My brother
Almost 20 years ago, the poet Mary Oliver wrote this poem, called Iraq.
I want to sing a song for a body I saw crumpled
and without a name
but clearly someone young who had not yet lived his
life and never would.
How shall I do this?
What kind of song would serve such a purpose?
This poem may never end, for what answer does it
have
for anyone
in this distant,
comfortable country, simply looking on?
Clearly
he had a weapon in his hands.
I think
he could have been no more than twenty.
I think, whoever he was, of whatever country, he might have been my brother,
were the world different.
I think
he would not have been lying there
were the world different.
I think
if I had known him, on his birthday,
I would have made for him a great celebration.
Now, decades later, this same poem could be called Iran. Now, decades later, too many are caught in the crossfires of war. I am no expert on global politics. I can’t make sense of all that is happening in the Middle East these days. I cannot possibly count the cost, not just the ultimate cost paid by the family and friends of our soldiers who have died, but also the literal cost to our country’s resources.
I do, however, know that there are people living in those buildings exploding on the other side of the world. People rocking their babies to sleep as bombs fly above them. People caring for their aging parents and tending to those who are afraid. As we, in our comfort, look on, so many on the other side of the world face tremendous peril.
The word Lent is derived from Old English word lencten, meaning “lengthen.” It points to the lengthening days of spring, but this season of repentance, prayer, and service invites us to lengthen our love. These days move us to stretch our hearts to be a bit bigger, to extend our capacity to care, to protract our prayer – maybe even to include our enemies.
As the days lengthen, as this war lengthens, I pray that our hearts might do so as well. As Mary Oliver reminds us, that man on the other side of the world might have been my brother. This is enough for me to grieve this war, for me to pray for it to end. This is enough for me to wish our world were different, to pray the world were different, to work to make the world different. I’ll start by working to make my heart different, lengthening my capacity to love.
