Near the end of 2022, as I browsed in a retail shop, I noticed a whiteboard with the number 317 in bold, black dry-erase ink at the top, and a list of names beside other three-digit numbers below. 

“What’s that?” I wondered aloud.

“Oh that’s the death pool,” I was told. 

“The death pool?” I asked, concern in my voice.

“Yeah, the guess closest to the total number of homicides in Baltimore City this year wins.”

The first half of 2022 (which — mind you — included omicron closures) was, by some standards, the deadliest in Baltimore history. One shooter at a quadruple shooting in East Baltimore, early in the year, unloaded more than sixty rounds. Mercifully, the homicide rate of the first six months was not matched by the last six and we ended the year with 333, in a city with a population well under 600,000 people. The violence feels so ubiquitous that local pastors talk about a traumatized city. 

What can the church do in the face of violence so thick that it spawns cynical death pools? 

We can tether our worship to prayers for the slain.  

Prayers? Is that the best we can do in the face of systemic evil? It is certainly not all we can do, but indubitably, prayer must be the engine of any Christian response.

Prayers? Is that the best we can do in the face of systemic evil? It is certainly not all we can do, but indubitably, prayer must be the engine of any Christian response. Share on X 

Saint Mo’s, the little church I help look after, is six years-old. For most of those years, every Sunday in worship, at the end of a prayer for our neighbors that we call our “Neighbor Prayer,” a congregant will read the names of the people slain in our city that week, and we’ll pray for their families and friends; for God to intervene. I struggle to remember more than three Sundays when there have been no names to read, no prayers to pray. On those Sundays, full-throated rejoicing breaks out among our congregation. It feels like an invisible mass has been heaved off of us all, even temporarily. But the buoyancy is fragile, and most weeks, the weight comes crashing back down seven days later, as a new list of names is read. 

Many are the Sunday when a Black or Brown mom reads the names, tears streaming down her face, the sound of these names a witness to the racial injustice in our city. Many are the Sunday when the list of names runs seven to ten deep, and then several more are added, unnamed. Many are the Sunday when this prayer time ends, and it feels like all the air has been sucked right out of the room. And then it is time to preach.

It was out of necessity that we introduced the Kyrie Prayer to ground these prayers for the slain. Sometimes the emotions are so strong, the need so thick, and words so inadequate that we channel our inarticulable protest into the rhythmic furrows of this ancient cry: 

Lord have mercy.

Christ have mercy.

Lord have mercy on us.

Sometimes the emotions are so strong, the need so thick, and words so inadequate that we channel our inarticulable protest into the rhythmic furrows of this ancient cry: 'Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Lord have mercy on us.' Share on X

Often, it is still quite challenging to preach into the pause after the prayer for the slain. But it is a difficulty I’m learning to appreciate. Several people have told me they visited Saint Mo’s and decided to stay when they heard us pray for our neighbors, and then pray weekly over those who’d been killed. Christianity is facing numerous credibility issues in our culture, and whenever we preach as if all is well when it patently isn’t, we risk undermining the gospel. But if, before we ever get to the good news, we lament and protest a few of the most obtrusive evils in our common life, we underline the need for the gracious intervention of God. I’ve learned to appreciate that whether I’m preaching from Isaiah or from Luke, on “Why the Gospel Confuses Americans” or on “Being Bodies,” I’m forced, explicitly or implicitly, to ground the gospel in the terrain of another shooting in the neighborhood. The proclamation of the Good News and the celebration of the Table don’t hang abstractly in the air; instead, they’re the antiphon to the constant drumbeat of death. Because of Christ, we can have hope.

Christianity is facing numerous credibility issues in our culture, and whenever we preach as if all is well when it patently isn’t, we risk undermining the gospel. Share on X

In the face of overwhelming evil, the best question is not always the one we desire to begin with, namely ‘What are we to do?’ There are many, many good things that can and should be done. We can educate ourselves, and we do. We can advocate, and we do. We can participate in publicizing ceasefires, and we do. We can address systemic racism through pushing for legislation changes and government intervention, and we do. We can leverage our votes and our dollars. We can build thick relationships with our neighbors. The list goes on. But at Saint Mo’s, we have found that the more helpful question is often, ‘When you’re overwhelmed, to whom do you turn?’ 

Reflecting on this question, my mind drifts to Peter in John 6. Jesus has just taught about eating his flesh and drinking his blood. He’s just asserted that human effort accomplishes nothing. The disciples complain. Then, many in the crowd begin to leave. In this moment, Jesus turns to the Twelve to ask them if they’re also going to leave. Peter’s answer, while correct, is also haunting: “Lord, to whom would we go? You have the words of eternal life” (John 6:68). 

Or, I think of King Hezekiah in 2 Kings 19, back against the wall, threatened by the tide of the Assyrian war machine. What should he do? There were many options available, though likely none would have stemmed the tide. But the text seems to vindicate his choice by contrasting him with his father, Ahaz. He took the Assyrian letter of threat directly into the temple, spread it out before the Lord, and prayed. In response to Hezekiah’s prayer (2 Kings 19:14-19), the Lord rescued his city from the overwhelming violence that was sure to engulf it. 

The last thing I want to do is to dissuade Christians from meaningful action. But until we’re persevering in prayer, until it is our natural instinct in any overwhelming situation to turn to God in dialogue, we’ve got work to do.

Grounding the gospel in what is actually happening in our neighborhoods ensures that our liturgy doesn’t hang abstractly in the air. Instead, it is the antiphon to the constant drumbeat of death. Because of Christ, we have hope. Share on X