Ten years ago, my pastor, Tim Hawks, preached a sermon series titled "The Vandalism of Shalom." A recent event brought this phrase back to my mind.
Shalom. This Hebrew word, used as both a greeting and a farewell, means peace. But, peace is so much more than the absence of conflict: from Heb., lit. "peace," prop."completeness, soundness, welfare," from stem of shalam "was intact, was complete, was in good health." (Online Etymology Dictionary. Douglas Harper, Historian. 09 May. 2011. <Dictionary.com http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/shalom>)
Vandalism: Let's hear from Dictionary.com: deliberately mischievous or malicious destruction or damage of property.
Vandalism: Let's hear from Dictionary.com: deliberately mischievous or malicious destruction or damage of property.
Back in January, on one of my many walks in the woods with my dog, Frost, I discovered a girls' hideout. A special and spacious outdoor room. I returned recently. It is special no longer. Here are some photos of the first day I found this place.
"Property of the Gippo Club." I tried to imagine where the name came from. From a children's book unfamiliar to me?
Colors, and a candle.
An empty IBC root beer bottle.
Very little trash on the ground, except for a fallen marker.
Two chairs. An abandoned newspaper vending machine used as a pantry.
The candles, I hope, were used as decoration, but not lit. I should have left a note. Too much brush and dry leaves for candles.
The candles, I hope, were used as decoration, but not lit. I should have left a note. Too much brush and dry leaves for candles.
I did not look in the backpacks. The metal pail contained dishes.
Do you see the little bathroom behind the tree?
Now, it did not appear to be used. The toilet paper rests in a colorful basket, hanging from a tree branch. Did the girls actually use it? Or did they include this "room" simply to make their outdoor clubhouse complete?
I admired their creativity. They designed an elegant space, a place to color, to hangout, to visit with each other, and without adult help, so far as I could tell. Were they Girl Scouts? FHA? Was one brilliant girl the leader, the one with the ideas, the one the others followed? If so, I wish I could tell her what a remarkable little girl she is.
Recently, I returned. This place looks very different now.
Recently, I returned. This place looks very different now.
One of the girls, Abigail Kay . N. She wrote her whole name, but I stop at the N, to preserve her privacy. When she wrote her name, this board was nailed up. Now, it is on the ground.
And someone scrawled "F*** You" over another little girl's name.
Things have been upended, thrown over. It doesn't take that much time to destroy what has been carefully crafted.
What story comes to your mind? I imagine a group of boys, probably middle schoolers. Yes, it's sexist, but in my mind, they are boys. They come across this place and one of them, the leader, snorts and snickers about the stupid little girls. He kicks something over. They all laugh. They all start kicking, throwing, tearing. And writing obscenities over the girls' names. I know, some would say, "Oh, they must have such poor self-esteem." I believe the opposite. They feel big. They feel important. They feel superior. Entitled. They feel contempt for the weak. Rules are for suckers, for losers. Not for them.
These boys imagine the girls skipping over to their hideaway after school. They find it in ruins. They see obscenities scribbled over their very own names. They run crying home, scared that someone is hiding, ready to pounce out and hurt them. And the boys exult in that scenario. Because they are Kings, Emperors. They are Alpha Anarchists. Everyone better get out of their way.
And that is probably exactly what happened. The girls probably did run home, broken-hearted, sobbing, scared, their spirits crushed. And they probably never went back. Their happy space had been violated. Now it felt dangerous to be there. What effects will ripple out into their future lives?
They had some Shalom in that happy space they had crafted. The Vandals took it away.
Let's close by reading The Second Coming, a poem by William Butler Yeats, written in 1919, after the first World War.
THE SECOND COMING
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
And that is probably exactly what happened. The girls probably did run home, broken-hearted, sobbing, scared, their spirits crushed. And they probably never went back. Their happy space had been violated. Now it felt dangerous to be there. What effects will ripple out into their future lives?
They had some Shalom in that happy space they had crafted. The Vandals took it away.
Let's close by reading The Second Coming, a poem by William Butler Yeats, written in 1919, after the first World War.
THE SECOND COMING
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
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