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by Ken Sehested,
Text: 2 Kings 6:8-23

        The text we’ve just read is one of my favorites. The king of Aram—basically what is today modern Syria—is frustrated because his army’s maneuvers seem to be anticipated in every instance by the Israelite army. He’s losing every strategic advantage. Before he thought his generals were simply losing their edge. But the evidence now is overwhelming: He’s got a security breach; a spy in their midst; a mole inside his intelligence operation. Hackers have penetrated his firewalls. Wikileaks is broadcasting his campaigns.

      So the King calls together the joint chiefs of staff. He demands to know the source of this security breach.

      One of his generals speaks up. “Your majesty, everyone’s passed their lie detector tests. We don’t exactly know how, but we’re pretty sure the Prophet Elisha overhears your most private conversations.”

      “So just where is the Elisha-what’s-his-name? You say he’s in Dothan?”

      “Yes sir.”

      “Dothan Alabama?”

      “No sir—Israel.”

      “Well, get Navy Seal Team 6 on the phone. Tell them we a rendition assignment. Let’s call it Operation Prophet Snatch.”

      The orders were given, the assets were mobilized. Elisha won’t know what hit him.

      A few days pass. The Prophet Elisha’s student intern wakes early in the morning, puts on the coffee, and goes out to get the newspaper. He’s still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes when he reaches down to get the paper. But as he rises, his gaze fixes on the frightening sight. There are hundreds of horses and chariots and soldiers with weapons drawn surrounding the house.

      The intern races back into the house, runs to the Prophet’s bedroom and begins screaming—almost incoherent. “Alas, master! What shall we do?”

       Elisha takes it all in without emotion. Then says: “Do not be afraid, for there are more with us than there are with them.”

      More with us than there are of them? Are you sure? There’s many a day when I don’t think there are more with us than there are of them. Many a day when I feel outnumbered, out-gunned, out-funded and overwhelmed. What about you?

      More with us than there are of them? There’s many a day I doubt that assessment. Our President says we’re not really at war with Libya, because there is no “credible threat of casualties.” In other words, if they can’t shoot back, we’re not really fighting.

      I’m not sure there’s more of us when I read that the project military budget for 2012 is over $1 trillion, more than triple the total for 2001; or that our wars in Iraq and Afghanistan cost us $120 billion a year, or when I read that every one of those Tomahawk missiles costs a million dollars. Or another way to say it, every one of those missiles costs us another 25 teachers.

      When numbers get this big I pretty much fog over. But here’s a frame of reference that might help:

      A million seconds is 12 days. A billion seconds is not quite 32 years. A trillion seconds is 31,688 years.

        I’m not sure there’s more of us when I learn that one US carrier has more sailors than the US State Department has diplomats. Or that the annual cost of the federal Women, Infants and Children health and nutrition budget is about the same as one week of the tax reductions of the wealthy from the Bush tax cuts.

        I’m not so sure there’s more of us when I hear that "The correlation between student achievement and your postal zip code is 100 percent. Which is to say, the quality of education you receive is entirely predictable based on where you live" [Kevin Huffman, “A Rosa Parks moment for education,” Washington Post, February 1, 2011]. And where you live in this country depends largely on income and race.

      I’m not sure there’s more of us knowing that the U.S. has over 800 military bases in other countries. Back in January I happened to be watching one of the college football bowl games. At one point the television announcer announced: “We welcome the men and women in America’s armed forces stationed in 175 countries who are watching this game via the Armed Forces Network.” 175 countries?!

      As a result of the North American Free Trade agreement, Mexico now has the distinction of having more millionaires per capita than any nation on earth. And the highest escalation of poverty. Hundreds of Mexicans die every year trying to cross into the US, mostly from exposure and dehydration, mostly along the desert border with Arizona. When you realize these two facts—record numbers of millionaires, record numbers of immigrant deaths—it’s hard to believe that there’s more with us than there are with them. With so much evidence to the contrary, how can it be that there are more with us than there are with them? What did Elisha know that we often fail to see? Let’s pick back up with the story.

        First, Elisha prayed that God would open the eyes of his intern. And sure enough: suddenly he saw that that an army of angelic chariots of fire surrounded the army of Aram. Then Elisha prayed that God would blind the Aramean soldiers. And so it came to pass. Then Elisha strolled out his front door—with all these soldiers stumbling around because they couldn’t see—and he says, “Hey, I hear you’re looking for that Prophet Elisa. That true?”

      “Yes,” cried one of the generals. Do you know where he is?”

      “Sure,” Elisha responded. “Take my hand. I’ll lead you to where he is.” And so the Arameans fell in line, each holding onto the shoulder of the one in front, frequently tripping and falling as Elisha led them on. Where did he lead this battalion of blind soldiers? Right into the walled city of Samaria, in the heart of the Israelite kingdom! Then the city gates were slammed shut, and the Israelite soldiers prepared for a slaughter.

      The King of Israel was ecstatic. He could hardly believe his eyes. And he rubbed his hands together, asking, “Can we kill them now?”

      But Elisha said “No! There will be no killing." And the Prophet ordered that a feast be prepared for the Aramean soldiers. Then they ate, and they drank, and were sent on their way back to Aram.

      Then the story comes to a screeching halt with one simple sentence: “And the Arameans no longer came raiding into the land of Israel.”

      Can it really be true that there are more with us than there are with them? Well, I know the world’s sole superpower was taken by surprise at the uprisings across the Arab world this past spring, even toppling the 30-year brutal rule of President Hosni Mubarak. His ruthless government, by the way, was the second highest recipient of US foreign aid.

      Year after year—sometimes week after week or even day after day—each one of us is required to answer whether we really believe there are more with us than there are with them. Our answer dictates the way we live our lives: how we spend our assets, whose opinions we trust, whose voices do we listen to, what promises can we rely on? It’s a question about power. And every question about power is a question about God.

      Each week, when we come to the table, we’re asked to decide anew. I’ll leave you with this parable of a dream, written by South African novelist Olive Schreiner [Dreams].

        I saw a desert and I saw a woman coming out of it. And she came to the bank of a dark river; and the bank was steep and high. And on it an old man met her, who had a long white bear; and a stick that curled was in his hand. And he asked her what she wanted; and she said, "I am woman; and I am seeking for the land of Freedom."

      And he said, "It is before you."

      And she said, "I see nothing before me but a dark flowing river, and a bank steep and high, and cuttings here and there with heavy sand in them."

      And he said, "And beyond that?"

      She said, "I see nothing, but sometimes, when I shade my eyes with my hand, I think I see on the further bank trees and hills, and the sun shining on them!"

      "That is the Land of Freedom."

      "How am I to get there?"

      "There is one way, and one only. Down the banks of Labour, through the water of Suffering. There is no other."

      "Is there no bridge?" she asked.

      "None,” he replied.

      "Is the water deep?"

      "It is. Your foot may slip at any time, and you may be lost."

      "Have any crossed already?"

      "Some have tried!"

      "Is there a track to show where the best fording is?"

      "It has to be made."

      She shaded her eyes with her hand; and she said, "I will go. . . ."

      And she stood far off on the bank of the river. And she said, "For what do I go to this far land which no one has ever reached? Oh, I am alone! I am utterly alone!"

      But the old man said to her, "Silence! What do you hear?"

      And she listened intently, and she said, "I hear a sound of feet, a thousand times ten thousand and thousands of thousands, and they beat this way!"

      He said, "They are the feet of those that shall follow you. Lead on! Make a track to the water's edge! Have you seen the locusts, how they cross a stream? First one comes down to the water-edge, and it is swept away, and then another comes and then another, and then another, and at last with their bodies piled up a bridge is built and the rest pass over."

      She said, "And, of those that come first, some are swept away, and are heard of no more; their bodies do not even build the bridge?"

      "And are swept away, and are heard of no more—and what of that?" he said. . . . "They make a track to the water's edge."

      And she said, "Over that bridge which shall be built with our bodies, who will pass?"

      He said, "The entire human race."

      And the woman grasped her staff.

      And I saw her turn down that dark path to the river.

      And I dreamed a dream.

      I dreamed I saw a land. And on the hills walked brave women and brave men, hand in hand. And they looked into each others' eyes, and they were not afraid.

      And I said to him beside me, "What place is this?"

      And he said, "This is heaven."

      And I said, "Where is it?"

      And he answered, "On earth."

      And I said, "When shall these things be?"

      And he answered, "In the Future."

#  #  #

Circle of Mercy Congregation Circle of Mercy, 26 June 2006

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org

“New faces: Charlotte’s Growing Interfaith Community” sponsored by Mecklenburg Ministries, Programa Esperanza, Community Relations Committee and International Ministries
Tuesday, 13 November 2001, First United Methodist Church, Charlotte, NC

by Ken Sehested

       In the 19th chapter of the gospel of Luke, in the Christian Newer Testament, is this brief transition narrative as Jesus approaches Jerusalem. He’s near the end of his career and is prepared for a showdown with the ruling elites of the age. And you should know that Luke purposefully arranges this episode immediately before the story of Jesus’ outburst in the Temple, where he turns over the money-changers’ tables, a notorious racket whereby corrupt religious authorities colluded with unscrupulous entrepreneurs to exploit poor and working-class people during their expression of religious fidelity and devotion.

        The text to which I want to call your attention reads: “As he came near and saw [Jerusalem], he wept over it, saying, ‘If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes.’”

        I visited “Ground Zero” in New York City a week ago. I was there for a speaking assignment, but also included a visit with my first-born child who lives some 18 blocks from the devastation of what used to be the World Trade Center twin towers. You still can’t get very close, of course—maybe two or three blocks away—and it’s hard to see much from street level. But the smell in the air, something like that of burning plastic, was sufficient testimony to what lay behind the temporary barriers. For anyone familiar with the neighborhood, what is not seen is actually more disconcerting that what is seen.

        My flight into the area was to Newark Airport just across the bay from New York City. As it happened, the plane landed from the north, and since I was sitting on the left side of the plane I got an excellent view of the Manhattan skyline. It’s a very familiar sight, since I lived there for seven years, and I could name a number of the buildings. But then there’s this big vacant air space at the southern tip of the island. It was almost more than I could bear. I could feel the accumulation of moisture around my eyes as a deep sadness swept over me yet again.

        No doubt you, too, are personally acquainted with this kind of grief. We are not yet done crying.

        The twentieth century was begun amid exaggerated hopes of human achievement. Some of you may know the magazine titled “The Christian Century,” which was begun in the late 1800s on the cusp of what was then the approaching new century. It’s very name is testimony to the optimism which pervaded our culture, reflecting the scientific and industrial progress of the era and the supposed religious enlightenment which the faith would bring to the whole world—in coordination with American economic and military power, of course.

        At the far end of that hopeful projection, we know differently. The twentieth century may well be termed by future historians as the “American century” but I hope to God the notion of it being a “Christian century” will be forgotten. In the last 100 years war alone caused an estimated 110 million deaths, more than one million per year on average. Structural violence in various forms—hunger and poverty, racism, easily preventable disease, along with innumerable forms of human rights violations based on gender, political conviction, sexual orientation, religious affiliation, among others—has caused another 19 million deaths per year.

        Using conservative estimates, well over one billion deaths occurred in this bloodiest of centuries in recorded history. Based on the horrific events we now refer to in shorthand as “911,” our new century has at least the emotional impact of apocalypse. The smell of burning plastic. Holes in our urban landscape. The complete and literal incineration of thousands of people within a single city block.

        And now the retaliation is well underway. The artist Käthe Kollwitz, who has documented the suffering of war so vividly with her charcoal and canvas portraits, wrote: “Every war already carries within it the war which will answer it. Every war is answered by a new war, until everything, everything is smashed.”

        On most days, these thoughts more than I can take in at once.

        My purpose this evening is not to preview my own political analysis of our present crisis. Such analysis has to be done, if we are to understand what got us to this place and how we might move from this bloody juncture to a new and more humane future. But I simply must draw your attention to that future being dreamed by some—a kind of fatal attraction to vengeance—and urge you to imagine alternatives. The evidence for this bloodthirsty urge comes from but two of many sources to which I could point. The first is from Lance Morrow, the esteemed essayist for Time magazine, who wrote a blistering column in the special Sept. 11 issue of the journal. And I quote:

        “For once, let’s have no fatuous rhetoric about ‘healing’. . . . Let’s have rage. . . a policy of focused brutality . . . and relearn why human nature has equipped us all with a weapon called hatred.”

        The second bit of evidence is from a bumper sticker sold at our local military surplus store. It reads, very succinctly: “Nuke their ass and steal their gas.”

        And Jesus wept over the city, crying “would that you knew the things that make for peace.”

        Instead of an analysis, I want to tell you a story. And then conclude with some specific suggestions, which might be relevant to an interfaith agenda for building a culture of peace.

        Long ago, in a perilous time of great change, in an Italian forest outside a village called Gubbio, lived a fierce and terrible wolf. This wolf terrorized the citizens of the village; he ate their chickens, consumed their sheep, and chased their children. Sometimes the wolf even ate a child. The people of Gubbio lived in fear, never went anywhere alone, and always carried weapons to protect themselves when they left the village. They tried everything to get the wolf to stop: they caged the chickens, penned the sheep, and locked their children in their homes. Still, the wolf struck. Eventually, they became so fearful, no one ever left the village. The people heard that in a neighboring town of Assisi lived a man who could speak, and better still, understand, the language of animals. In desperation, they sent for him, and begged him to come to their village and talk to the wolf. When Saint Francis heard their story, he had great compassion for the people, and agreed to come to Gubbio.

        When he arrived at the village gates, the whole town came to meet him. He turned to go into the forest, and all the people stayed inside the gates and watched him go. When the wolf saw him coming, he rushed forward to devour him. But Saint Francis raised his hand and spoke to him, calling him "Brother Wolf." The wolf was so surprised to hear a man speak to him in language he could understand that he shrank back to listen.

        According to tradition, Saint Francis then said to him: "Brother Wolf, you have done great harm in these parts, and committed great crimes, ravaging and slaying God's creatures without His leave. Not only have you killed and eaten beasts but have dared to kill and devour human beings. For these things you deserve to hang as a robber and vile murderer: all the people cry out in complaint against you, and the whole district hates you. I have only one thing to ask you, Brother Wolf. Why have you committed these terrible crimes?"

        The wolf looked up at Saint Francis and simply said, "I was hungry."

        Then Saint Francis said, "Brother Wolf, I wish to make peace between you and the townsfolk. If you agree not to eat their chickens, or their sheep, or their children anymore, they will forgive you, and not hunt you anymore. Do you agree?"

        At these words, "by the movement of his body, tail and eyes, and by bowing his head," the wolf showed that he accepted Saint Francis' proposal, and was willing to observe it. Then, the wolf asked, "But what will I eat?" Then Saint Francis said: "Brother Wolf, since you are ready to make this peace and keep it, the people of Gubbio will feed you for as long as you live, and you will not go hungry any more. Do you promise not to hurt human or beast ever again?" Saint Francis held out his hand to receive the wolf's promise, and the wolf raised his paw and placed it gently in Saint Francis' hand, giving proof of his good faith.

        Together, the wolf and Saint Francis walked back into the village. The people were amazed and stood back to let them pass. "Listen, my friends," said Saint Francis, "Brother Wolf, who stands here before you, has promised to make peace with you, and never to hurt you if you promise to feed him every day. Will you promise?" And the villagers agreed. From that day, the wolf and the people lived happily together in Gubbio. The people fed the wolf, and the wolf never harmed anyone. The children could play again and everyone slept peacefully at night. [Taken from the internet with this credit: adapted from The little Flower of St. Francis, trans. By L. Sherley-Price, Penguin Books, London, 1959]

        Paul Ricouer has written that if we are to change people’s loyalties, we must change their imagination. I dare say that all our religious traditions have such stories. It’s time we get them out, dust off the cobwebs of neglect, and feature them with urgent intent in our homes and sanctuaries.

        The line I often repeat these days within my own confessional tradition is this: The failure to love enemies is to hedge on Jesus. But how are we to love enemies? How are we to move beyond sentimental and pious rhetoric to concrete action? How is it possible to build a culture of peace? Criminal acts, whether within the family of nations or in our own neighborhoods, must be resisted and those responsible brought to justice. The commonweal must be restored. But justice is different than vengeance, and restoring justice is different from retaliation.

        We at the Baptist Peace fellowship have adapted the language of “building a culture of peace” for our own purposes. It was first suggested by a document signed three years ago by all the living Nobel Peace prize recipients, calling for a decade for overcoming violence; it was later approved by action of the united Nations general Assembly and then appropriated by the World Council of Churches as a theme and program priority for this decade.

        We like the phrase “building a culture of peace’ because it is very proactive—peace doesn’t just fall from the sky; it must be built. We like the phrase because it emphasizes the nongovernmental components of peacemaking—the tasks that must be accomplished and neighborly covenants that must be upheld in our own communities and neighborhoods, in our schools and civic groups and communities of faith. Peacemaking is more than the role of politicians and trained negotiators. Like building a Habitat for Humanity house, everybody can play a part—you don’t have to be a specialist or a professional. And like building any structure, it happens one step at a time. It begins by raising children in ways that teach them how to respond to conflict without picking up a stick. As the Hebrew prophets repeatedly insist, any harvest of peace begins with sowing justice.

        So how can we build a culture of peace? How can we move toward what Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. called “the beloved community”?

        Let me name some very practical suggestions, which we can do together as an interfaith community of concern.

        Let me begin with two very specific requests: First, let me encourage every one of you to write to President Bush to urge a halt in the bombing of Afghanistan at least during the Muslim holy season of Ramadan, which begins later this week. If for no other reason, the motivation has to do with the dire humanitarian emergency present in that ravaged country. Numerous international aid agencies agree that, after more than two decades of war, and three years of serious drought—compounded by the onset of severe winter snow storms which disrupt transportation—some seven million people are at risk of starvation—as much as one-third of the country. Even a month-long cessation of the bombing would allow humanitarian aid to reach those most effected.

        Second—especially if you want to fly a flag—let me urge you to fly the flag of the United Nations as a counter-statement to the outbreak of militant patriotism now sweeping our land. [show flag]

        My third suggestion is actually a bundle of ideas which I’m grouping together under the heading of “crossing boundaries.” Boundaries, borders, lines of demarcation are things we commonly establish in the course of our daily lives, and they can be useful in helping us live humanely with each other. But boundaries have a decided tendency to become barriers to human community. They have a tendency to become destructive to our relationships. They often cut us off from “the other,” and over time become impediments to our common pursuit of justice and fairness. They wall in our sense of compassion, of our solidarity with human suffering, so that our otherwise compassionate vision becomes stunted, near-sighted, unable to see over the borders, unable to look beyond the boundaries.

        These boundaries take many different forms over time, and you are well aware of some of their manifestations. The issue of race continues to be a major source hostility in this country and in this community. Social class and educational background are boundaries that bind us to parochial visions and self-centered behavior. Religious affiliation obviously plays a role in shaping destructive boundaries. There’s an awful lot of “my God can whip your God” sentiments in the air these days.

        There are many forms of these boundaries. The point is, we urgently need to find a way to mount a nonviolent assault on these harmful boundaries; we need to discover the spiritual resources which address our fears of ‘the other” in such a way that empowers our communities—not to necessarily destroy the boundaries—I’m not suggesting we homogenize our cultures and racial/ethnic groups and religious confessions—but to make them porous, to establish bridges across them to encourage interaction and mutual understanding and respect.

        One very specific recommendation: if you faith community is not familiar with the communities of Muslim and/or Arab communities here in Charlotte, take the initiative to cross that boundary. Find out who’s here, what their life is like, what they feel about the current crisis here in our country and the war in Afghanistan.

        As a concrete act of solidarity, consider joining our Muslim neighbors in their observance of Ramadan, specifically in the spiritual discipline of fasting. Find out why and how Muslims fast during Ramadan, and join them—whether for a short time or for the entire month. The emphases of Ramadan—prayer, fasting, intentional reflection—are themes common to all our religious traditions.

        One of the people I was with in a retreat last week helping start a new faith-based initiative in the city of Philadelphia where he lives. It happened when he and others learned that Muslim women, because of their traditional dress, were being harassed when they left their homes to go shopping or to attend meetings. So a group formed to provide escort services for these women to help ensure their safety, and also to act as volunteer guards at mosques during traditional Friday prayer services, as a way to discourage acts of vandalism.

        This is the kind of creativity and imagination which we as people of faith need to foster in our communities. Indeed, another common theme in all our religious traditions is that our work as advocates for the marginalized, our active intercession—in word and in deed—for any who are abused, who are provided no space at our common table, who are given no voice in deciding our common good—these are in fact the highest forms of piety, of devotion, of demonstration that the love of God does indeed dwell in our hearts and not just on our lips.

        Let me close with my favorite prose poem, lyrics, which have become something of the unofficial anthem of my organization. They come from the writings of walker knight, a retired Baptist editor and close friend.

        Peace plans its strategy and encircles the enemy.
        Peace marshals its forces and storms the gates.
        Peace gathers its weapons and pierces the defense.
        Peace, like war, is waged.
        But Christ has turned it all around:
        the weapons of peace are love, joy, goodness, longsuffering;
        the arms of peace are justice, truth, patience, prayer;
        the strategy of peace brings safety, welfare, happiness;
        the forces of peace are the sons and daughters of God.  

        [Walker Knight, excerpted from a larger prose poem entitled "The Peacemaker" in Home Missions Magazine, December 1972]

#   #   #

by Ken Sehested, Lynn Gottlieb, and Rabia Terri Harris

        In the early weeks of 2011, during the Arab Spring uprising, Egyptian blogger Nevine Zaki posted a photograph from Cairo’s Tahrir Square. It showed a group of people bowing in the traditional style of Muslim prayer, surrounded by other people standing hand-in-hand, facing outward, as a wall of protection against hostile pro-government forces. Zaki affixed this caption: “A picture I took yesterday of Christians protecting Muslims during their prayers.”

        Similar scenes—some ancient, some as recent as yesterday’s newspaper—have been arranged in a host of ways with a variety of religious identities. No religious tradition can claim a monopoly on compassionate courage. And yet such snapshots remain rare.

        A recent magazine ad for a large U.S. stock brokerage firm features a stunning photograph of the Earth taken from space. Superimposed over that image is the phrase “WORLD PEACE IS GOOD.” And then the ad continues: “But finding a stock at 5 that goes to 200 is better.” This glimpse of cynicism gives us some idea of the economic and emotional forces we’re up against when we try to work for genuine peace.

        If the effort to foster understanding and relationships across religious lines is to be more than a cosmopolitan hobby, if it is to become a substantial and sustainable movement, expanding the base is essential. New and renewed strategies and resources are important, as is provoking the kind of imagination that will support costly action. Both these goals require clarifying the purpose and promise, as well as the peril, of interfaith engagement.

        This revised and expanded version of Peace Primer is being offered in the conviction that interfaith dialogue and collaboration are both possible and urgent. Much has already occurred, and we celebrate, remember and support those inspired individuals and organizations that have led the way. Solidarity in human dignity across apparent boundaries of separation has long been practiced by many people of conscience, in many times and places, though the phenomenon has rarely been afforded the public attention we believe it deserves. Still, plenty of documentation exists.

        The purpose of interfaith conversation is not to have exotic friends or engage in literate conversation at dinner parties. The purpose of crossing these boundaries is to affirm the God of Creation, the God of Humanity, in the face of rampant efforts to debase both creation and humanity—efforts that are generally defended with reference to some divinized “greater good.” Far too often, such efforts seek to bolster themselves with religious legitimacy of some kind. Coalitions of religious adherents of every sort are therefore needed to mount resistance to the “myth of redemptive violence,” as theologian Walter Wink called it—that most enduring of human miscalculations.

        The French novelist and journalist Albert Camus was speaking to a group of Christians when he said it, but the audience contains us all: “What the world expects” is that “you should speak out loud and clear . . . in such a way that never a doubt, never the slightest doubt, could arise in the heart of the simplest person. [You] should get away from all abstractions and confront the bloodstained face history has taken on today. We need a group of people resolved to speak out clearly and to pay up personally.”

        Besides saying no to religiously sanctioned violence, multi-faith groups also need to say yes to the policies of justice that prepare the ground for a harvest of peace, by means of institutions that serve the common good rather than the “greater good.” Such policies are forged in the very heart of religious faith. Only a politics of forgiveness and human dignity has the power to free the future from being determined by the failures of the past, to make space for hope.

        Conflict mediation specialist Byron Bland has written that two truths make healthy community difficult: that the past cannot be undone, and that the future cannot be controlled. However, two counterforces are available to address these destructive tendencies: the practice of forgiveness, which has the power to change the logic of the past; and covenant-making, which creates islands of stability and reliability in a faithless, sometimes ruthless world. A third counterforce also calls out to be deployed: the exhilaration of our discovery of the usefulness of human difference.

        Religious communities have unique resources to foster politically realistic alternatives to policies of vengeance and to shape civic discourse in ways that free communities and nations from cycles of violence. When faith communities actively acknowledge one another’s gifts, the whole is far greater than the sum of its parts.

        This acknowledgement is essential. For in addition to the purpose and promise of interfaith engagement, there is also a peril that must be avoided. Interfaith dialogue too often presumes that for progress to be made, distinctive faith claims must be abolished, distinctive practices muted. Part of the shadow side of modernism is its tendency to reduce everything to common denominators.

        There is a kind of cultural imperialism in this purported “universalism.” Interfaith advocates have a tendency to become culture vultures, picking a little from this tradition, a little from that—whatever looks and feels good at the time. Severed from particular disciplines, historic memory and communal commitments, this kind of freeze-dried spirituality offers sugary nutrition that stimulates but does not and cannot sustain healthy institutions. Politically speaking, the result of this intellectual fickleness isolates progressives from traditional cultures of faith and from the very communities whose collective weight must be brought to bear on our wanton, promiscuous state of affairs, where vulgar enthusiasm for personal gain forever seems to trump the commonwealth.

        It has been said that in a drought-stricken land it does little good to dig many shallow wells. We believe that the way forward for interfaith engagement will acknowledge at the outset that energizing interreligious collaboration does not mean homogenizing faith. Of course, that does not mean we shall remain unchanged. But we will be pushed to trust that the Center of our adoration, however that reality is named, is greater than the limits of our comprehension.

        In the end, such delight and joy—some say reverence—is the only power that will sustain the risks to be endured.

#  #  #

Rev. Ken Sehested, of Asheville, North Carolina, is author of “In the Land of the Willing: Litanies, Poems, Prayers, and Benedictions” and author/editor of the online journal, prayer&politiks. He was the founding director of the Baptist Peace Fellowship of North America. Rabbi Lynn Gottlieb, author of “She Who Dwells Within: A Feminist Vision of Renewed Judaism” and “Trail Guide to the Torah of Nonviolence,” is coordinator, Shomer Shalom Network for Jewish Nonviolence, Berkeley, California. Chaplain Rabia Terri Harris is a teacher and student of transformational Islam. Founder of the Muslim Peace Fellowship in 1994, she is president of the Association of Muslim Chaplains and a scholar in residence at the Community of Living Traditions in Stony Point, New York.

This article is excerpted from "Peace Primer II: Quotes from Jewish, Christian and Islamic Scripture and Tradition," published in June 2012 by the Baptist Peace Fellowship of North America.