ruthlessly attack where they know it will cut the deepest.

For me, a church building is representative of so many things I hold sacred; faith, family, unity, worship, commitment, strength, sacrifice, and renewal. My church is a sanctuary from the world, a place to find comfort and peace, an opportunity to serve and lose myself. The building itself is not so important as all that it encompasses, embraces, and promises those who enter.

My mother called me recently to tell me of a nearby church building that had burned to the ground. It housed several of my faith’s congregations and they initially thought it was accidental. I thought to myself, “This is sad, but they will rebuild.” When news reports named it suspected arson, my sorrow deepened, especially for friends I knew who attended church there each Sunday, who worshiped there each week. But I thought once again, “They will rebuild.”

Then I made the mistake of scrolling past the local news story online and skimming reader comments. Shock and dismay overcame me as I read entries such as “They deserve this” or “This is God’s judgement on them” or “Serves them right.” Anger followed as I considered how people felt free to leave such vicious, venomous commentary. Then sorrow returned and I tried to put myself in their shoes, knowing that there are many who disagree with my beliefs, who see my faith as the enemy. I asked myself if I would ever celebrate the burning down of someone’s church, temple, mosque, or hall. I answered with a resounding “no.”

I don’t compare the arson of this local church building, or the those that have followed in other states, to the terror faced by the individuals struggling against hatred and prejudice in the south. My mind only returned to that scene because in both instances the arsonists sought to destroy something precious, send the message that not even a place of worship is safe, to intimidate, to silence. My hope is that this will instead have the opposite effect.

My hope is that this will draw the members from these congregations and many kind people from their community together. I hope it will encourage all involved to speak with kindness, seek to understand each other, to move forward in faith. A bully can destroy a building, but their hateful act can not destroy the faith, hope, and family that the building represents.

I can still vividly recall the older high school boy who came up to me as a tender freshman, got in my face, and proceeded to tell me what I believed. He was mostly inaccurate, with half truths mixed in, and some things blatantly wrong. He wasn’t interested in knowing the truth, only making me see his. I’ve carried that moment with me, remembered what it felt like to know someone only wanted to push at me, tear me down, and strike at what I held most dear. I’ve never wanted to be that bully, although I know I’ve often failed, pushed my agenda on others, neglected to listen, and used careless, callous words.

The older I become, the more I realize that we live in polarizing times only if we make them so. When I take the time to truly listen and comprehend, I realize that those with opposing views don’t have to be my enemy.  Those who are different, who see the world differently, who believe in different solutions, who vote in opposing ways, don’t have to be our enemies. Most people are not coming from a place of hate, but from individual passions and views. There will always be extremists, but we don’t have to join them. We do not have to be like these arsonists, burning down each other’s houses of faith to prove a point, show we’re right, or further our cause.