The cries for peace are strong right now. Israel/Palestine, Russia/Ukraine, Syria, Iran, multiple African nations … all are in conflict and the world feels shaken to its very core. The truth is, warfare across the globe at any one time is nothing new. Our current capacity to extend them internationally and inflict weapons with devastating global consequences, however, is.
Yet despite all of this, over the last few days I have felt so very peaceful in my own life. I have loved ones in Jerusalem I am deeply, deeply concerned about. I witness the horrors from my laptop screen and I despair with the wider world. But I also feel deeply, deeply at peace. My cat, Zelda, has barely left my side the last few days, curled up on my feet or by my legs. We’ve had her two years, and I am definitely on the side of her rescuing me, rather than the other way round. My children are growing in independence and grace, my husband and I are sickeningly loved up at the moment as we approach our sixth wedding anniversary. As my immediate world is somewhat smaller these days due to my chronic illness, I am intentional about tuning in to the gifts contained within it. And they are plentiful.
This has given me much cause for reflection on the nature of peace in a tormented world. When trauma is displayed on our televisions nightly for entertainment, when the news is full of organisations putting politics over people. When everything we choose to do in the world outside our front doors, and sometimes within them, carries heightened risk in the era of Covid-19. When I have lost my dreams to Long Covid, and reaching for more in an uncertain future seems pointless.
The clue, I believe, is in that intentionality. When Zelda comes to snuggle, I don’t grab her for cuddles or tease her in play. I let her be. We exist together in a state of mutual peace. Equally, when I read the latest horror piece from Gaza, I don’t grab it for rumination or turn it round in my head. I hold it in the space created for it, then let it pass. This could be seen as callous; how can you just move on? Well, the truth of the matter is I could very easily weep, type social media posts, comment on news articles, get very angry. But that won’t change anything and it won’t help my ability to witness. To witness means exactly that. Be present, watch, be able to attest to in future. If I engage in every piece of awfulness that I come across in life, I wouldn’t open my eyes in a morning.
By applying intentionality in what I engage more deeply in, I protect myself, I protect the community I witness within and I cultivate peace. Nobody needs an over-exhausted, over-exasperated, furious and belligerent me turning into a keyboard warrior and breaking my cardinal rule of engaging respectfully at all times. Nobody needs me pouring out my own trauma where I should be centering the cries of others. Nobody needs me inserting my own agendas into conversations which I should be witnessing, not wandering into.
Much needs to be said, much needs to be done. About warfare, about conflict, on international, national, institutional and sometimes even personal scales. Every day I nurture people who live with these personal consequences of conflict, and it is for them that I need to keep myself peace-ful. How can I answer a cry in a DM on social media if I am so worked up about the latest data breaches by church safeguarding professionals? I need to witness, choose a response (which may include not to respond) and let it pass.
In that way, I can maintain space for the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, to be with me, this day and always. I pray it may inhabit you too.
Peace be with you.
Amen.
(First published 14 October 2023 on www.deconstructingchurch.com)
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