Charleston

Something had been bugging me about the coverage of the nine murders at Charleston Emanuel AME.

At this time, it seems pretty clear that the shooter was motivated by white supremacy, that he went out of his way to target this specific church because of its tremendous legacy, that he had been forbidden to purchase a weapon because of a pending charge, and that he still had access to at least one weapon. Furthermore, the Confederate flag still flies at the statehouse, but not over it, and will likely not be moved to half-mast.

All of this is documented reasonably well.

But what I return to, over and over again, is how that prayer group welcomed him, allowed them to join, and prayed together.

Faith, especially a faith of redemption, doesn't give people superpowers. If anything it makes people more trusting, more naive, more oblivious to warnings.

It is easy to say

"They should've been skeptical!"

"Why would a white boy show up there?"

and, I'm sorry to see some have even said,

"Innocent people died because of his position on a political issue" [voting against a law that would have permitted gun owners to bring concealed weapons into public places, including churches]

They were armed better than you or I know.

The pastor, Clementa Pinckney, appears to have been a young, healthy man. He didn't pull out a gun. He didn't try to tackle the shooter.

He talked to him. Even in the midst of such carnage and immediate danger, he tried to appeal to this man.

Now, some will say that this was a mistake, that perhaps he should've fought.

Perhaps faith made him more vulnerable.

But isn't that what faith is? Vulnerability?

Faith, for many, is about security, about certainty, about conviction. But it doesn't promise outcomes. The people gathered in that prayer meeting had lives that spanned several decades. They had seen history. They would have had to be blind not to know that what made them great made them a target.

They still welcomed him.

Maybe I wish that things had happened differently, that these nine people -- ten, even -- were still alive, able to do the works great and small that made them a community. Maybe they should have been more careful.

The only thing I know is that they had a welcoming, trusting, spirit that escapes my understanding, which I can only ascribe to a faith I cannot share, but appreciate nonetheless.

There are many stories written into this tragedy: terrorism, racism, gun violence. But there is also faith -- not in a distant God, but in other humans, that caused them to open the door, to welcome, and to appeal, to the very end, for the triumph of goodness over evil.

Now it's time for us to be worthy of that faith. What will we do?