Uncertain and Ambivalent: Reflections on a Peace Rally
Rev. Lisa Presley
South Lyon, Michigan

(October 26, 2002) I came to the Prayer Vigil and Rally at All Souls Church, Unitarian, on Saturday, uncertain and ambivalent, a strange place for me to be. Throughout my teenage years, I mourned the death of John and Bobby Kennedy, and Martin Luther King, Jr. I was an ardent opponent to the war in Vietnam, and came to the big march in Washington in the early 1970s. I participated in the gay rights march in Washington in late 1980s, helped with the display of the AIDS Quilt on the Oval outside the White House, and returned again to oppose the Gulf War in 1991. I was no stranger to demonstrations in Washington, but this time was strange in my ambivalence and uncertainty.

All those other times I'd marched in Washington, I knew why I was there, and I had no hesitation at all. I was there to change the world, to ask the government to hear my petition and dismay at what was being done in my name. I was certain about my stance, my position, and the truth of what I was feeling.

Yet this time, I am not certain. I do not know where it is I am. I do not know where it is I need to stand. War is wrong, and yet . . .

For many days and weeks, I tried to ignore what was happening in our nation with regard to Iraq. The year before had taken a lot out of me. Although I did not lose anyone directly to the tragedies of September 11th, I felt the added toll that most clergy did this past year as we helped others sort their way through to an understanding of what had happened. Last year was one of intense grief, of the loss of innocence, of fear and anxiety borne out of the uneasy awareness that the United States was no different than any other nation. We, too, were held as much by the grip of violence, by the uncertainty of others' actions, by the whimsical nature of individual choice in the world. Our freedoms and way of life could not save us from wanton and unwanted violence, and this knowledge came home to roost with its unsettling presence.

Yet the point came, late for me, when I realized that I could no longer exercise the choice freedom gives of the possibility of inaction. I needed to wrestle with what I believed, what I hold most dear, and what it is I am called by my precious faith to do. So I sent off emails to my Senators, urging them to vote against the Resolution on Iraq, and spoke with congregation, confessing my uncertainty, and the shedding of ennui and inaction. I spoke to them of the fear of the times. Should we strike preemptively, to rid the world of someone whom we do not trust, and for good reason? Should we risk another chance at peace by inspections that may well once again be fruitless, and not change the story of the world? Should we take bold action alone, or convince and coerce others to join us? Should we wait for the sometimes ponderous and at best compromising work of the United Nations to slowly plow forward? For me, I told them, I must ask for peace, believe that there is the possibility of redemption, while praying that we did not create another Holocaust by trying to give peace and diplomacy one more chance. I urged my congregation to know what they believed, what they felt, what they held true, and to act upon that knowledge, to not take refuge in the privilege of inaction.

And that was it. Or at least I thought it was. But then, life happened, as it often does.

This weekend I found myself in Washington, DC, accompanying my partner to her board meetings for the Servicemembers Legal Defense Network, the organization doing much of the work to represent service members caught up in our nation's "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policies. As we were preparing for our Wednesday flight, I remembered those emails I had deleted-the ones telling me about the Prayer Vigil and Rally at All Souls Church. When I initially deleted them, I said, 'I won't be there, that's in Washington.' But as I was checking the weather on the Internet, I looked at the date, and realized that I would be there. I would be in Washington, with Amy at meetings, and me communing with my computer and freelance writing projects long overdue. 'Well,' I told myself, 'I'll find the old email, and print out the information, and take it along. I don't have to decide yet.'

So I printed the information, and tucked into my briefcase. We got the plane, checked into the city, and attended our fundraising dinner on Wednesday night. The End the Witch Hunts dinner this year acknowledged and recognized the gay and lesbian WWII Vets who fought well for our nation, but never could be their true selves. We recognized Captain Monica Hill, a doctor who was forced out of the Air Force when she made the agonizing, yet simple, decision to stay with her partner during the final days of Terri's life as she lost her battle with brain cancer, rather than abandoning her to be posted miles away. We honored former US Senator Charles Robb, one of the strongest proponents of the rights of gay, lesbian, and bisexual military that has ever sat in Congress. Sitting there, realizing how these people had given their best to their values and principles, that they had stood tall when standing tall was not easy.

And so I decided to attend the Vigil and Rally. Yet, I was still uncertain and ambivalent. I covered myself, gave myself a reason to make sure I was there, by offering my reflections and reporting skills to the UUA's Web staff. I woke up early, checked the web again for directions-the second or third time-for I could not find that which I had brought with me, and eventually found my way through the city to join other UUs at 9:00 a.m.

I sat there, in the worship space, bathed by the wonderful music, and realizing that every other time I had been there, I would have been leaping inside with joy, finding in the words of the speakers affirmation of what it is I believe, what it is I knew to be true. Yet this time, that joy and certainty was not there. I know I do not want war. I know I believe that violence only creates violence, yet in me is an ambivalence that will not rest. I know not whether it comes from wisdom, realizing that every truth is only partial, and that there is often no one right answer, only some that seem better at different times, from different perspectives, from different lives. I know not whether it comes from ministering with a congregation with diverse views, from those who wholeheartedly support the bombing of Iraq and the forcible removal of Saddam Hussein, to those who believe that there is never any good reason to take up arms against others. I know not whether it comes from moral cowardice, from fearing to take a stand out of laziness, or whether it is the right place for me to be.

I know not where it comes from, but I do know that as I sat there, I did not find my ambivalence soothed. I sat there, thinking of the late Senator Paul Wellstone, a man who did the right thing, even if it might have meant the election, and felt the sadness permeate me as I pondered our loss with his death. I sat there, looking at the altar table in front of me, with the words "All Souls Are Mine" carved into it, and wondered about the faithful who had that carved, and the "mine" in whom we all reside, and still there was my uncertainty and ambiguity. The speakers said, 'we will not all stand in the same place'; and sitting there, I knew the truth of that statement, for I could not shout with unbridled enthusiasm that this was where we needed to be and longed to be. Needed to be, yes, I knew that; but still the uncertain voice gnawed away inside.

We left the building on the words of that wonderful hymn, We'll Build a Land, based on the words of Isaiah—"Come build a land where sisters and brothers, anointed by God, may then create peace: where justice shall roll down like waters, and peace like an ever flowing stream." —and then headed off for the Metro. I joined the crowd, going along, not yet certain. Green line to Blue, off at Foggy Bottom, then the several block walk to the Vietnam Memorial and the rally speakers. Thoughts of Senator Wellstone, "all souls are mine," and my mother who has participated in more peace marches than I can count, flowed through my brain. I joined the walk, and found myself mingling on the edges. So different, I thought, than the last time I was here for peace.

Avoiding the socialist newspapers and the flyers on veganism, I listened for a bit, and headed off to the left where the UUs were to meet. I found a woman from Community Church in New York, holding her congregational banner high, and pointed out where UUs were to gather. But rather than engaging her in conversation as I ordinarily would, I found myself skirting the edge, listening somewhat, looking at the faces around. There were faces I'm sure I recognized from all those other marches, years ago. The wrinkles and gray hair told me we'd been there before. And then there were the faces of the youth-did I look like that thirty-plus years ago? Was I that young, that certain, that sure? I saw people staggering off the buses, having ridden all night long. I watched people hawking t-shirts and buttons, and others giving away bagels.

I listened, with one ear, as I found myself walking on. Past the Memorial, past the counter-demonstration. I was walking opposite people with signs, and wanted with part of me to say to them, "Yes, I'm one of you, I believe too," but didn't know if I had the right. As I walked the wrong way, I didn't know what claim I could make to authenticity.

I told myself that after some lunch, I might join the walk to the White House. I told myself I might go back to the speeches. And I told that to myself all the way back to my hotel room, even as I sat there watching the speeches on C-SPAN, and watched the march begin.

So, I ask myself now, was I at the March in Washington? Does morning worship and twenty minutes on the fringes mean that my record of attendance is unblemished? Even in my ambivalence, I do not know.

But what I do know is that even though the march is over, and I'm still ambivalent, I'm not off the hook, and none of us are. We here have the privilege of not caring, of not deciding, of not being certain, of not taking action. But we don't have the right. This war is wrong. I must still fight my ambivalence, and work where I can. I can still urge my Senators and Representative to take the high moral ground, even when I'm not quite sure what that means all the time.

I must continue to search my heart and mind, my values and beliefs, and continue to work for justice, continue to make space and room for the blessings of conscience. I must not lie fallow in my ambivalence and uncertainty, but rather continue to harvest the fruits of this nation and our tradition-the right and responsibility to search always for the truth.

The Rev. Lisa Presley is Interim Minister of the Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Paint Creek, MI.

Unitarian Universalist Association
25 Beacon St. | Boston, MA 02108 | 617-742-2100