05/21/2026
PENTECOST AND THOUGHTS ON THE SHOOTING AT THE SAN DIEGO ISLAMIC CENTER
I almost scrolled past it. That scared me as much as the headline did. Because I know what that means — that slow dimming, that creeping ability to absorb the unthinkable and just... keep moving. I've felt it growing in me. And I don't want to be that person.
So before anything else, I'm going to say their names.
Mansour Kaziha. A longtime staff member of the Islamic Center. Someone who showed up, faithfully, to serve his community.
Amin Abdullah. A security guard who saw the gunman coming and ran toward him so others could get out. 51 years old. A hero.
Nader Awad. A neighbor who lived across the street from the mosque he loved. He was there because it was home.
They are not a headline. They are not "three killed." They were here. They mattered. And the news will move on — it always does — but we cannot just simply let the world forget them.
This is the fourth shooting at a house of worship this year.
Catholic.
Latter-day Saint.
Jewish.
Muslim.
Sanctuaries turned into crime scenes. Children at Mass. Families at Sunday worship. A congregation mid-prayer.... And I'll be honest with you — each one has landed a little softer than the last. Not because I care less. But because that's what numbness does. It creeps in quiet. And numbness, left unchecked, becomes complicity. That's what I'm fighting in myself today.
This Sunday is Pentecost. The day we remember the Spirit showing up — not as a whisper, not as a gentle nudge — but as *wind.* As *fire.* As something that couldn't be ignored. A room full of frightened people became people who could not be silenced.
So this is my prayer. For our Muslim neighbors in San Diego. For the leaders who still have time to choose courage. And for every one of us fighting the urge to scroll past.
"A Pentecost Prayer for Our Muslim Neighbors in San Diego"
Come, Holy Spirit. Come.
We remember today that you didn't arrive quietly. You came as wind. As fire. As something that crossed every border the world had drawn. You turned frightened people into a movement.
We need that today.
Because we are heartbroken — again — over what happened at the Islamic Center of San Diego. People who went to pray. People who built that place with their hands and their hope and their deepest sense of who they are before you.
God, we are so tired of this.
We pray for everyone wounded — in body, in spirit, in their ability to ever feel safe in that place again. Be present in every sleepless night. Every moment of fear. Every time they wonder whether they belong in this country.
They belong. They are beloved. Full stop.
We pray — and it costs something to pray this — for the families of those who did this. For the people who raised a child and cannot comprehend what that child became. Meet them in that grief too, God.
And we confess — on this of all Sundays — that we have asked for a Spirit who comforts far more than we have asked for a Spirit who "convicts." Forgive us for that.
Because you did not come quietly. And you are not asking us to either.
Four communities. Four faiths. Four times this year.
And so God, we have to talk about our leaders. The ones we elected. The ones with the power to do something about this — who have chosen, again and again, not to. We don't pray for them gently today.
Convict their very hearts, minds and souls. Trouble their sleep. Trouble their conscience. Make it impossible for them to look at their own children without seeing the children at Annunciation. Make it impossible to drive past a church or a mosque or a synagogue without thinking of San Diego.
If there is courage somewhere inside them — and we have to believe there is — call it forward. Burn away whatever fear or greed or calculation has buried it.
You made ordinary fishermen walk into the halls of power and speak truth. Do it again. And if they won't lead — then move in us. Make us the kind of people they cannot ignore. Give us the holy stubbornness to keep showing up. Keep calling. Keep voting. Keep demanding a world where people can pray without being afraid.
An attack on one house of worship is an attack on all of us. Today I mean that with everything I have. So Spirit — the one who showed up like a storm on that first Pentecost, the one who has never once asked permission to move — Move now.
Set us on fire with something useful. Courage. Will. A love that isn't afraid of what it costs. Send us out the way you sent those first disciples — a little undone, a little overwhelmed, and absolutely unable to stay silent.
Come, Holy Spirit. Come. Rush in where hatred has been. Make us the kind of people this moment is asking for. Amen.
SAY THEIR NAMES💔
"Mansour Kaziha" "Amin Abdullah" "Nader Awad"
