Rainbow colored light filtered through the ancient stained glass windows of the old Gothic cathedral, majestically present in the busy downtown business section of the city. Centuries of worship were evident in that old place. Bronze placards remembering long dead parishioners glistened in the dim light under the windows, small candles flickered on a table adjacent to the railing between the altar area and the pews. Traces of smokey incense lingered, lending an other worldliness to the place.
Unaware of ambulances streaking through downtown to the nearby hospital or of the three young men arguing loudly across the street or even of the news crew up the street covering a recent bank break in, they prayed. Reverently, passionately, they prayed, each one immersed in his or her own inner world yet joined by their common desire to know God and love God, even to learn more how to know God better.
After they listened to the readings from the Gospel and letters, they heard a reading from the Hebrew scriptures, which were still honored at each Mass as they had been from the beginning more than 2000 years ago. Then, after all that, they paused. It was a kind of communal intermission between acts. In that brief interlude, there was a great joining together, as one people before entering into the deeper devotion that would follow. The second part was at least as ancient as the Hebrew scriptures. It was a kind of inner "holy of the holies," reflecting symbolically that which had been the inner sanctum of the temple where the Hebrew priest would meet with God. Then, it was an actual place in the temple rather than the common spiritual encounter with the holy found in Christianity's Eucharist.
It is in that great pause between the two parts of the service that is found much hope for humanity. In that profoundly simple and powerfully spiritual moment, the priest turns to the congregation and says, "The peace of the lord be with you," as the congregation chants back, "and also with you."
Then, softly a hundred hushed voices stir the fragrant space as each one turns to another and repeats, "The peace of the lord be with you." As is the custom, that one greets the other's outstretched hand, and in a beautiful breath of peace, of hope, of longing, of friendship, even of faith, repeats back, "and also with you."
Finally, after that long pause for peace, as if they were now ready to enter into that deeper place, the priest says to them ... "The Lord be with you," to which they recant together, "And with your spirit."
It is almost as if by inviting the peace of God into their midst, which is then shared among them, they have already invited God to be with them and the priest is merely declaring what is already evident. God is present in God's peace, which has been invited and then declared present.
On that same morning, in another setting, an old woman in hijab walks slowly at least six paces behind an old man, presumably her husband. It's a hot morning, already close to 80 degrees and yet her head is covered in a heavy scarf and her outer garments look heavy and extend to her feet, covered in slippers. Like every other morning, this elderly couple walk, single file, down the busy street, wait for the cross walk light to change and then down to a nearby Halal grocery store. Silently, heads down, they walk.
On my way to work, a route which I share with them on foot each morning, I can't help but wonder what their lives have witnessed, where they are from, what atrocities might they have experienced. The newspaper headlines are full of what is going on in their part of the world. My heart breaks for what their homelands might be enduring. The obvious cultural distinction is in every aspect of this couple's daily routine. I gasp that the woman would be clothed as heavily on a hot day. I wonder what it feels like to dress like that every day. Then I wonder what she must be thinking of my attire and obvious delight in the sunny morning and my own personal sense of freedom.
As I passed the couple, I glanced at the woman, smiling at her as she looks at me in a kind of vacant gaze. Even her face doesn't reveal her thoughts or views. It seems each morning is the same, only my wardrobe allows me more variety than hers. Hers is the same scarf, the same slippers, the same gait, the seemingly same routine everyday.
Then, one morning, when I smiled at her, she smiled back. I was absolutely delighted. As I passed her, I whispered to her, "Asalam alikum (The peace of Allah be upon you)." She nodded and barely below a soft whisper she uttered back, "Alikum salam."
"and also with you." Actually it translates into " Upon you be the peace of Allah."
Oh my God, I cried inside my head and heart ...... God, what a miracle that moment was!! We exchanged the peace, interculturally, interreligiously, internationally! We did it. We honestly did just that. It wasn't just an ordinary thing. This was what our faiths are all about. They are about peace, about God's peace because actually there isn't any other kind of real peace. It is in the heart first, then the will and then finally, and most importantly, in the breath, extended, given, and received.
In that moment, we did something I wish the entire world would do. We prayed together in a simple sharing of the peace. God is present wherever God's peace is invited and shared. God was with us and also, wherever God is - whenever two or more are gathered in God's name - peace is.
I share this with you because it is a true story, a real miracle moment, and I know today when I walk up to my job, I will see her again, a woman who is a mysteriously different human being, with a different past and clearly a different present and future, both who has now become a friend - even if all that friendship encompasses is a smile, shared, and under our breath, softly whispered, "سلام الله عليكم,".... and upon the whole world. Amen
I love this post! And, best of all, true :)
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