When It's Complicated

A few days ago, I was driving down a busy Anchorage road with both my kids in the car. I glimpsed something in my lane up ahead and tried to make sense of what it was. As part of my brain registered that it was a crumpled American flag in my lane, the other part of my brain began to scan for where I could safely pull off and grab it, before it was run over, soiled, further disrespected.

I have not said the Pledge of Allegiance in years. I remember clearly the curious looks I got for standing with my hands by side on my son's first day of kindergarten, silent while everyone else recited along with the principal over the intercom. I love to sing and the American national anthem is great for a soprano who wants to pretend she's Beverly Sills, but I stay quiet. My relationship to my country is not my greatest allegiance and I've pledged everything I've got to the One Who Loved Me First.

Due to my activism, my efforts to bring change on a variety of levels of society, to what people are sure they know about my politics... (Just a week ago someone mentioned assuming everyone in a group was registered as voters for a certain party- I'm not registered with any party.)... due to what people see and hear from me, assumptions are made. For most of those doing the assuming, it is an impossible idea that I would be found sprinting down the sidewalk toward a crumpled American flag, hoping to reach it before the situation was any worse. Yet there I was.

When I was about 50 yards from the flag, a man sprinted across several lanes of traffic from the other side of the road and snatched it up, rescuing the cloth itself from additional ignominy. And I returned to my car, panting, trying to figure out how to explain to my children why their mom was suddenly possessed with a frantic need to rescue a particularly patterned fabric from the street.

I barely understood the frantic need myself.

I wanted to save my own hope in the flag as a symbol of what this nation can be and could be.

I wanted to show my children that you can be deeply frustrated and disappointed and still faithful.

I want to continue to have the hope of General Lafayette in the "perpetual union of the United States" that it may "one day save the world".

Inside me, beyond how impotent I feel, how grieved, how desperate, how revolutionary, I believe there is a soul of an idea of who the United States can be that seeks to repair the wounds of the Doctrine of Discovery, to heal and repent of the on-going injury of enslavement, racism, and white supremacy, that truly embraces the concepts of equality and equity relative to justice, access, and opportunity.

My jaw is tight, I cry, and I'm so tired.

Better is possible.

Surely, better is possible.

It is a sign of high privilege that I can even entertain that notion.

And, yet, I know that I am an Esther among Esthers, an Abigail among Abigails, a Huldah among Huldahs, a Priscilla among Priscillas. I am not alone in the work or the call or the disappointment or the anger.

I will resist the efforts to cave and accept oppression, silence, complicity, lies, or misdirection as normal, representative, or necessary.

I will fight.

And I will hope.

And, if I have to again, I will sprint down a sidewalk along Tudor Road on a Monday evening, to rescue a tangible symbol that is more than history; it is possibility. It is that possibility that my Truest Allegiance will not let me ignore.

White Washing the World

I pay attention to what I see. A lot. In the past few years, I've paid additional attention to what I don't see.

Today, I saw two interesting things.

The first was brought to my attention by the professor and Biblical scholar, the Reverend Doctor Wil Gafney (to whose work I commend you). Dr. Gafney noted on Facebook that, regardless of one's actual race, if a person indicates interest or support in issues, authors, or topics at all related to Black Lives Matter, the Root, or any other item that indicates interest in being an accomplice to equality... Facebook assumes that person is African-American.

At her urging, I checked and, sure enough, Facebook's #1 categorization of me is African American. While I would happily claim this designation if I could, it's not even close to correct. Ironically, despite the fact that I belong to multiple Jewish groups and an equal number of knitting groups, Facebook is more certain that I am black than it is regarding anything else about me. (Let's not mention the number of clergy groups to which I belong.)

This means that Facebook ad bots assume that any interest in black issues, race equity, or social justice must automatically be correlated with BEING black. There is no positive correlation, in the algorithm for non-black people supporting these issues.

Huh.

Then, today, I saw my first ads for A Wrinkle in Time. I'm excited about this movie because I have loved the book for years. Meg Murry is a hero of mine and she doesn't get mentioned on enough girl hero lists (in my opinion). Ava Duvernay is directing. Excellent. I am a huge fan, among many, of her work.

The trailer revealed that Meg is played by Storm Reid. Her mom, Dr. Kate Murry, is played by Gugu Mbatha. Her dad is played by... Chris Pine. Furthermore, the movie poster looks like this: >>>>>>>>>>>>

Now I last read the book 3-4 years ago, but a central plot point is that the dad is MISSING. He's not actually a central character. In fact, his absence is central to the story. So WHY IS THE WHITE GUY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE POSTER??? Why not the inquisitive, brave, tempestuous Meg? Seriously? I don't know why the whole family couldn't be people of color. And I don't know why Chris Pine has to be in the center of the picture.

Except that I do know why.

The world still presumes that if you aren't catering to the money (ego) of white men, then failure is assured. There is little to no acceptance of the fact that women, people of color, and everyone else in the world (who are not white men) have money to spend and are begging to be catered to. Do we need Chris Pine so that this movie will make money? Without his melanin-deficient appearance, will white men fail to see this movie? Will white women? (Actually, I don't want to know the true answer to that last question because I will likely throw my computer across the room. Which indicates that I do know the true answer. And I am pissed about it.)

We can do better.

Facebook can. Hollywood can. I can. You can.

But what will it take?

Nothing's Good

The body count rises.

Arms raised, voices sobbing, blood pours.

Is there no balm in Gilead?

The wailing magnifies.

There are not enough garments to rend.

The ditches are full, but there are not enough Samaritans.

Grief is a monsoon, a typhoon, a deluge.

There is no memory of an antediluvian time.

The praying tongues are parched; sighs stopped in dried throats.

Hands flop helplessly.

The willfully ignorant caw and cackle, their hearts hardening within them.

How long, O Lord, how long, how long howlong howlong howlonghowlonghowlong?

How can we sing the Lord’s song in a land that refuses to see Christ

In Brown faces, in dark spaces, at 10 paces, in uniformed cases?

Jesus! Jesus.

Swing low, sweet chariot… come and carry us home.

I don’t think that’s a band of angels I see

And there are too many brothers and sisters who just can’t even anymore.

deep exhale









Originally written for and posted at RevGalBlogPals.org

The Jericho Road

Luke 10:25-37

25Just then a lawyer stood up to test Jesus. “Teacher,” he said, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?” 26He said to him, “What is written in the law? What do you read there?” 27He answered, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.” 28And he said to him, “You have given the right answer; do this, and you will live.”
  29But wanting to justify himself, he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?” 30Jesus replied, “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and went away, leaving him half dead. 31Now by chance a priest was going down that road; and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. 32So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. 33But a Samaritan while traveling came near him; and when he saw him, he was moved with pity. 34He went to him and bandaged his wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. Then he put him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him. 35The next day he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said, ‘Take care of him; and when I come back, I will repay you whatever more you spend.’ 36Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?” 37He said, “The one who showed him mercy.” Jesus said to him, “Go and do likewise.”
_________________________________________________________________________________

Dear Jerusalem Council, 

I would like to talk to you about the road between here and Jericho. As you know, we've lamented about it for years. We' ve expected the people of Jericho (our cousins, siblings, parents, and neighbors) to do the work of improving the road. Frankly, that expectation should embarrass us. We've had the power and the privilege for years. We know they didn't and don't have the political capital or the fiscal ability to do the work we're discussing alone, but we keep saying it will change if they just listen, stop writing to us, and maybe make some of the improvements to Jericho that we've suggested to make it more like Jerusalem. 

The violence has gotten out of hand. The ambushes, the murders, the extortions... villains, rogue soldiers, haters... the list goes on. I have heard many of you say that some bad actors does not mean action is required of us. Frankly, this is more than a few bad actors. It is the reality of the road itself. We have allowed the violence of the road, the rumor of the road, the threat of the road to expand beyond a means of travel. It is a specter of violence, pain, and fear that hangs over us and the people of Jericho and leaves no one untouched. 

I know we have discussed this issue again and again and again. However, some of our priests say, "This kind of change takes time. We have to be patient." And we have heard certain Levites say, "If the people traveling the road did exactly what they were advised, they wouldn't get hurt or killed." We have turned our heads, wrung our hands, offered prayers, and seen the funeral processions. 

And yet, the road REMAINS a place of terror and death. 

How can we claim to be a city of light or, dare I say, of God if we do nothing about the road? How can we think ourselves better than the Romans, or anyone? Who dares to claim the favor of the Creator as we allow death and fear to run rampant on our watch? 

What would Esther say? Judah Maccabee? Joshua and Caleb? Naomi? Gideon? What of our ancestor Jacob who, though fearful, still finally fell into his brother's embrace despite all that had been between them? 

Do we actually want to do anything about the Jericho Road or does just talking about it after every death make us feel better about ourselves? We hear the pleas from Jericho. We seen the bodies piling in the wadi and in gehenna. We have heard of those who die- denied care or options that they could get in Jerusalem. Our inaction impacts not only trade, but the religious practice of our Jericho neighbors and family. Our refusal to change the situation of the road is causing people to feel separated from God, because we (also children of God) are failing to act in the way to which we have been called. 

The change to the road will not happen overnight, but it must start right now. We must say no more. We must refuse to allow another attack, another death, another moment of fear. We must hear the grief and the pain and allow it to wash over us and move us in its tide to a place of action and purpose. We do this WITH the people of Jericho, WITH the residents of Jerusalem, WITH all our neighbors who wish to see this pain far behind us and the lessons learned carried with us. 

So, what say you, Council? What say you, priests and Levites? 


What say you, white (privileged) America? 



For Alton Sterling and Philando Castile, may we change the Jericho Road of systemic racism in your name and in the name of so many others.

He Doesn't Have to Be Jesus

"Martin Luther King Jr NYWTS 4" by New York World-Telegram and the Sun staff photographer: Albertin, Walter, photographer. - Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division. New York World-Telegram and the Sun Newspaper Photograph Collection. http://hdl.loc.gov/loc.pnp/cph.3c22985. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

I'm familiar with a certain type of conversation around Martin Luther King, Jr. 

When he's being noted or praised, one or more people in the conversation will decide to mention that MLK, Jr cheated on his wife or plagiarized parts of this thesis or committed this kind of crime or that.

Keep in mind the conversation was never about whether we should add him to the Trinity or the Pantheon or what-have-you. Yet, in the conversation, there seems to be the need to shine a spotlight on MLK, Jr.'s flaws. 

It is also characteristic of this conversation to note "If he hadn't been martyred, he wouldn't be so beloved." 

I've heard all of these comments more that once, more than twice, more times that I can count. 

The truth is, though, he was killed. Martin Luther King, Jr was shot and killed because he advocated for equality of black Americans with white Americans and because he was part of a group that was no longer prepared to see the goal of justice pushed away until a "more convenient time". 

My first-grader came home this week and asked me if I knew about "King Junior". Once I figured out who he was talking about, I asked what he'd learned. He told me that once there was a time when kids with different skin colors could go to the same school. "King Junior" helped fix that so kids [like black kid in his class] could all go to the same school. I asked if he learned what happened to Martin Luther King, Jr. He said, "They shot him." 

They shot him. 

I did explain that Martin Luther King, Jr didn't exactly work with schools all the time. That he did a lot of work so that people with different skin colors would be allowed to choose who was in charge and who makes decisions...  what we do when we vote. Some people did not want to allow people with black and brown skin to vote. 

As I drove and talked, I wondered when I should explain that it is still that way. 

And I wonder how long it will be before someone adds to the "conversation" about MLK, Jr with my son. How long will be before someone feels compelled to mention the character flaws of the man alongside his work? Will this be the same person who is silent about Tamir Rice or Freddie Gray or believes the death of Michael Brown was justified or has no concerns about Sandra Bland? 

When I read "Letter from a Birmingham Jail", it is everything to me that Romans or Galatians was and is. I expect no more perfection from the author of those epistles than I do of the later letter, itself as much an epistle. 

Martin Luther King, Jr didn't have to be Jesus to be right. He didn't do everything perfectly, but he was still right. He didn't have to be a non-sinner to still be a saint. He didn't have to be Jesus carry a message of justice to the world. He didn't have to be Jesus to see God's affection for all people. He didn't have to be Jesus to dream of a time of unity and community. 

And he didn't have to be Jesus to be killed for being a threat to the status quo. 


There are times when I haven't replied in The Conversation. When the other words start and I have indigestion, but I don't say "Stop right there." I wish I had. I hope that I will. 

In the meantime, many people have a three-day weekend. Sales, vacations, rest, family time... Somewhere in there, let us remember the man who was one of the main voices of a movement that dared to dream of something different for the world, for America, for their communities, and even for the church. 

Dr. King wrote in the aforementioned letter: 

We must come to see that, as the federal courts have consistently affirmed, it is wrong to urge an individual to cease his efforts to gain his basic constitutional rights because the quest may precipitate violence. Society must protect the robbed and punish the robber. I had also hoped that the white moderate would reject the myth concerning time in relation to the struggle for freedom. I have just received a letter from a white brother in Texas. He writes: "All Christians know that the colored people will receive equal rights eventually, but it is possible that you are in too great a religious hurry. It has taken Christianity almost two thousand years to accomplish what it has. The teachings of Christ take time to come to earth." Such an attitude stems from a tragic misconception of time, from the strangely irrational notion that there is something in the very flow of time that will inevitably cure all ills. Actually, time itself is neutral; it can be used either destructively or constructively. More and more I feel that the people of ill will have used time much more effectively than have the people of good will. We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the hateful words and actions of the bad people but for the appalling silence of the good people. Human progress never rolls in on wheels of inevitability; it comes through the tireless efforts of men willing to be co workers with God, and without this hard work, time itself becomes an ally of the forces of social stagnation. We must use time creatively, in the knowledge that the time is always ripe to do right. Now is the time to make real the promise of democracy and transform our pending national elegy into a creative psalm of brotherhood. Now is the time to lift our national policy from the quicksand of racial injustice to the solid rock of human dignity.

A three-day weekend contemplating that will not be wasted. 

Slaughter of the Innocents

The appointed gospel reading for 12/28: Matthew 2:13-18

13Now after [the wise men] had left, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, “Get up, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you; for Herod is about to search for the child, to destroy him.” 14Then Joseph got up, took the child and his mother by night, and went to Egypt, 15and remained there until the death of Herod. This was to fulfill what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet, “Out of Egypt I have called my son.”
  16When Herod saw that he had been tricked by the wise men, he was infuriated, and he sent and killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had learned from the wise men. 17Then was fulfilled what had been spoken through the prophet Jeremiah:
 18“A voice was heard in Ramah,
  wailing and loud lamentation,
 Rachel weeping for her children;
  she refused to be consoled, because they are no more.”


Where were the wise men to tell Tamir Rice's mother to flee, to move, to run? 

Where was the dream that told his family to gather him close and escape with him? 

Where was the truth-teller who would dare to say, "You can't give him a toy gun. The police don't stop to look for the orange tips when all they see is black skin"? 

Where those who will refuse to be consoled about Tamir, about Bettie, about Quintonio?


The greatest lie in print in our country at this time is thus:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. (The Declaration of Independence)

Clearly, these truths are not self-evident. 

They have been massaged and rebranded and covered over by the lies of generations who will not let them go. Who will not allows the mistakes of the past to be properly understood as mistakes. Who will not grieve what might have been if Freddie had lived and been treated as an equal or Sandra or Michael. 

It is a slaughter of innocents when the boulders are coming down a greatly tilted playing field and when the shots come from those who have sworn to serve and protect. 

Where are the wise men and women? The angels? The Josephs?


All I can see is Herod after Herod after Herod.

Silence is not Golden

I haven't written here lately.

I haven't written here about Sandra Bland, though I did post a prayer here. I'm still thinking about her.

I haven't written about North Korea, though I promised my mom that I would on Mother's Day.

I haven't written about the fight over the Confederate Flag (the flag of the Army of Northern Virginia).

I haven't written about gently asking another blogger to alter her language from using black to equal evil and white to equal purity. (There is nothing inherently evil in the color black.)

I haven't written about how surprised I am when people bring up the "gay agenda" in a conversation that previously had nothing to do with homosexuality or homosexuals.

I haven't written about Donald Trump, periods, women's bodies under attack, a failure to respect others disguised as resentment toward "political correctness", or any number of other topics.


Nothing.

I cannot put a finger accurately on how I feel.

Annoyed, frustrated, irritated, tired, grieved, disgusted, despairing... all of it and more.

Frankly, my dears, I haven't written not because I don't give a damn, but because I give too much of one.

“If you decide that it’s a bad thing to worship God, then choose a god you’d rather serve—and do it today. Choose one of the gods your ancestors worshiped from the country beyond The River, or one of the gods of the Amorites, on whose land you’re now living. As for me and my family, we’ll worship God. - Joshua 24:15, The Message

I don't have the words to describe the way that I feel hunted and haunted because of my gender (female), the causes I support, the people I help, my ancestry, and all manner of other things. Yet, I go on because Jesus is leading and the forces that oppose God- sin, the Devil, and brokenness- will not win and this is just part of the fight.

I just can't always write about it.

Ammunition

Ruger Redhawks next to bear paw print, 2008

"Mommy, somebody has a gun."

My five-year-old called these words out to me before we'd even been at the playground for 2 minutes. 

My head snapped up and my eyes darted. I saw a furtive figure dart away from my son and across the playground, diving under the other set of equipment. 

My two-year-old was already on a a swing, calling for me to push her. 

There were three pre-teen girls laughing and playing some game out in the ball field. 

We had passed a woman walking her dogs when we came in, but there were no other adults. 

"Mommy, somebody has a gun." 

My dad instilled intense respect for guns into his children. I never had a toy gun, in part, because we were taught and able to use real guns for target practice and/or hunting. Guns are tools, not toys. 

My husband has deeper feelings about guns, if possible, than my dad did. Two large safes guard the weaponry of our house. Always. 

I've never been afraid of guns (other than the kickback of some calibers.)

Today I was frightened by someone with a gun. 

"Mommy, somebody has a gun." 

Gripping my phone, I edged to where I could see a baby-faced, nine or ten-year-old boy hiding from me. I glimpsed the orange caps of his toy rifle and pistol. I saw the curved edges of two fake daggers stuck, blades down, in the pea gravel. He obviously didn't want me to see him or his arsenal. He watched me out of the corner of his eye while he moved the gravel around to create a high wall between him and me. Yes, today I watched a white child build a bunker to hide in with his weaponry. 

We only stayed a few minutes at the playground before I told the kids we just had to go. 

All I could think was: 

1. Kid, you have no idea how privileged you are. No one is calling the cops about you, running around with toy guns (God rest Tamir Rice) and with no parent in sight (God bless Debra Harrell). 

2. Who taught you to hide with guns? To stockpile an arsenal and eye those around you. I think a nine-year-old is a little young for the hardcore "in case of government overthrow". 

3. What will you grow up to think you are owed? Is anyone, anywhere talking to you about the black and brown bodies in your very city- their worth, their dreams, their realities? 

4. What game are you playing with these guns? You're not pretending to hunt. You're not playing war. You're not pretending to skeet shoot or be at the fair. And why are you hiding? 

5. What would I have done if I had been armed, as I often am (literally, loaded for bear)? Would I have approached this child, with a hand on my .357? I can imagine many people I know (and love) saying, "What if it hadn't been a child? Wouldn't it have been better to have your gun with you and stopped something?" 

Sure, but that's not approaching from positive gun control. That's reactive gun control. 

I want the adults in this child's life to say, "These are tools, not toys. Here's what we use guns for." 

I want them to say, "Find a friend and go to the playground together." 

I want them to say, "This city is full of black, brown, tan, and white bodies. They matter as much as we do. Here are the stories of our family and stories of their families." 

I recently told my pastoral intern that I'd be glad to take her to the range to show her how to shoot. I am and I will. We'll do the same, eventually, for our children. We'll always have a sidearm at the river or on camping trips. All of this goes hand-in-hand with the messages above- over and over and over. 

That's the only way to change the automatic reaction that comes locked and loaded with "Mommy, somebody has a gun." 

Words Fail Me (But I Keep Talking)

This was my Facebook update today. It doesn't exactly apply to this space, which is less about my kids and more focused on specific truth-telling. Nevertheless, the sentiments apply.

I wrote it out after prayerfully deciding to scrap the service plan and write laments and prayers and hymns for Sunday.

-----

What to say, what to say. 

I try to keep this space uplifting and hopeful. I keep it a space for truth telling. If it is going to be a space where I put up the pictures of my children, then it also has to be a space where I name the realities of the world in which they live. I want it to be better for them, for their friends, for the parents of their friends, for the people they'll never meet. 

Frankly, my dears, it is exhausting. 

I was told "turn your eyes upon Jesus, look full in his wonderful face, and the things of earth will grow strangely dim, in the light of his glory and grace".
I did. They haven't. 

I can't sing, "It is well with my soul" without somehow acknowledging that Satan is buffeting and I don't feel as consoled by blest assurance as I'm supposed to. 

I can't even rejoice in the hour I spent months ago talking to my one confirmation student about how Jesus was brown-skinned because she is too and she probably would have figured this out eventually. 

I don't feel like God has forsaken me because I do not believe that is in God's nature. God doesn't contradict God's self. 

So the reality, then, is that too many of the people who said they were on God's side turned out not to be on the side of God's people. Too many people sang, "Jesus loves the little children" and mentally added a chorus, "But I don't have to". Too many people are willing to make excuses for racism, inequity, inequality, and persistent divisions. 

I want to swear right here because even Yale didn't provide me with enough adjectives to cover this situation. 

Why do I still give a damn? Why did I spend the day re-writing Sunday's service? Why have I prayed for guidance? Why do I think that anything I say or do will matter in the slightest?

Because Ruth the Moabite was faithful to Naomi the Israelite. Ruth's faithfulness to her mother-in-law of a different race was the conclusion (generations later) to the inhospitality of Sodom and Gomorrah. Ruth's patience, openness, and dedication gave way to the lineage that would lead to Jesus, by way of David.

Maybe I could be like Ruth. Or maybe this is a generation of inhospitality and, please God, I am among those who are struggling against that tide. 

Nevertheless, God does bring good. If I have come to receive grace, and not in vain, then I am not able to leave the work of reconciliation. 

-- Sigh --

Because it's not about me, it is about Christ- I continue on. Yes, and I ask God to help and guide me.

Intercession

Holy Mary, mother of a brown son,

Mother who feared for his well-being,
Mother who tasted terror when he left your side-
Pray for us.

Holy Mary, mother of a brown man,
Mother who demanded his respect,
Mother who knew the power of God-
Pray for us.

Holy Mary, mother of a brown rebel,
Mother who tried to save him from himself,
Mother who eyed the authorities as they drew near to him-
Pray for us.

Holy Mary, mother of a brown preacher,
Mother who was stunned by his insight
Mother who taught him how to listen to the word-
Pray for us.

Holy Mary, mother of a brown prisoner,
Mother who grieved what would never be,
Mother who feared for the life of one who you carried in your body and heart-
Pray for us.

Holy Mary, mother of a brown man killed too soon,
Mother who held his broken body,
Mother who howled to the heavens-
Pray for us.

Holy Mary, mother of a brown Incarnation,
Mother who dared to hope in resurrection,
Mother who whispered, "Let it be with me according to your will"-
Pray for us.

McKinney, Texas

Scene: McKinney, Texas

A white police officer yelling at black and brown teens, telling them to sit down, to leave, to get down, to disperse. Officer chases young black men. Officer forces black teenage girl to the ground, by her hair and neck, and then holds her there with his knee in her back. Teen girl has empty hands and is wearing a bikini. White adult males mill around and do not intervene with the officers or attempt to console and assist any of the teenagers present.

Year: 1954 1968 2015

Today, I was thinking of the friends of the paralytic man in Mark 2. They couldn't get the healing, the help, the relief needed for their friend by getting him through the door. They couldn't wait for it to come to them. The option that seemed clearest was to tear the roof off the house. Rip up the clay, the leaves, the hardened mud, and straw. Rain down dirt clods and stick scraps on the (self) righteous leaders gathered below. Raise the roof and get this done. Now.

The time has come to do the same in this country.

Silence is complicity. Waiting is criminal (aiding and abetting). Victim blaming is shameful.

We who have the privilege of white skin, light skin, money, placement, opportunity, platform, or otherwise must raise the roof on racism in the country. We have to tear out the mud of a system that paralyzes and ignores the plight of millions. We who can, not only should, but must.

Respect is not a zero-sum game. No one loses by acknowledging that black and brown lives matter.

Racism is a house that corrupts all who enter and live within its contaminating walls, even if some residents believe they can resist the pull.

When will we be ready to get our hands dirty by tearing off the roof?

Selma and Excuses

When rejecting an invitation, according to Amy Sedaris, one simply says, “I can’t come.” You don’t add a reason. “Anything after ‘because’ is bullshit,” according to Sedaris. That’s what I think of when I see the dearth of nominations for Selma in the Oscars. There weren’t more because the movie didn’t play the game, send out screeners, open earlier, deal with political backlash well. Frankly, my dear, anything after because is bullshit.

I have already seen Selma twice and I’m trying to figure out when I will see it at least a third and maybe a fourth time. I am not much of a moviegoer. I think I saw three movies last year. Selma, though, is a big screen phenomenon. There is a nuance in the faces, in the looks, in the gritted teeth and the beads of sweat that will be missed on a small screen. Furthermore, there is a public sensitivity to the directing that is palpable when one is sitting in proximity to other bodies, hearing the gasps, sighs, cheers, and tears.

David Oyelowo is as powerful an actor as I have ever seen. The movie was not permitted, for various reasons, to use any of the actual speeches of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. The script, then, had to be written for the power, syntax, and deliver of one of the greatest preachers in American history. Oyelowo delivers like the prophet Dr. King was. In the scene where Coretta Scott King, played by Carmen Ejogo, confronts him about infidelity, one thousand emotions play across his face, before any words are spoken. I haven’t seen all most of the “Best Actor” nominees, but I am not really open to hearing why Oyelowo wasn’t chosen. Anything after “because” is bullshit.

There has been quite the furor over the portrayal of President Lyndon Baines Johnson in the movie. Those concerned with his legacy argue that the movie portrays him as obstructionist to the voting rights of blacks in a way that is unfair to his true feelings and his true actions. LBJ was the consummate politician of our time. Generally known as an SOB and someone who made deals to get things done, he comes across as profoundly true to character in the film.

While it is certainly true that LBJ was a powerful force in advancing the paperwork and legality of civil rights in this country, it is also true that he did not do all the legwork or showing up that was possible. So the movie didn’t make LBJ into the savior figure that some want him to be. Too bad. There are plenty of other films of historical figures that aren’t letter perfect to character, motivation, and/or action. Should we destroy them all? I just want a one-word answer, since anything after “because” is bullshit.

The reality of Selma that sticks in my head is how King and others grapple with the reality that the response to the non-violent protests means some people will likely be killed. Each of the leaders is weighing in the balance the lives of those who will come, who will march, who will be beaten, with the denied full civil and human rights of an entire group of people. Children, elders, and bright young adults will be slaughtered out of sheer hatred, malice, and fear. The film has some footage of the actual Selma to Montgomery march, in which you see not only the marchers, but white people standing along the sides of the roads- flipping middle fingers, spitting, showing the Confederate flag, screaming. As those faces go by, I can’t help but think, “For shame. There is no explanation. Anything after ‘because’ is bullshit.”

There is something about Selma- about seeing innocent black bodies, beaten and broken in the street. There is something about knowing that the denial of the vote to many people is still ongoing. There is something about seeing the terrorist act of bombing a church and killing four little girls and knowing that no one paid for that crime until years later. There is something about seeing an all-white slate of best actor and actress nominees. There is something about denying the recognition of even a Best Director nomination to Ava DuVernay.

These things say that we are not yet post-racial. We are not yet to a place of equality for all Americans. We have not reached the mountaintop. We are still working to overcome.

There is a scene in Selma when Dr. King is confronting John Lewis and James Forman, the sons of thunder of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee. He tells them that SNCC is concerned with “raising black consciousness”, but the Southern Christian Leadership Conference is concerned with “raising white consciousness”. This work is not done as long as any body of any color can be and is denied both the actual and the implied rights that are inherent to all American citizens. Until that day, we must stay awake, keep our consciousness elevated, and keep our feet marching forward in work of praying with our votes, our dollars, our letters, our sermons, our prayers, our neighbor love, and our rejection of the false idols of Oscar recognition.

To those who say “no” to this call, we know what you are. No qualifiers, explanations, or caveats are needed. Anything after “because” is bullshit.

Originally published on RevGalBlogPals: http://revgalblogpals.org/2015/01/19/monday-extra-selma-and-excuses/

Building on a Prayer

Our God in heaven,

Holy parent of all black, brown, olive, tan, and peach children,

Holy is your name.

It is for praise and glory, not to be used lightly.

Your kingdom come,

We dare to ask for the day of justice

Your will be done,

We dare to ask to be used for your purposes

On earth as in heaven,

May it be so, Lord.

Give us this day our daily bread,

And stop our hands from taking more than our share

Forgive us our sins,

For they are legion

As we forgive those who sin against us,

For they are legion

Lead us not into temptation,

For we are prone to anger, to frustration, to laziness, to despair,

But deliver us from evil,

From the forces that oppose you- wherever they exist

For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory-

You alone are God. Everything is yours.

Amen.

Amen.

Excerpted from a post (by me) at RevGalBlogPals

Dear Mrs. Till-Mobley

Dear Mamie Till- Mobley-

First, I apologize for using your first name. You don't know me and it's not right for me to presume.

I cannot stop thinking of you tonight. We have just heard, late at night, that Office Darren Wilson of the Ferguson, MO police will not be charged with any crimes in the shooting death of 18-year-old Michael Brown. Wilson is white. Brown was black.

You wouldn't have been surprised by the rhetoric that has poured forth since Brown's murder on August 9th. We've heard about his misdeeds, his alleged activities, his tendencies, his size, his demeanor, his habits, and all other manner of detail meant to reveal that his life was just another brown life, only significant by what it proved in death- that it didn't count for much to the whites around him.

Mrs. Till-Mobley, tonight, people are arguing that a failure to indict by a grand jury means that there wasn't enough evidence to prove a crime, that the officer didn't do anything wrong, that justice has been met. The reason I am writing to you is because I am wondering, truly wondering, if people told you that justice had occurred with the trial of your son, Emmett's, murderers.

They had lawyers. They had a jury of their peers. They were allowed the presumption of innocence. You know better than anyone that adherence to the letter of the law does not equal justice.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry we didn't learn from Emmett's death. Not only was he murdered, but it seems that he was murdered in vain. We should have looked at his bloated and mutilated body, the body you had the courage to demand we see, and vowed, "Never again."

We looked away.

Worse we pretended we did not see.

The fruits of the spirit of America are not just strange; they are rotten. Freedom comes at the cost of those who fight for it, but where we don't have to see it, hear it, or be affected by it. Privilege comes through the oppression of others- as though modern living is a zero sum game, disregarding the waste of our lifestyles. Power comes through money spent, not through respect earned and trust granted.

We failed Emmett. We failed Michael. We failed you.

All the biblical metaphors I could mention now, which would be familiar to you, feel like dust in my mouth. We know what those words are, from prophets and from Christ himself. They are cross-stitched and framed on our walls, tattooed on our biceps, slapped across our bumpers, and spaced carefully on our church signs. To God, however, they are as grievous as your son's body, as His son's body. They are the blatant markers of our audacity to pronounce God's words, but to fail to live by them.

Mrs. Till-Mobley, Emmett is not forgotten. I want to tell you that he did not die in vain, just as I'd like to say to Mrs. Brown. But I can't say that today.

You are our cloud of witnesses, you and Emmett and others. Your cry goes up, "How long?"

I don't know.

I don't know.

But I won't give up. And that's all I can promise.


Respectfully,

The Reverend Julia Seymour