“I can see, my dear friend, that you have found peace. I realize that I have not found it.” (Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha)
A few weeks ago, my wife and I, along with our two teenaged granddaughters, ventured out to see the group of monks who were passing through our neck of the woods on their historic Walk for Peace. The symbolic magnitude of their walking across what we down here in the South refer to as the “Bible Belt” was not lost on me. I also enjoyed noticing that some of them were wearing HOKA tennis shoes along with their orange monastic garments, so I immediately saw them as kindred spirits.
For some unknown reason, I began to ponder, “If there were a mythical belt worn by some who live in this area as heavy with ‘holiness’ as it is with humidity, who would be wearing it, and how would we know? Would it have a gaudy silver buckle like the ones Texas cowboys get at rodeos proudly proclaiming they have won the ultimate prize? Or would it resemble something less showy, making a more genuine statement regarding one’s faith and practice?”
The funny thing about growing up in a region of the country where the designer brand of religion was naturally assumed as “Christian” unless otherwise stated, is that even within the family of church people there were other distinctions and labels. Most of the labels had something to do with being a conservative or a liberal which indirectly came from denominational affiliations or political allegiances. It also had something to do with which version of the Bible contained “the truth.” For some, it was only the King James Version. For others, multiple translations were acceptable — just so they didn’t include the Apocrypha.
We were taught only conservative Christians could wear the “belt of truth” spoken of in the book of Ephesians. And on top of that, only specific denominations had the “truth” so we always had to be on guard against those who were preaching a “social gospel” which was thought to be a watered down version of that truth. We also believed that our feet should carry us out into the world shod with the “gospel of peace.” (Whatever that meant.)
We loved to preach the gospel, but I’m not so sure we conveyed it with a message of peace. It was often preached with words of judgment and self-righteousness rather than actions of love. Sadly, some used their Bible belt as a punitive instrument, to regularly invoke the “fear of the Lord” into their congregations. However, I do think most well-meaning believers simply wore their Bible belt to hold up their most cherished beliefs, realizing if they loosened it too much theologically their faith would sag, or worse yet, fall to the ground.
In our contemporary society, there are some factions within the church who have apparently tried to steal the Bible belt, using it primarily as a political symbol. Ironically, it shouldn’t surprise anyone that myopic churches can be politically short sighted when we remember how these groups often looked the other way during civil rights and segregation in the 1950s and 1960s. A century before that, the “liberals” were the ones who originally sought to end slavery, causing some national church denominations to split down the middle based on geographical lines. Ask any Southern Baptist or Presbyterian.
But thanks to an unpretentious group of Buddhist monks who have no political clout or fractious agenda, America has witnessed a powerful demonstration of those who have walked out into the world wearing a “gospel of peace,” in a country where we are clearly not at peace with God, with our neighbor or maybe even with ourselves.
As a result, it truly makes me wonder if a “Bible belt” should be imagined as a belt at all, but rather a sash or a cord holding together the orange robe of a humble monk, who on his walk across America’s Bible Belt — in his HOKA tennis shoes — has unselfishly shared the “gospel of peace” with any who were willing to listen.
“Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace.” (Ephesians 6:14-15)
Larry Efird, a former Kannapolis school employee, now lives in Durham.
