For the Love of God

Originally, this post was going to be about the differences between French Christmas traditions and American ones. I've been taking notes for a few weeks on little things I wanted to mention. But it all seemed rather frivolous in light of current events and after the truly beautiful Sunday I experienced this weekend. So I give you readers fair warning; this blog post will discuss my spiritual beliefs, particularly in light of what happened on Friday. I've spent a lot of the last few years trying to minimize my religious beliefs, especially with new friends and acquaintances. This is not one of those times. I am religious, and in situations such as those we face at this moment, I look to God. Not necessarily for answers, but for guidance and comfort.



I was raised in the Presbyterian Church, and not in a Christmas/Easter sort of way. My dad is a minister at the church right across the street from our town's only middle school. We went to church every Sunday morning from about 9am to 12:30. In 5th and 6th grade, my sister and I rode the school bus from our school to the middle school and walked across to the church every day after school, staying until Dad was finished. When we hit actual middle school it was the same, minus the bus ride. Most days it was only an hour or so, but on Wednesdays and some Thursdays, we might stay until 8:30pm or so. I never minded; there was generally something to do or someone to hang out with. My point is, I basically lived at church until I was in high school. As a freshman in marching band, I remember getting kidnapped by the senior girls and basically doing the lock-in thing. They drove us blindfolded to an undisclosed location. The second we walked into the church, I knew from the smell and guessed where we were. Everyone thought my dad had tipped me off, but I swear it was just the smell. I'd know it anywhere. Churches have been and probably always will be a safe place for me; a second home, somewhere I can always find a kindred spirit.

So it's no surprise that one of the first things I do when I move to a new place is to try to find a Church home. In Decatur, it was easy. Columbia was the second church I visited, and the moment I walked in I knew I was home. Here in Paris, it was different. There is really only one church that's even close to what I'm used to back home, which is the American Church in Paris. It's nondenominational, basically a mix between Presbyterian and Methodist traditions. The head pastor is Presbyterian, but they use the Methodist hymnal and the associate pastors are Methodist. It's much bigger and better endowed than what I'm used to (generally 250-300 people at the traditional 11am service), but I really like the head pastor and it's about as close as I can get to what I really want.

Because it isn't the perfect fit, I don't end up going every week like I do back home, but I do go a couple of times a month. This weekend, I knew I needed to go, especially in light of the tragedy. I've been under a lot of stress lately, missing my parents and going through exams, and this latest thing had pretty much turned me into a sobbing, blubbering mess whenever I even saw a child. I'm totally serious. My host mom asked me about it at dinner on Saturday night and I burst into tears over my cheese plate. So I knew I needed some God time, and planned to go to the regular service on Sunday morning. When I arrived, I discovered that the children's Christmas Pageant was being performed during the service, in addition to a sermon, etc. It was one of the most beautiful services I've ever witnessed. Not only did the minister make a passing reference to something my Dad wrote recently about the tragedy (he was quoted in an article in USA Today on Saturday), but the sermon itself as a whole was thoughtfully structured to help those of us living abroad particularly. The reference to my Dad was particularly thrilling because the pastor doesn't know me well at all, let alone my Dad; he had no idea that the small town Texas minister's daughter was sitting in the sanctuary, but I'm sure that God did. After the sermon, the children's Christmas Pageant was beautiful, and really just what we all needed. Children ages 4 to 12, all coming together to tell the Christmas story in the way that only young children can. In context, it was quite a tear-jerker, and I'm not sure there was a dry eye in the house by the end. I like to think that God knew I needed to hear from my Dad and see all of those happy children telling the Christmas story this week.

In the past couple of days, I've been asked a few times by friends who aren't as politically active as I am what this tragedy means to me as a liberal; what do we do from a political standpoint? I know the answer, and I've given it. But I confess that the politics are not what's important to me right now. When I heard the news, I immediately thought about those poor teachers and children; what was God up to, allowing something like this to happen? What does God expect us to do now? How are we supposed to react? I am in absolutely no position to tell you what God is thinking or anything like that. I can tell you that as a Christian human being, I believe what I have been taught from birth. That the best weapon against hate is love. Jesus preached love above all numerous times, “You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor[i] and hate your enemy.’ 44 But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, 45 that you may be children of your Father in heaven." Harry Potter nerd that I am, I consult the all-knowing character Dumbledore; I know, it isn't a holy text to everyone, but the message of the power of love is the same. “There is a room in the Department of Mysteries, that is kept locked at all times. It contains a force that is at once more wonderful and more terrible than death, than human intelligence, than forces of nature. It is also, perhaps, the most mysterious of the many subjects for study that reside there. It is the power held within that room that you possess in such quantities and which Voldemort has not at all. That power took you to save Sirius tonight. That power also saved you from possession by Voldemort, because he could not bear to reside in a body so full of the force he detests. In the end, it mattered not that you could not close your mind. It was your heart that saved you.” Love is the most powerful weapon on earth, and it is high time that we who call ourselves Christians stopped using weapons like fear and hate and instead take up arms in the name of love.