Guns in Church

This morning as we walk into church, Seamus points out the sign outside the door with the handgun and a big red circle with the slash through it.

"That's a gun!" my three year old shouts, happy to recognize a symbol in front of him.

"That means no guns in church," his big brother explains.

"That's right," I chime in. "No weapons in church. No guns or swords or bos or nunchucks." They giggle their way into the door with no further comment.

Within a few minutes, we are swept up in handshakes and hugs with the blessing, "Peace be with you." Usually this happens briefly in the middle of the Liturgy of the Eucharist*, when we remember Jesus's Last Supper. At our church, "passing the peace" takes so long that several years ago, we decided to move it to the beginning of service. And since we go to the earlier, shorter service, that means we have a chance to greet everyone in the sanctuary.

Not long into Mass, the boys start some squabble, and all four of us move into the cry room which doubles as the daily chapel. You can enter from the hallway or the sanctuary, and staff frequently use it as a pass-through during liturgy. The room has big glass windows into the sanctuary, with a door near the first row of pews.

After the Gospel reading and before the sermon, a man from the front row comes up and kneels before the tabernacle. The tabernacle is a decorated box that holds the communion wafers after they have been consecrated during Mass. Three police officers in black uniforms now stand in front of the big glass windows of the cry room. My eyes immediately go to their belts. I try not to stare at the billy clubs and other weapons, to take an inventory. I'm distracted now by the total break from routine at the altar.

Our deacon, having just finished the reading, goes to the tabernacle and removes the golden chalice. He takes out a communion wafer, returns the chalice, then turns to hand it to the kneeling man. The three police officers make no move and hold their hands behind their backs, patiently waiting.

The man takes the communion wafer, plus the deacon's hand in both of his. The deacon helps him stand up. Deacon walks now with our fellow parishioner, the man whose hand we shook with a smile this morning, wishing him the "peace of Christ." The police officers follow the two of them through the cry room, out into the hallway, presumably to take the man to jail.

A staff person closes the cry room door behind the procession saying, "It locks from the outside." As the door closes, I can see one of the police officers calmly standing in the hallway, facing in the door at us, hands behind his back, belt full of weapons.

Our pastor is on vacation. I don't remember quite what the guest preacher says to start off the sermon. I think he prayed for our brother, then said something like, "Well now no one will remember the readings, so I'm in the clear." The church laughs with relief. Service moves forward. He talks about discipline, about changing the scripts we tell ourselves about others, about having the power to overcome the "demon at the door" tempting us to do wrong to each other. After a few minutes, the door to the hallway re-opens and the deacon returns to the altar.

I take a deep breath and realize how fast my heart is beating. I take another breath and let myself pay full attention to the present. Later, Deacon reads the intercessions, and noticeably doesn't follow the script. "Let us pray for those who are separated from us," he says. "Let us pray that wounds may be healed and all of us may be restored as one community." Then instead of the usual--asking us to say aloud the names of those who are sick or who have fallen asleep before us--he asks us to remember those who are on our hearts today.

Please keep our brother on your heart today. I'm not sure what I think about what happened, and my mind is racing with "What if" questions, but I know for sure that I will not forget this morning for the rest of my life.

*Confused/curious about some terms? More on Catholic Liturgy from Wikipedia.