In September of 2001, I started my graduate studies at a liberal Presbyterian seminary in Northern California. I was a 24 year-old Seventh-Day Adventist woman looking for a place to pursue a theological education beyond the conservative boundaries of my home denomination which did not recognize women’s ordination. But surprisingly, I soon found myself becoming the voice of authoritative religion, quick to argue with peers more liberal than me whom I dismissed as theologically wrong or “soft.” Within the first day or two of my arrival I was doubting every part of my decision that had brought me there.

And on the morning of 9/11, less than a week into my time at seminary, I found myself sitting on my dorm bed in a state of full-body dread that the religious teachings of my youth—the ones describing the End Times in graphic detail—were all coming true.

My first panicked instinct was entirely selfish: to abandon seminary life all together and to do what I had been taught in Revelation seminars growing up and during my summers spent at a SDA church camp —to flee to the mountains, survive off the land, and wait for the Time of Trouble to pass until Jesus Christ returned.

But then it was time to go to the seminary’s regular chapel service for that day. The walk down the hill was a somber one as the seminary community began to gather together in shock and grief at the horrors unfolding 3,000 miles away on the other side of the country

The late morning light filled the chapel. The worship leaders guided us in a time of lament and prayer. We began to sing hymns and recite liturgy unfamiliar to me, including the unexpected refrain: “It is right to give thanks and praise to the Lord.” The phrase, dissonant at first, began to reveal itself as a kind of anchor in the storm. It landed for me not a facile statement bypassing the chaos and grief of that day but as the resolute commitment to give honor and gratitude for the source of Life regardless of circumstance.

Then, as the loaf of Communion bread was passed around, one of the seminarians tore off a piece and gave it to her baby who waved it like a flag and giggled in the way only babies know how to do. Her voice was a reminder to me of the goodness of Life even in times of sorrow and despair. And our being gathered together was a reminder that we need not be alone in any of it. The entire scene in the chapel caught the attention of my heart even as my body was still ready to leap into flight mode. Here was a model for how to be beloved community in a time of crisis, how to find solace in the presence of others and in the transcendent traditions of faith even when there are no answers to be found. Yes, we were all afraid. Yet, this community refused to act in fear.

By contrast, the religion I had been practicing most of my life had unintentionally prepared me to act in fear, to prioritize survival over community, and to find refuge in remote forests rather than in deep relationship to self, others, and the world. That day marked a turning point in the direction I wanted to go instead. In the closing words of James Baldwin’s essay “Nothing Personal”: “The sea rises, the light fails, lovers cling to each other, and children cling to us. The moment we cease to hold each other, the moment we break faith with one another, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out.” That day, when the light failed, when my own religion failed me, I encountered an experience of faith and being held in community that I hold onto even now.

So I am remembering the spirit of that chapel service again in the bleak day(s) after Donald Trump was re-elected to the presidency instead of Kamala Harris. Circumstances are different today than they were on 9/11 but the magnitude of what is happening right now in this country, the impact it will have on the world, and the anticipation of deep harm in the name of religion, specifically right-wing Christian nationalism (via implementation of Project 2025), feel familiar.

On the night of the election, the writer Rebecca Solnit wrote on her Facebook page: “You may need to grieve or scream or take time off, but you have a role no matter what, and right now good friends and good principles are worth gathering in. Remember what you love. Remember what loves you. Remember in this tide of hate what love is. The pain you feel is because of what you love.”

I no longer regularly practice my faith inside of a church. But yesterday I spent two hours between shifts at the hospital in conversation with a friend in a cafe that was twice as busy as it usually is with how many others were also gathered together on the day after. The mood was somber and grief-laden. Yet people were finding each other. It was a reminder of the small gestures of care and community that will be essential to help regulate our fight/flight/freeze responses in the many long days to come. It was a reminder of what and who we love and who loves us. It was a reminder of the world we will continue to endeavor to create because of our love. It may not have been Communion in the religious sense. But it was holy.