If you see religion
as a sacrament, the point is not to believe in the sacrament;
the point is to live
within the tradition and let the sacrament do its work within you,
Let the sacrament
mediate the reality of the sacred to you.
Marcus J. Borg
I believe in thin places, where the veil between the world is
ripped or open enough that you can glimpse to what is on the other side, feel God’s
holy presence. The border wall that extends about 50 feet into the water between
Mexico and the US border is such a place. It was built in the 1980s as a way to
stem the tide of migrants trying to get to the other side. Now it is a place of gathering.
It is here at this place, the line drawn in the sand, that people
gather every Sunday at 1:00 pm to share a binational communion service. This was
my first service at the border wall. It was my second with the Church at the Border, La Igelsia Fronteriza; the first was in Tijuana in an old building being renovated to provide services for the influx of
new migrants.
It was powerful beyond words to break bread with those deported or waiting/hoping to enter on the other side. It reminded me of the day the Catholic priest and I came to the table in Beit Jala to pray and stop Israel from uprooting trees to complete its wall around the Bethlehem area. Then I was praying to stop a wall. Now I was praying at the wall.
It was powerful beyond words to break bread with those deported or waiting/hoping to enter on the other side. It reminded me of the day the Catholic priest and I came to the table in Beit Jala to pray and stop Israel from uprooting trees to complete its wall around the Bethlehem area. Then I was praying to stop a wall. Now I was praying at the wall.
I invited myself to go with Pastor Seth David Clark to the wall to share
in the weekly communion service on the US side of the wall at Friendship Park
where families used to be able to gather and picnic from across the borders. When
we arrived at the Imperial Beach parking lot, I watched Seth change into his
walking shoes and gather his knapsack filled with only the essentials—the elements,
a few photos, his bible and a cell phone. The cell phone allowed us to amplify
our voices during the prayers and later make a small video. The trek to the sea
and across the white sands is spectacular and the day was sunny and warm. We
talked quietly on our approach.
The eucharist takes place at the top of the hill where the
gate can be opened between the two walls just under the watch tower. At 1:00 we
are allowed to enter and approach the steel meshed wall. Seth set up our humble
table on the ground. I peered through to the other side and saw familiar faces
from the last communion service. Guillermo and one of the deported vets was
leading. Seth translated. At the far end of the wall, a man spoke in hushed
tones in Spanish to a woman on the other side. His wife? His mother? Lover?
Most of those gathered this day did not participate in the communion service.
They were using their time to talk with their loved ones. They had only one
hour.
Seth told me that that during the prayer of confession we would
put our hands on the wall and when we heard the words of assurance, we would
raise them up. What he didn’t tell me, because how could he know, is that I would
well up with uncontrollable tears. Touching the hard metal of the barrier that is separating
families while confessing our sins was like, well touching both the wounds of
Christ and the sharp edge of empire at the same time. Plus, on the other side someone stood
opposite me touching the same wall. We were mirror dancing a prayer. And just when
I thought I would burst, we raised our hands to that heavenly blue sky and asked
for forgiveness. Yet more tears.
Seth told me that we passed the peace by sticking our pinkies
through the meshed wall. We could only touch just the tips of our smallest
finger. Peace is that dangerous that it must be regulated. Yet it was enough. On
the Mexican side, people lined up behind each other to touch my tiny pinky. It
was its own communion.
Seth and I followed and translated the call to the table for
all to come and receive because God knows no boundaries. He translated the blessing
of the elements, and the words of institution. Somehow it was right that we were
translating into English. I lifted the small ceramic cup. Seth broke the roll. We
fed each other while a Mexican singer on the other side sang about God’s
goodness and love. The families at the wall continued their hushed
conversations.
Jesus prepared a meal
for the multitudes to remind us that we feed people
not because we
believe they deserve it, but because they’re hungry.
John Pavovitz
Only 10 people were allowed at the wall so I pulled away to
distract the border patrol agent so he wouldn’t notice. Not knowing what to
say, I asked if they, the border patrol, ever wanted to participate in the
communion service? He looked surprised and somewhat pleased by the invitation.
I was surprised by what came out of my mouth, “This is Christ’s table. It is
open for all.” He smiled and thanked me. The people at the wall had a few more
minutes and I invited the Other to the table.
On the trek back across the sand by the edge of the ocean, I
thanked God for this humble ministry of sacramental presence, for allowing us
to know Him not only at the table but through the Wall in song and prayer and
most especially through the touch of peace.
The Border Church, La Iglesia Fronteriza