Darkness to Light

One man. Alone. In the dark.

Scribbles words of hate.

One man. Hungry for something he can’t put his finger on.

Plays out acts of violence.

One man. Rushed. Urgent. Afraid.

Believing he can alleviate his pain by inflicting it on others,

An attempt to spread the fear that fills his heart.

Harm. Anger. Ugliness.

One man. Met by a community.

A community connected by love.

A community that feeds and cares for each other.

Working in the light and heat of the day.

Meticulous. Detailed. Patient.

A community painting words of love and healing.

A community willingly open to all—

loving even those who wish them harm.

This is the healing of pain, this is the quieting of fear.

Forgiveness. Joy. Beauty.

I had just spent the morning telling my mentor how open and sensitive to grief and sadness I’ve been lately. A sense that I have been deeply in-touch with and connected to the pains of the world, even if they weren’t directly connected to me. That evening I heard the news and saw the photos. Our church had been vandalized. Words of hate spray painted at our door and our pride flag ripped down and torn to shreds.

This pain and grief didn’t belong to someone else. It was here at my door.

But what did I feel? I’m not even sure. It was cloudy, soft around the edges, unclear. It was a blur of fear and heartbreak. I couldn’t really believe it. I needed to see it with my own eyes. Danielle and I drove down to the church to witness it for ourselves. Sitting on the church steps in the dark, I found myself awash in things I couldn’t quite name. The next morning, though, clarity returned.

As we gathered outside the church doors, members of our church community, plus friends, coworkers, members of other churches—I saw it. This grief and pain weren’t at my door, they were at our door. And that made all the difference.

1 John 4:18 tells us, “There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear…” Growing up I always read that verse as a litmus test for how much I really loved God. “If I really loved God, I wouldn’t be afraid right now.” But standing in the blazing Texas sun, sharing songs and communion with these beautiful people gathered to condemn hate and turn something ugly into something beautiful, it hit me. I wasn’t afraid anymore. The pain and confusion I felt had dissolved as I stood in loving community with my siblings.

We worked all day—from 9am to 9pm—taping, tracing, painting, dreaming, more painting, climbing up and down ladders. We did more than just cover up the hateful message, we made our message of love, inclusion, and acceptance louder than ever. We didn’t just erase the message on the wall, we embraced and healed the pain and fear in each other’s hearts.

This morning we gathered inside the newly minted mural and sang and danced and laughed with each other, much like we do every Sunday, but with more fervor and intention. As I reflect on the rush of the last 48 hours, I’m struck by how small my pain and fear seem in the light of the love of this community. Whatever this vandal was trying to achieve very clearly backfired. The message he tried to spread all over our walls is gone forever, and our message of love has cast out the fear he wanted to inflict.