Looking out through a shattered window of Ashrafieh Church, Beirut
Packing. I'm at it again, like I was when I last posted to this blog. Then I was in Tokyo; today I'm in Beirut, Lebanon. I've done no shopping since coming here, but two "new" items are going into my suitcase as I return to Japan: a piece of jagged, charred metal and a 50-cent-sized piece of broken glass. Needless to say, these are not the usual souvenirs travelers take home from Lebanon.
The hand-sized metal piece with razor-sharp edges used to be part of the chassis of a car—until two evenings ago. That was when the car exploded in the parking area outside a new multi-level shopping mall in the eastern (and Christian) side of Beirut, igniting a destructive fire. Fortunately, the mall was closed for the evening and there were no casualties there, although a wall in a nearby house collapsed, killing one woman.
The major damage from this terrorist act was sustained by buildings all around the area whose windows were blown out by the force of the explosion. Little more than a stone's throw away, the Ashrafieh Church of God was among these buildings damaged. The broken glass I have packed in my suitcase used to be part of a window in this church.Last night, I gathered at the Ashrafieh Church with a small group of 50 people. We could not meet in the sanctuary. Broken glass is everywhere there, with furniture, Bibles, and song books destroyed by flying windows, window casings, and shards of every size and shape. Instead, we met in a fellowship hall. Even there, small bits of glass crunched under our feet and mosquitoes irritated, undeterred because there are no longer any window panes to keep them out.
Nevertheless, nothing could have dampened our voices of praise to God for his protection and faithful presence in the midst of it all. We met in a show of solidarity with the Ashrafieh congregation and to pray that God will empower them to reach out in his name to meet the needs of the community that has been scarred by this horrific event. We were reminded that even if the Ashrafieh building had been reduced to a mere pile of rubble, it would not have been the end of the church, for the church is not a man-made structure. Rather, it is the people of God, and the people of God were most definitely in that place last evening. At the completion of the worship service, we lit candles and walked silently to the entrance of the yet cordoned off parking lot to pray—in front of armed soldiers—for peace in Beirut and in this nation that teeters on the very edge of civil war.
Despite our prayers, we awoke this morning to news that a second car bomb had exploded in another section of Beirut. Then again, perhaps it was prayer that guided the soldiers who discovered four other car bombs during the night elsewhere in the city. They were diffused before they could add to the tragedy. News reports also tell of bombs exploding in Tripoli, Lebanon's second-largest city. With tension thick in the air, the talk everywhere is about how precarious life is right now in this nation.
My flight leaves in the early hours of the morning. By the time you read this, I will be safely home again in Tokyo. Despite what my passport says, one thing I know most certainly is that the person who will board that airplane is not the same woman who came to Lebanon one week ago. Now a most important question challenges me: what am I going to do about it?
