Punctuating Faith

“God is still speaking.” The United Church of Christ launched the “StillSpeaking” campaign in 2004 to help increase the relevance and welcoming capacity of religion. In presenting the idea that “God is still speaking,” the UCC reminded people that God, or the divine mystery that some call God, still speaks to us today, through people, nature, new understandings of holy texts, the arts, and more. The symbol for this campaign was the comma, indicating the continuation of something that already exists. Something that we were born into, but that is not yet finished. The comma reminds us that revelation is ongoing and evolving, which means that we can always learn something new – if we are willing to listen.

 “Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim.” “Insha’Allah.” “Alhamdulillah.” For many followers of Islam, these are another way of punctuating faith, of repeatedly inserting reminders of God into one’s daily life. The first is often said before eating or drinking. The second means “if God wills” or “God willing,” and is often said after one shares future plans. The third is a way to praise God at any moment, and is often used at times when we might say “thank goodness” or “thankfully.” With these phrases, Islam also punctuates life, but not with marks like the United Church of Christ; Islam punctuates life with gratitude. Gratitude for the gifts that we receive in our lives, for the forces that are so beyond our control that we cannot name or understand them, yet we know that they are there, sustaining our lives.

“Let us give reverent attention in our worship life and our educational work to serving the beauty and goodness of life…Let us make love the first—and not the last—resort.” In the face of the brokenness in the world, Unitarian Universalist minister Rev. Dr. Rebecca Parker reminds us to intentionally place love at the forefront of our faith. She reminds us that we too can punctuate. So how do you as a Unitarian Universalist understand the mystery that some call God, the divine, Love, the source, or creation? In what ways do you remember and honor its presence throughout your days? How do you punctuate your faith?

Freeing Truth

The following sermon was delivered on August 24, 2014 at the Unitarian Universalist Congregation Church of Delaware County in Media, PA.

Responsive Reading: “Prophets” by Clinton Lee Scott

Always it is easier to pay homage to prophets than to heed the direction of their vision.

It is easier blindly to venerate the saints than to learn the human quality of their sainthood.

It is easier to glorify the heroes of the race…

than to give weight to their examples.

To worship the wise is much easier than to profit by their wisdom.

Great leaders are honored, not by adulation, but by sharing their insights and values.

Grandchildren of those who stoned the prophet sometimes gather up the stones to build the prophet’s monument.

Always it is easier to pay homage to prophets than to heed the direction of their vision.

Sermon: Freeing Truth

What makes a prophet? Our responsive reading this morning speaks about how it is “easier to pay homage to prophets than to heed the direction of their vision.” But before we can even consider that point, there is a much more basic one that we need to address: How do we select the people that we think are worthy of our recognition? What have we decided makes a prophet?

I suggest that we start with a kind of resource that should be fairly explicit in their description of “prophets” - religious texts. Let’s look at one of the more obvious options, someone that I assume many of us probably know thanks to either our childhood religion classes or Charlton Heston: Moses. What was the first obvious sign that he was a prophet? I imagine that for many people, the answer to that question might be something like “the burning bush.” In the story, we know that at this bush Moses is singled out by God. He has an exchange with God who identifies him as the person chosen to free the Hebrew people from their experience of slavery. Moses repeatedly expresses doubt that he is the right person for the job, but God assures him over and over again that he will never be alone, and eventually Moses accepts his role as the one chosen to confront Pharaoh and lead the Hebrew people out of Egypt.

Okay. That helps give me some idea of what makes a prophet, but I think I need to do a little more research. How about another key example from religion, maybe the Prophet Muhammad? His story is perhaps a little less familiar to people in the United States, but for people who identify as Muslim, nearly a quarter of the world’s population, it is arguably basic knowledge. What was it that made him a prophet? According to the story of the first Qur’anic revelation, Muhammad was also chosen by God. The way the story goes, he was meditating in a cave and then all of a sudden felt a squeezing sensation, as though an invisible presence was holding him in a crushing embrace. It was in that moment that Muhammad was told by the angel Gabriel to “Read!” After Muhammad protested, saying that he could not do so, he suddenly was overcome with and spoke the words that became the first revelation of the Qur’an. After that encounter, Muhammad still did not think he was a prophet, in fact he thought he was losing his mind. But with the assurance of his wife Khadija he began his legacy as a prophet.

In both of these stories, there is this shared theme of being “chosen” for prophethood. More specifically, they seem to have been chosen by God. If we look at their stories from this angle, we could argue that Moses and Muhammad were singled out as leaders without really having a say in the matter. They were even a little reluctant. From this perspective, it is their being chosen that seems to be the most memorable evidence of their being prophets. But is that an accurate picture? Is that even true of all prophets?

Let’s try widening our stories a bit and see what happens. Before Moses encountered God in the burning bush outside of Egypt, he first lived inside Egypt. He was the son of a Hebrew woman, born during a time when the Pharaoh had commanded that all Hebrew boys be drowned in the river. In this part of the story, we meet three people who are often overlooked: Moses’ mother, his sister Miriam, and Pharaoh’s daughter. Their roles in the story seem inconsequential, two of them don’t even get names, but against this backdrop, their actions are nothing short of heroic. Risking her own life, Moses’ mother goes against the royal decree and conceals her son for three months. Eventually, she can no longer hide him and places him in a basket by a river. And you know what? My guess is she knew exactly what she was doing. She knew who would show up next. That’s probably why her daughter, Moses’ sister Miriam, watched from a distance to see what was happening to her baby brother. She was waiting to play her part in this brave plan. Before much time passes, the Pharaoh’s daughter comes to the river for her bath. She sees the basket, has it retrieved, and when she opens it, realizes what happened. The Pharaoh’s daughter knows about her father’s decree. But she also chooses to go against it. Aided by Miriam, she returns Moses to his mother to have him nursed, and eventually adopts him as her own son, so that he can grow up safely. What we end up with is two courageous women among the oppressed in a society who risked their lives for justice, and a woman who used her position of power to help them save an innocent life.

What about the story of Muhammad? Before he encountered the angel Gabriel in the cave, he was a merchant, married to the wealthy Khadija. She belonged to a powerful tribe known as the Quraysh, and it was actually she who proposed to Muhammad. That’s some modern-day gender-equality. Khadija did not have to attach herself to a poor merchant - she chose to make that relationship happen. And when Muhammad came down from the cave on that fateful night, she did not have to tell him that he had in fact encountered an angel. She chose to calm him down and believe in his story. When Muhammad began to publicly share messages about economic justice and monotheism that angered members of the wealthy and polytheistic Quraysh tribe that was Khadija’s own family, she did not have to support him. She chose to encourage his words rather than ask him to stay silent. When they were ostracized from society to the point that their lives were threatened, Khadija did not even have to stay with Muhammad. But she chose to do so. Like the women who saved the infant Moses, she too risked her life for something that she knew was right – without being told to do so. Moses’ mother, his sister Miriam, Pharaoh’s daughter, Khadija - none of them had a moment when they were explicitly “called” or “chosen.” But all four of them had moments when they made a choice.

Now I think I’m getting somewhere. If we look at the stories from this angle, we see choice once again enter the prophethood equation, but this time it is not by an external source. We could even argue that there wasn’t a “God” character in their stories! By widening these stories, we uncover other prophets - people who were not chosen to act, but who made a free and responsible choice to act. No divine being delivered instructions through a burning bush or an angel (wouldn’t that make our lives simpler?). They had to decide for themselves what was worth risking their lives to achieve. They were fierce, free-thinking women. And what their stories show us, the risks they took on, is that prophets are not the select few who are chosen among us. Prophets are the ones among us who make certain choices. Choices that few others realize that they too can act upon.

I recognize that the stories of Moses and Muhammad may be too far removed from our own experiences. They are only stories after all, and we don’t necessarily know whether any of what is described in them actually happened. So where else can we search for answers to the question about what makes a prophet? As it turns out our Unitarian Universalist tradition has something to offer. Among the six sources of our tradition, we claim to draw upon the “words and deeds of prophetic men and women which challenge us to confront powers and structures of evil with justice, compassion, and the transforming power of love.”

Great! We have a source that includes prophets. But it doesn’t mention choices. So what can we glean from this source in figuring out what makes a prophet? “Challenge.” Prophets are people whose words and deeds challenge us. They do not say or do things that are easy or free of any risk. They do not tell us to follow the normal or traditionally accepted course of action. In fact, they do just the opposite. In the words of Bernice Johnson Reagon, one of the founding members of the group “Sweet Honey in the Rock,” prophets “lay down the world as it is,” and pursue a new way of being, knowing full well that doing so comes with a price. This idea fits nicely with another obvious source we can turn to in helping to define what makes a prophet: the dictionary.

According to Merriam-Webster, a prophet in the religious sense is one who “utters divinely inspired revelations.” That sounds like our first story angle. But the next definition is a person “gifted with more than ordinary spiritual or moral insights.” Someone who sees beyond what others see, who “lays down the world as it is” because they have a different understanding of what is happening around them. And that’s not all. If we look at the Greek origins of the term, we see that it comes from the word prophetes, which means to “speak out,” “to declare,” or “to make known.” Prophets don’t just see things differently, they share what it is that they see.

Ok. I think I have it now. What makes a prophet? Prophets teach new truths that challenge our understanding of reality, even if that understanding is popular and loved. They are willing to speak what others might be afraid to admit, and combat forms of oppression that others still deny or even defend as the “law” or “justice.” And they do so in spite of the isolation, criticism, persecution, dehumanization, and even death that may follow. Like the women in our earlier stories, prophets are not necessarily chosen. Prophets exemplify the difficult choices we have to make. They demonstrate how we must live if we hope to “confront the powers and structures of evil with justice, compassion, and the transforming power of love.”

So if it is those difficult choices that make a prophet, what stories can we draw upon to challenge us? Who are the women and men who declared truths that were meant to transform our society? There are some obvious answers to that question. Martin Luther King and Gandhi quickly come to mind. Malala Yousafzai, a young education activist who survived an attempt on her life by religious extremists. Or Ida B. Wells, an anti-lynching advocate whose investigative journalism against Southern racism led to many threats on her life. In our UU tradition, we have prophets who led movements for the religious and social freedoms we now experience. Women like Margaret Fuller and Olympia Brown. People like Theodore Parker who risked his life to support abolition from the pulpit. Or Fannie Barrier Williams and Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, who fought for the expansion of civil rights to women and people of color. You might know of James Reeb, the UU minister who was killed in 1965 by white segregationists while he was marching in Selma for civil rights.

We can also look to Clarence Skinner, a Universalist minister who was criticized for his pacifism during World War One. In his book, The Social Implications of Universalism, he celebrates that the prophets of our past gained for us the freedoms that we enjoy today. He wrote: "The genius of Universalism is liberty. Its fathers dared to challenge the olden tyrannies of ecclesiastical authority, & interpret life in larger, more triumphant terms.” But that daring, he acknowledges, comes with a cost: “Its prophets were stoned in the streets for their daring,” and “ostracized by their contemporary complacent fellow religionists.” Ultimately, he says, it was their willingness to fight the “battles of religious and civil freedom” that granted for us the “unchallenged right … to interpret the fundamentals of religion according to his conscience.”

But Skinner also writes to challenge us. “The fight for freedom is never won. Inherited liberty is not liberty but tradition.” The liberties that those before us fought to achieve? They are already outdated concepts. The “freedoms” we were born into do not include everybody, in fact some still exclude and even intentionally harm. Look at our alleged criminal justice system, which is little more than a collection of practices designed to dehumanize and imprison black and brown men and women. Here in Pennsylvania the state’s budget practices and the growing “school-to-prison pipeline” show that criminal justice has become a for-profit endeavor, often at the expense of our children’s education. Or voting laws that claim to fight voter fraud, but in actuality, seek to silence the voices of minority, low-income, immigrant, and even young adult voters.

Skinner’s words, nearly a century old, capture a challenging truth that we must engage if we are to live prophetically. He writes, “each generation must win for itself the right to emancipate itself from its own tyrannies, which are ever unprecedented and peculiar.” What we know as freedom actually contains new forms of tyranny, new masked oppressions and structural injustices that we have to find the courage to name and tear down. Just like the prophets that have come before us, who made the difficult choice to risk their comfort and safety in pursuit of a new way of being, we must now choose whether we will live prophetically or passively. We have the option to “glorify the heroes” of our human race by simply remembering them, or to “give weight to their examples” by making new and difficult choices of our own. If the prophets of our past were alive today, what choices do you think they would face? If we want to “win an ever larger and more important liberty,” what decisions must we now make?

“In times of moral crisis, moderation is a cop-out.” Irshad Manji, the author of Allah, Liberty, and Love, wrote those words, because she believes that we can do better. She believes we have to do better. And after the events of this summer, her words fuel the growing fire in my spirit. We have been sinking deeper and deeper into a horrifying moral crisis, thanks to the overt operation of sinister forces. But it is now time that we stop hiding from a truth that stares us in the face and continues to violently claim lives. It is a truth that some of us already know well, perhaps on a painfully personal level. It is a truth that the events this summer, particularly in Ferguson, Missouri reflect as the symbolic and microcosm examples of a larger social epidemic.

The truth is, racism is a deeply embedded and rampantly active force in our society. Three weeks ago, Michael Brown became another young man murdered simply because of the color of his skin. As though his life being violently taken away from his was not enough, the follow-up since has been horrifying. There have been irrelevant and misleading stories circulated about his activities prior to the shooting, in an effort to blame the victim for his own death. There have been moves by officials to cover up and then justify the brutal way in which he was killed. These deliberately misleading efforts continue because there is a simple and undeniable truth: Michael Brown did not deserve to die. His last words, with his hands up in the air were “I don’t have a gun, stop shooting.” But that did not matter. Darren Wilson had already made up his mind about how their exchange was going to end. Our society taught him that he could get away with it. Our society, with its Jim Crow-based mass incarceration system, its pop culture portrayals of racial minorities as criminals, and its biased reporting against black victims of violence as compared to white perpetrators, had taught Darren Wilson that black men had less of a right to live. Even before the two crossed paths, Michael Brown’s life was in danger simply because he was a young black man living in a racially-hierarchical America.

The angering reality is that Michael Brown is not the only example of this life-destroying truth that has occurred in recent weeks. Just a few days before Michael was killed, John Crawford, a black, 22-year-old man, was also shot and killed in an Ohio Walmart when officers thought that a BB-gun he had purchased that day at that same Walmart was a real gun. His last words? “It’s not real.” John Crawford is dead because he bought a BB gun. Yet somehow, white “open-carry” activists are able to walk around family establishments like Target and Chipotle with real rifles strapped to their backs and nobody shoots to kill them. Before John Crawford, we saw video of Eric Garner being choked to death in broad daylight by police officers using a banned chokehold to subdue him, ignoring his cries of “I can’t breathe.” And these are just some of the stories that we have caught on camera. What happens when nobody is watching?

The truth is that there is a disturbing and sinister force at play here, and it is time that those of us with the power to say something make our voices heard and our presence known. We must speak up. The individuals who have organized in Ferguson during these last three weeks in response to these deaths have highlighted just how far our society will go to deny the violent reality of systemic racism. People have been threatened, arrested, tear-gassed, shot, and dehumanized by a militarized police force who claim to be keeping the peace. But how can there be peace when there is no justice for the lives of these murdered men? How can there be peace when the first instinct is to try to blame them for their deaths, to find some way to claim that they were the threat, and not the other way around? It may seem too awful to be true, but for the people whose lives are at risk the minute they walk out the door, it is indeed a reality. In the words of James Baldwin, “we have to look grim facts in the face because if we don’t, we can never hope to change them.”

This is the choice that faces us today. As other voices continue to deny that Michael Brown, John Crawford, Eric Garner’s or hundreds of other deaths this year had anything to do with the color of their skin, we now have the choice to be prophets. To name the difficult truth that racism has found new and more pervasive ways of operating in our world – that the law treats black and brown lives as having less value than white lives. We have a choice to live out the values that we proclaim to uphold, by challenging the common narratives that serve to vilify and dehumanize people of color, whether they relate to criminal justice, immigration, education, or terrorism. Doing so involves great risk, not the least of which is acknowledging that we have all been party to institutional oppression. But we cannot let those risks stop us from responding to Clarence Skinner’s challenge. Because those risks come with an amazing and essential payoff: justice. And because we know can do better. We know that it is in our nature to love and create, not hate and destroy. We know in our minds and in our hearts that to let injustice stand, when we have the choice to confront the truths sustaining its presence, is an act that violates our innate sense of compassion. We know that real change is possible when there is the daring willingness to sacrifice the false safety of the masking lies that we have believed about our world and its social and political structures. If we are to live into the values of equality, justice, compassion, dignity, and love that are essential to our Unitarian Universalist tradition and inherent to all humankind, we must be willing to recognize this difficult truth. If we are to succeed in our efforts to defeat structures of evil, we must be willing to engage a new understanding of the ways in which racism remains present today. We must be willing to name the forces that we have allowed to unconsciously control our lives and our social practices. And we must be willing to show the world that a new way of being is possible.

The necessity to pursue this task is as clear as our fourth principle – the free and responsible search for truth and meaning. This principle is often interpreted as supporting one’s individual search, but today I ask you to remember that this is not all it includes. The free and responsible search for truth and meaning cannot just serve us as individuals – it must move us as engaged and prophetic members of society. We cannot afford to ignore that this principle also means asking difficult questions about ourselves and our world. It cannot be a responsible search for truth if we decide that some questions are too scary to ask, some problems are too big to solve, or some histories are too long to explore. And it is not a responsible search for meaning if we deny that there are explanations beyond those that are easy to defend. Because to uncover these truths is not enough- we must also be willing to risk sharing and defending them. In response to the events in Ferguson, one woman who self-identifies as white wrote about her grappling with this process as she raises her two blue-eyed, blonde-haired sons. She realized that she must teach them about the racism present in society, and the privileges that come with simply having their white skin. She realizes that she has to teach them about this truth, because to ignore it means she risks letting them turn into the people on the other side of the gun, the ones pulling the trigger.

There is one more element that helps make a prophet. We know from our stories, UU sources, and dictionary definition, that prophets make the difficult decision to proclaim challenging truths. And they do so because, as other definitions suggest, they can predict the future. They prophesy about what is to come. And their words are grounded not just in outrage but, more importantly, in hope. Prophets speak difficult truths because they have a vision for something better to come. They have hope for a more just and peaceful world. They call attention to the tyrannies of our world because they know that we can do better. And they see that change, however tremendous and difficult it may be, is the only way to reach that beautiful future. It is what moved Moses and Muhammad, Miriam and Khadija. It is what sustained Martin Luther King and Ida B. Wells. It is what Irshad Manji knows when she writes “All of us are chosen; a few of us recognize our choices and act on them.” The prophets that have come before us made the choice to speak and act upon difficult truths. They made the choice because they hoped, they knew, that there was something better to come if they took that risk. And now, it is our turn.

I have just one more story about prophets for you. Last spring, I had the honor of teaching a group of youth the story of the Prophet Muhammad. In some versions of the story, it is said that he was destined to be a prophet because he had a mark on his body - the mark of a prophet. One of the students in the class, Ellen, asked me a reasonable question: “What did it look like?” I told her that I didn’t know, in fact none of the stories told us what it looked like. And then I asked her, “What would be your mark?”  She thought for a moment, and then said “A circle.” “That’s interesting,” I responded. Why a circle?” She looked at me and said, “Because it is finished but never ends.” She’s nine.

Racism should not be the pervasive and destructive force that it is in our world today. But until we are willing to acknowledge its presence as deeply embedded in our institutions and social norms, we will never see an end to its violent effects. Unless we speak the truth – that there are actions that we can no longer tolerate because we know we can do better – discrimination and injustice will always claim innocent lives. Those who came before us dared to challenge the tyrannies of their time, knowing that their actions carried a price. In the words of Clarence Skinner, “Let us meet the issues of our time with intellectual frankness and with moral courage. Let us recognize the challenging facts of our day, and answer them with truth and with reason.” The prophethood of Moses, Muhammad, Miriam, and Khadija may be finished, but the need for prophets never ends. The power to confront evil and injustice with love, compassion, and a universally-liberating truth is one we all can possess. Let us learn to live prophetically, remembering that it does not matter if we are chosen – it matters that we recognize that we have the choice to see and build a greater freedom.

Benediction

We stand in this space today as holders of two truths: the violent reality of racism and the beautiful reality of our innate potential to be better. We now face a choice that others before us encountered: to make known the truths we hold and move towards a greater future, or to remain silent and allow injustice to prevail. As we leave this space today, let us remember that it does not matter if we are chosen, it matters that we have the choice to be prophets.

When Integrity is Questioned Without Integrity

Below is a link to an article/blog post on the conflict in Gaza was shared on a social media site. I'm trying to be fair in reading materials from a variety of sources, including those with which I vehemently disagree. However, this piece went too far.

First, a disclaimer/acknowledgement of my perspective. I do not deny that I have a personal opinion on the experience of the people of Palestine. I believe that they have been suffering under a colonizing occupation for decades. I also feel that those doing the colonizing and occupying, while oppressing, are themselves oppressed by a system greater than them. They are acting with some agency, but only so much as is allowed by a colonizing system that has been built to lift others above even them into positions of power. In short, the recent conflict goes beyond these last few weeks, years, and decades, and is symptomatic of a long-standing imperialistic oppression that pits minority against minority, getting one oppressed people to raise themselves up above another oppressed people by doing the dirty work of the very same people who oppressed them in the first place. In the end, the two oppressed communities in conflict are the ones that lose, and though one may appear to have (and does have) greater power than another, it is only because the ones truly in power are using them as agents of their own agenda.



(The link to the post that I am about to criticize. I encourage you to read it and offer your own feedback as you desire.)

I am about to say some things that might upset a few of you. I apologize if my words are seen as insensitive, that is not my intention. After reading this blog post, I feel like I need to offer some form of counter to this piece of "journalism on journalism" that is, to me, a blatantly hypocritical composition.

In this post, it is claimed that the majority of images circulated in the media of Palestinian casualties are of women and children, even though a large portion of the dead are young adult males. The author then makes a not-so-thinly-veiled claimed that we do not see images of these men because most of them are likely Hamas militants.

I have to stop and breathe before I swear viciously into my computer screen.

First of all, we have seen images of young adult male casualties. One was shot dead by a sniper as he searched for his family. Another was a reporter. Another was an aid worker. Second, have we really stooped so low that we are criticizing the fact that the news media is reporting on the hundreds of children who have died in bombings on homes, school shelters, and beaches? Is that not an unacceptable and preventable tragedy, regardless of the number of alleged "militants" killed? We report for weeks at a time when a school shooting happens in the US, but when children are killed in their beds as they sleep in Palestine, it's biased, inflated, and anti-Semitic to continue coverage of their deaths?

Third, the claim that these men, aged 17-30 (with a spike in 21-27, an apparently popular age range among Hamas militants) are comprised mainly of combatants is false journalism, propaganda, and dehumanizing spin at its finest. Simply because these men fall within a certain age range of people who are known to be part of a certain group, does not make all or most of them a part of that group. To borrow from a fabulous tweet circulated in recent days, saying that male Palestinian fatalities within the ages of 21-27 are likely Hamas combatants because most militants fall in that age range is akin to saying that most white men between the ages of 20 and 30 are violent school shooters. One trait does not a militant or terrorist make.

I do not deny that there are Hamas militants among the dead in Palestine. I do not deny that they likely fall within the aforementioned age range. But to claim, even loosely infer, that the men who are being killed in these bombings are primarily combatants is a horrific and slanderous attempt at dehumanizing the people of Palestine. Simply because they are men between the ages of 17 and 30 does not condemn them to death. Simply because they live in an occupied state where there are some men who are fighting for its freedom in an undeniably terrorizing way does not mean that they are participating in those actions. To plant the seed of false inference and claim that many of these men are "likely Hamas militants," is to engage in the very same integrity-less journalism that is being reported.

What is happening in Israel and Palestine is a tragedy for both communities. In a recent vigil, I read the names and ages of some of the Israeli soldiers killed in the recent burst of violence. The fact that they were 18, 19, 20 years old made my heart sink. That their young lives were ripped from them by this violence is no less of a tragedy. But the recent reporting that this article describes as inaccurate and propaganda-fulfilling is, in my opinion, among the fairest that has occurred in recent years. We have just been so skewed in the other direction, so ignorant to the realities facing the largely civilian people of Palestine for so long, that we are horrified of the truth. We may not want to believe it, and we may try to come up with excuses for what is happening on the ground in Gaza. But that does not change the truth. It only dishonors the majority of the dead and continues to oppress the living.

Continue* by Maya Angelou

To Oprah on Her Fiftieth Birthday

By Maya Angelou

"Dear Oprah,

On the day of your birth,

The Creator filled countless storehouses and stockings

With rich ointments

Luscious tapestries

And antique coins of incredible value
Jewels worthy of a queen's dowry

They were set aside for your use

Alone

Armed with faith and hope

And without knowing of the wealth which awaited

You broke through the chains of ignorance which threatened to cripple you so that you could walk

A free woman

Into a world which needed you

My wish for you
Is that you continue
Continue
To be who and how you are
To astonish a mean world
With your acts of kindness
Continue
To allow humor to lighten the burden
Of your tender heart
Continue
In a society dark with cruelty
To let people hear the grandeur
Of God in the peals of your laughter
Continue
To let your eloquence
Elevate the people to heights
They had only imagined
Continue
To remind the people that
Each is as good as the other
And that no one is beneath
Nor above you
Continue
To remember your own young years
And look with favor upon the lost
And the least and the lonely
Continue
To put the mantel of your protection
Around the bodies of
The young and defenseless
Continue
To take the hand of the despised
And diseased and walk proudly with them
In the high street
Some might see you and
Be encouraged to do likewise
Continue
To plant a public kiss of concern
On the cheek of the sick
And the aged and infirm
And count that as a
Natural action to be expected
Continue
To let gratitude be the pillow
Upon which you kneel to
Say your nightly prayer
And let faith be the bridge
You build to overcome evil
And welcome good
Continue
To ignore no vision
Which comes to enlarge your range
And increase your spirit
Continue
To dare to love deeply
And risk everything
For the good thing
Continue
To float
Happily in the sea of infinite substance
Which set aside riches for you
Before you had a name
Continue
And by doing so
You and your work
Will be able to continue
Eternally"

*Not an official title

30 Days of Love: Day Four

Who Are Our Neighbors: The Race Story ReWrite Project

I remember sitting in the Young Adult Caucus room one afternoon during "Justice General Assembly" in the summer of 2012. Project Reflection. We had a guest speaker come in to help us reflect on the "Doctrine of Discovery," and its effect on the indigenous people in the United States. I remember how he challenged us that day. "Justice GA" that year was focused on the issue of immigration, and our tradition's presence there turned into one of social witness. That afternoon, we were given the challenge of thinking about where the conversation around immigration really starts. We were told that if we really wanted to have a full conversation around immigration, if we wanted to consider the whole story, we needed to first begin with the experience of the indigenous people of this land when European colonists first began to claim America as their own.

That challenge has stayed with me since that summer. And today's theme, which invites us to consider and rewrite the stories we tell of our collective history brought it to the forefront of my mind. When I think back to the stories I learned about our history, especially US History, I realize that they are usually told from one point of view. There's the expression "history is always written by the victors," and often those victors paint the story in such a way that ignores or discredits the suffering of their "opponents." Colonialism was a gift in history, the indigenous people were a threat to the growth of the colonies, the "founding fathers" fought for freedom with no mention of their participation in the horrors of slavery. When we look at those stories in a new light, we change the conversation, not just around history, but around the issues we continue to struggle with today. In reflecting on the words of Dr. King yesterday, one of the most powerful pieces of his speech against the Vietnam War was his acknowledgment of the suffering of the Vietnamese people because of the actions of the US military. He dared to tell the story from a different point of view.

In her reflection this morning, Dayna Edwards speaks about inclusion and inter-connectedness as the reasons why we must learn to rewrite the stories we tell. She tells us that in order to heal, we need to be more honest and willing to name the "atrocities of colonialism, slavery, Jim Crow, segregation, and current racism." But she cautions us to not just focus on the negative pieces, but to write stories of survival that can empower communities today. She reminds us that to move towards healing and forgiveness, we cannot rewrite these stories in a way that ignores the fact that "racism is a disease that afflicts and affects both the offender and the offended." That is not an easy task, but it is indeed a necessary one. The purpose of rewriting our stories, of bearing witness to the oppression in our past and present, is not to vilify. It does us no good to create new reasons to hate or divide. The purpose of rewriting these stories is to move towards wholeness. By using the gifts of forgiveness, humility, and love, we can begin to be honest with ourselves about what has happened to and through all of us in the past. By recognizing the effects of these truer stories on the present, we can begin to heal the brokenness that every one of us experiences in systems built upon discrimination and oppression.

The prompt for this fourth day also included a link to the UU curriculum "Who Are Our Neighbors," describing it as a program intended to "heal racial divides." The name of this curriculum reminded me of a video for a sermon delivered at Middle Collegiate Church on July 14, 2013. Interestingly enough, this sermon re-entered my life just two days ago, after I followed a chain of links from Day Two's reflection invitation. In this sermon, titled "Are You My Neighbor?," Adriene Thorne spoke very poignantly and honestly about the recent "not guilty" verdict in the trial of George Zimmerman for the murder of 17-year-old Trayvon Martin. Weaving in reflections on the parable of the Good Samaritan, words from Toni Morrison, and the paradoxical limitations yet potential of human nature, her sermon challenges us to consider not only "who are our neighbors?" but also how we respond to our neighbors when to love them feels like an impossible task. In one part of this sermon, she says:

"There's no artistry in hate. But there is great artistry in love. What if George Zimmerman had been an artist, like the Good Samaritan? What if we were? As creative beings made in the image of a holy god, we are capable of great artistry in love. When we consider the beauty, the sheer beauty, wrought with the human hand and voice - the literature, the music, the scientific breakthroughs, the business medical, and agricultural triumphs, can we not also consider the numerous creative human responses that have met hatred with love?"

On this day, as we re-imagine the stories we tell about race from our history, her message reminds me of the need to also consider the ways in which we view and tell the stories of today. How are we telling the story of Trayvon Martin's murder? How are we telling the story of the thousands of black and brown men who are unjustly targeted by "law enforcement" and "court system" officials simply because of the way they look? How are we telling the story of the thousands who have died in a senseless collection of wars and military attacks overseas? How would you tell the story of the child in a Philadelphia public school who does not have a nurse to go to when she has an asthma attack or a textbook for any of her classes? How would you tell the story of the thousands of people who are losing access to necessary healthcare because of Medicaid cuts? How would you tell the story of the families who are forced apart because of a corrupt and broken immigration system? How do we tell these stories in a way that bears witness to the injustices experienced, that demands changes to the systems and cultures that feed their continuation, but does not encourage hatred towards the groups or individuals who have contributed to them?

Are we brave enough to tell those stories in ways that are honest about the suffering experienced by our neighbors? Are we willing to take the risk of being criticized and rejected to show new windows into these unjust pieces of our present? And are we willing to recognize the brokenness that every person experiences within these stories? Are we creative enough to still show love for all of our neighbors? Are we creative enough to write new narratives, ones in which we heal with love, rather than continue the division of hatred?

“Are You My Neighbor?” :: Jul 14 @middlechurch from Middle Collegiate Church on Vimeo.

30 Days of Love: Day Three

Day Three: How Far Have We Really Come?

"Our growth as religious people happens when we engage with pain--our pain and the pain of others--in ways that help us expand compassion and a deep sense of our interconnectedness."

~ UU Metro NY District, "Contemporary Racial Inequity: A Statement of Faith"

Today we honor Martin Luther King, Jr., a man (and in my opinion, prophet) who gave his life to challenging systems of racial injustice, and inspiring others to do the same. Dr. King lived during a time when racial injustice was practiced openly - it was the visual norm of our society. Many argue that things have changed, that such racism and the devaluation, the dehumanization, of people of color is a problem of our past. But is it?

Today we are asked to read a statement from the UU Metro NY District (linked above), released in July after the verdict of the George Zimmerman trial. We are asked to read "Building a New Racial Justice Movement," an article from Colorlines that describes the new work that needs to be done if we are to truly bring healing and an end to systemic racial injustice in our world. There is a call to no longer be afraid to name the injustices we see for what they are, to understand that this fight goes beyond legislation to practices embedded in our social and economic culture, and to embrace the need for solidarity by joining our individual movements into collective action.

The words in this statement and article, their calls for all people to commit themselves to justice, are not new. They are echoes of what has been said by leaders and members of civil rights movements for decades. The need to remain committed is a need that has been voiced time and time again. As part of today's reflection, we are also invited to watch or read Dr. King's "I Have a Dream" speech. His words, in this speech and others, are sadly equally, if not more relevant today. The injustices he describes are still present today, though some may wear a new mask. The "bad check" he speaks of, the "defaulted on" "promissory note" within our Constitution has not yet been rectified.

Racial injustice has not gone away, it has simply found new ways to stay alive, deeply embedded in systems that are framed to "protect." When we see the disparities in income, housing, healthcare, education, criminal prosecution, employment, wealth, it is impossible to deny that there is still much more work that needs to be done. When we see cultural misappropriation in the media, and the subsequent disregard and disrespect for the voices that dare to point out its devaluation of entire peoples, it is impossible to deny that there is still much more work that needs to be done. Work that we as individuals are capable of completing in our everyday lives. Work that we as members of a religious movement are called to pursue if we are to live out the principles of our faith. Work that as a human family must commit ourselves to if we want to heal the divisions that prevent us from being whole.

"But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. So we've come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice." ~ Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

What are you willing to do to join the movement for change?

30 Days of Love: Day One

Today's Question: Why do we want to be multicultural?

On Saturday morning I posted the following response on the Facebook Group I opened up to my home congregation in Philadelphia. 

We each see the world through the window of our own individual lives. But that's not the whole picture, and we will never understand the full reality (and potential beauty) of the world if we don't connect to people whose windows show a different story. Being multicultural lets us expand our understanding of what is possible, what is just, what needs to be changed, what more we can celebrate. By creating a multicultural community, we take down harmful assumptions, form new pathways for learning and loving, build relationships that strengthen our commitment to necessary anti-oppression efforts, and come to expand our understanding of our "self" as interconnected and inseparable from the stories of those around us. Being multicultural helps us better understand ourselves in relationship to the world, and the ways in which we are called to transform it into a "community with peace, liberty, and justice for all."

That is only my partial answer. While I agree wholeheartedly with what I posted, there are a few more thoughts I would like to share that are more suitable to my own personal blog.

I feel like it cannot be said enough - multiculturalism is not about diversity for diversity's sake. Yet, we can so often become easily trapped in that mindset of achieving "diversity" without actually considering why it is a necessary element of the ever-sought-after beloved community. And when our understanding of the "why" is missing, our efforts, though well-intentioned on the surface, are misguided, ungrounded, and lazy. Frankly, if we do not have a reason to build multicultural communities besides "diversity is good" or "multiculturalism is good," than we should not be trying to build them. Not yet, anyways. But unfortunately, this mindset is one that I have encountered on a few too many occasions, and it leaves me feeling as though some communities see "cultures" as something to collect. Difference becomes a commodity, and what can at first feel like appreciation for one's experience turns out to be tokenism for the sake of another's desire to feel good about including "other" people. The result is pain, frustration, and disappointment for all members of the community. Some might wonder what they are doing wrong. "We believe everyone is welcome!" they exclaim with confusion. "Diversity is one of our guiding principles!" Some might wonder if they will ever find a community committed to inclusion. "I thought this place would be different," they sigh with fatigue. "I thought the people here would actually listen."

So why do we want to be multicultural? My answer is as simple as it is difficult. To heal. For so long, we have been divided into groups that create an "us" and a "them;" categories that create a sense of competition for allegedly limited resources; identities that are assigned different levels of worth within systems designed to maintain the power and privileges of certain "kinds" of people over others. Our social structures were not originally built to encourage connection and appreciation between these groups, categories, or identities. Instead, many were created to separate and isolate, generating and perpetuating a fear of the "other" that encouraged a culture of protection from anyone who was different from oneself. For those with greater social and economic power, these structures and this culture of protection worked, and continue to work, in their favor - they maintain a privileged position in society and can define its rules, its norms...and its alleged threats. For those on the other end of the spectrum, they are faced with a history and mentality that automatically defines them as lesser beings, and social structures that ensure they are treated that way.

For many of us, what I have just described is nothing new. It is "oppression 101," and if you're reading this blog, chances are you've heard me use the aforementioned "p-words" countless times. Many of you have probably used them yourselves. So how can multicultural community help to bring the healing needed to end these oppressive divisions? Why do we need multiculturalism to change these power-protecting structures? Because without true multicultural community, we would never know the depth of impact these structures have. Without true multicultural community, we would never need to look within ourselves and understand what role we play in allowing those divisions to continue on - what responsibility we have in bringing them to an end. Multiculturalism brings us the healing we need by allowing another person's story to change how we understand ourselves. That may sound a bit counter-productive and self-centered, but it is a necessary part, and result, of true multicultural community. Our interactions with people whose stories are different from our own challenge the assumptions in our daily narratives, add a layer to our identity that is in relationship to those around us with different windows on the world, and push us to reconsider how our attitudes and behaviors may not be as inclusive as we once thought. "Multiculturalism is good" when we are willing to let the diversity of experiences within our community teach us, grow us, change us, even dismantle us. Rather than see that process as a destructive one that takes apart the individual, we need to reframe it as a constructive one that builds the individual in community.

One of my favorite poems is On Being Woven by the Sufi poet Rumi. While the entire poem speaks to the importance of human relationship and companionship, it is the very first line that captures the essence of multicultural community.

"The way is full of genuine sacrifice."

The healing we require in this world demands genuine sacrifice within the context of multicultural communities. Until we are willing to sacrifice our preconceived notions of what is justice, our false self-assurance that we are in no way contributing to systems of oppression, and our belief that we are too good or learned to carry harmful assumptions, we will not heal those divisions. Until we are willing to sacrifice the power and privilege that we have when we encounter someone in our community whose story shows us that we do in fact benefit from a system that holds them down, we will not heal those divisions. Until we are willing to sacrifice the comfort of a community that accepts the status quo for the challenge of a community committed to the struggle of taking down the status quo, we will not heal those divisions. This idea of sacrifice does involve taking a risk on behalf of another's well being, and it does involve accepting a loss for the sake of someone beyond oneself. But what we lose through this genuine sacrifice is not our inherent worth or even our security. What we lose is the mindset that there is, as described by Anita Farber-Robertson, "a scarcity of the holy," a scarcity of love.

For me, the question is not "Why do we want to be multicultural?" The question is "Why do we need to be multicultural?" Our personal and spiritual development depends on the commitment to let ourselves be changed by stories different from our own. Our efforts to create a world community of "peace, liberty, and justice for all" require that we continually build relationships with people who will show us the ways in which we have been compliant to systems that divide and oppress. We need multiculturalism if we hope to move forward together, sacrificing our individual and competitive goals for the sake of generating communal and cooperative ones. We need multicultural community if we hope to be fully invested in the struggle to end injustice. We need multicultural community to heal.