A year ago we were hit by the full in the face with a trauma for which we didn’t ask, which we didn’t provoke and of which we had no warning. On Saturday 21st September, 2013, we received news that our friend and church member James Thomas was missing in the terrorist attack on the Westgate shopping mall in Nairobi, Kenya. 24 hours of hope, prayer, fear and waiting later we heard that he’d been identified as one of the first victims of the attack. He died from gunshots sprayed at random around the mall by members of the Al-Shabaab terrorist group. As far as we can tell from what we’ve been told, he’d been in the supermarket and had left a little before his colleagues; as a result he died, and his colleagues lived.
Living with this reality for a year is surreal. There are times when you forget it happened and life just goes on. Then something catches you – a mention of terrorism on the news or in a film; seeing his usual seat in church is unoccupied; discovering the things he’d left undone because he was going to pick them up when he got back from Kenya. If nothing else, this year has confirmed for me the reality that grief is a strange companion; the more so when the only person to blame at the end of it all is a hooded, anonymous young man bearing a gun and an ideology he can barely articulate.
Was it really a year ago? Wasn’t it more? Also this; it feels like it was only yesterday.
How can such different things both remain true?
My journey through this year has been personal; it has been that of a pastoral leader, in my care for others, too. Sometimes that’s offering comfort or silence; sometimes that’s thinking ahead ‘how could this be heard in the light of trauma?'; sometimes it’s planning ahead ‘what could happen or be felt next?’. Sometimes I find myself simultaneously working both in spite of and from the energy of my own grief. It’s a strange and divided sort of energy. As a community we remember, we help each other, we talk to each, we get on with things. It falls to me to lead and to accompany at the same time.
What remains true, then? For me, that resurrection wins. It always does. Randomly spraying weapons around a shopping mall is about as nihilistic a deed as you can imagine. Whatever the political or religious motivation, we mostly know that it makes no sense. It speaks to a view of the world so blackened with hopelessness that only the perpetrators can claim to make sense of them. Though they can’t. Not really.
The problem is, though, that these deeds always fail. Always. I’m not talking politically here – though I could be – but wider than that. It’s an act that seems like the final triumph of pointlessness. Yes, our friend died; no, it didn’t work. Despite our tears and anger, thousands on thousands heard about resurrection and still talk about those days as significant. Ghastly, yes; but also strangely formative in connecting us to a deeper reality.
This Sunday, the day on which the anniversary, we will engage in corporate acts of worship, prayer and remembrance.
It will be hard; there will be tears, I’m sure. There will be hope too.
Death, especially violent death, is awful. But a year on, resurrection is still winning. And always will.
In the box below you can watch the eulogy Colleen, James’ wife, gave at the funeral. You can read my sermon from that funeral by clicking here.