Toward the end of January, I was invited by one of the pastors of my church to offer the prayers of the people on Sunday, March 1. One of the other pastors would be gone that day and she wondered if I would fill in. I happily agreed to do it.

I procrastinated and had not yet put together my prayer when I awoke on Saturday, February 28, to the news that the United States and Israel had begun a massive military campaign against Iran overnight. Suddenly, my prayer had focus.  

I approached writing the prayer the same way I approach writing for the Reformed Journal. I’m not employed by an institution and don’t worry about stepping on toes with what I say, pray, or write. If someone is offended, my attitude is it’s probably good for them to be offended. I spent a lot of years filtering my words because I was an institutional fundraiser and didn’t want to upset any donors. Now I have repeatedly told myself, “I don’t care if someone is upset.”   

Our church had begun Lent the week before by focusing on lament, leading me to shape my prayer as one of lament. Here’s what I prayed concerning the events in Iran:

Lord, we woke yesterday to learn of war, death, and destruction in our world.

We want peace. We want the violence to end and the innocent to be protected. We pray for those around the world, especially in the Middle East, living in fear.

We know that the government of Iran has oppressed its citizens for a long time. We want justice in Iran and hope for its people. And yet we are troubled that the United States and Israel would attack Iran without any provocation that we know of. That doesn’t feel right. Of course, then, it was inevitable that Iran would strike back and send missiles throughout the region. Meanwhile, innocent people are victimized, people who just want to live their normal lives. We pray for them.

We pray for restraint and wisdom for those making decisions. We pray for healing. We pray that compassion, empathy, peace, and love may break out in every corner of the world.

And along with the psalmist, we cry out in anguish and lament, “How long?” How long, Lord, how long? How long will the innocent suffer? How long will the wicked prosper? How long will evildoers crush the vulnerable? How long before our sad divisions cease and we live in peace? How long before you set everything right? How long, Lord?

I thought I had done a good job pointing out that while the government of Iran wasn’t innocent, the US and Israel were the aggressors. And I consciously tempered “without any provocation” with “that we know of.” I heard from many people after the service that my prayer had captured their feelings and received more commendations via email that afternoon. I felt pretty good about myself.

That lasted until the end of the week when a typed letter from an unhappy parishioner arrived in the mail. He wondered how I could possibly know that the United States and Israel had not been provoked since I was not privy to top secret intelligence reports. But that was a mild provocation. What really bothered him was that I had dragged politics into the pulpit.  

My “I don’t care” façade quickly crumbled. Turns out I do care. His letter gnawed at me. I reread my prayer several times, arguing in my head with each point he’d made. Even now, neither the United States or Israel has provided any clear evidence they were provoked. This attack fails the just war theory test. As I saw in a meme, “You realize we’re the bad guys here.” And as for his assertion about politics and the pulpit, I comforted myself by saying that following Jesus is always political. I don’t agree that politics should be kept out of the pulpit. I do agree that partisanship should be kept out of the pulpit, but not politics. I told myself my prayer wasn’t partisan. I justified myself with nuanced definitions that distinguish between politics and partisanship. (And besides, I wasn’t even in the pulpit and this wasn’t a sermon. I was praying from the communion table.)

Even with all my self-justifying thoughts, I couldn’t get over the fact that my prayer had caused one of our congregants to stop praying and become perturbed with me instead. I could dismantle his arguments but I couldn’t figure out a way to let myself off the hook for causing him to react negatively.

Our church isn’t huge, but it is big enough that you don’t automatically run into everyone else on any given Sunday. I saw the letter writer across the sanctuary a couple of times in the following weeks and considered what I might say if we met face to face. I struggled to find the right combination of words that would express how sorry I was for the impact my words had while at the same time not apologizing for praying as I did. Every scenario I played in my head ended with a faux apology which actually blamed him: “I was right but you took it the wrong way.”

He didn’t make his way over to me, either, so I figured we both were content to avoid each other and let some time pass.  

On the Sunday after Easter, my wife and I were communion servers. We typically sit on the east side of the sanctuary and the letter-writer sits on the west. This particular Sunday, we had been assigned a communion station on the west side. We serve by intinction, and there are two stations on each side, meaning you stand in line not knowing which pair of servers you’ll receive the elements from until the last moment. Suddenly, the letter-writer was standing directly in front of me holding a piece of bread he had just received from my wife.

I looked him in the eye, called him by his first name, and said, “This is Christ’s blood, shed for you.” As he dipped the bread in the cup, I could see he was moved. I was moved, too.

I received a hand-written note a couple of days later. He said he felt the moment was incongruous and then added, “Here were you and your wife serving me communion to save my soul. Only between Christians could this happen.”

I wrote a note back, saying I agreed 1000%.