A Fable for Your Consideration

A fable is a short story or piece of writing meant to convey a moral lesson.

The Tiger


Once there was a tiger. This tiger had always lived in the forest. The tiger roamed, preyed on smaller animals, and generally did tiger things. While no animals attempted to befriend the tiger, most also were not unduly scared of him.

One day, the tiger declared war on the field mice. Roaring through the forest, the tiger declared that field mice should return to the fields. They did not belong in a space populated with trees, said the tiger, they must go back where they came from.

It did not seem to matter that there were field mice born in tree trunks and in old nurse logs. The tiger had spoken. Other predators in the forest agreed that the field mice should go. They bring disease, some animals noted, truthfully, forgetting how many other animals transmitted illness from one to another. They eat food that should be ours, said the smaller critters. The foxes didn't want to contradict the tiger, but they did need the mice for their diets. They began to eye the birds' nests. Some animals, like the deer, didn't necessarily want to get rid of the mice, but they didn't want to be in the fight, so they said nothing.

The tiger patrolled the edges of the forest and the mice who could fled. Those who couldn't get out for one reason or another burrowed in more deeply, now more terrified and vulnerable than ever.

After the mice were banned, the tiger demanded that rabbits and weasels must go. They are too small, roared the tiger, and small means inconseqential! The tiger presided over the forced evacuation of the rabbits and the weasels. Some of the other predators became concerned because now there was very little food for them in the forest itself. The tiger's roar, however, was terrifying and no one dared to point out the flaws in the plan or maybe that mistakes had been made.

One morning, all the deer fled. They ran through several fields to a different wood, removing themselves from the tiger's reign.

All that remained in the tiger's forest were the tiger and other predators. Things became tense in the forest. Many animals, especially the scavengers, had to travel far each day to collect food and then bring it home to their dens and their children. The wolves and the bears were particularly exhausted as the constant hunt prevented them from storing their winter fat.

The tiger killed all the foxes. I wanted a fox fur coat, he said, as he patrolled, draped in the bloody hides. He glared at everyone he passed and the animals ducked their heads and busied themselves with various tasks.

No one dared to cross the tiger.

There were quiet rumors of meetings of dissenters, potential plots to overthrow the tiger or end his reign, some grumblings if one was sure he wasn't there.

But no one stood up to the tiger.

It was hoped that perhaps, with so few animals left, animals that shared much taxonomy with the tiger, perhaps they would be safe.

The badger, with a bellyful of roots, waddled back to his burrow late one evening. Roots and the occasional grub were not as satisfying as a dinner of mice or perhaps a rabbit, but it would do.

Suddenly, the badger found himself flipped over, staring at the sky. The tiger loomed above him, one paw raised high.

"Why?" said the badger, knowing this was the end.

"Because I can," laughed the tiger, slashing the badger's throat. "I didn't spare anyone else. Why would you think I cared about you?"

Moral: When the tiger shows you his stripes, believe that he is a tiger. 

Confession for Healing from Racism

This was written for Stand Against Racism: A Community Prayer Vigil sponsored by the congregations of Anchorage Faith and Action- Congregations Together and three other congregations, including Congregation Beth Sholom. 

The base idea for this litany came from the ELCA's Service for the same purpose. 

In some religious traditions, confession is used a kind of internal housecleaning. Confessing one’s sins- things done and left undone, said and left unsaid- clears the spiritual detritus from one’s heart and mind and better helps a person perceive the truth and guidance of God. Confession to God does not eliminate the need to confess and seek forgiveness from one’s family, friends, or neighbors. Like physical housecleaning, spiritual housekeeping is best done sooner rather than later and with a whole-hearted effort. Confessing together helps us to acknowledge that none of us is any worse or any better than the other, especially before the One who Made All Things.

Gracious God, you are the source of all that is, was, and ever will be. We give you thanks for making one human family of all the peoples of the earth. We praise you for creating a wonderful diversity of cultures.

Enrich our lives by ever-widening circles of fellowship

and show us your presence in those who differ most from us.

From the bondage of racism that denies the humanity of people based on their skin color or ancestry,

God, we want to be free!

From the lies of history that imply a hierarchy between cultures, classes, or genders,

God, we want to be free!

From the grip of silence in the face of white supremacy, bigotry, and false equivalencies,

God, we want to be free!

We humbly ask for forgiveness for how we have failed to acknowledge the presence and work of your wisdom.

Be merciful to us, O God!

We humbly ask forgiveness for our silence when we should have spoken, our nervous laughter in times of discomfort, and our doubling down in wrong behavior because we are afraid of change.

Be merciful to us, O God!

We humbly ask forgiveness for the history of racism, religious discrimination, and injustice that many of us have benefited from and that most of us have perpetuated in intentional and unintentional ways.

Be merciful to us, O God!

Guide us in the work of reconciliation, relinquishing of privilege, and lifting up of all people.

God of grace, unite us to your will!

Guide us toward relationships and fellowships that build peace, promote justice, and reward humility.

God of grace, unite us to your will!

Guide us toward the words and actions that will resist racism and hatred and will dismantle their false power.

God of grace, unite us to your will!

The Time is Now (Sermon Audio)

Sermon for Sunday, August 13

Decolonize16: First Debrief

As soon as the #decolonizeLutheranism hashtag began to be used on Facebook and Twitter, I was in and involved. It was like jumping into a river and realizing that I could swim better than I thought I

Candle station for prayer at conference

could. The impetus behind the movement is to separate North American Lutheranism from being considered interchangeable with Mid-Western, primarily imported Scandinavian, culture and cuisine. By "decolonizing" or separating Lutheranism from that context, the people in and behind (and ahead of) the movement hope to release and refine our theological and biblical commitments toward inclusion, welcome, understanding, and embracing the height and depth and breadth of the love of God in the world.

The initial conference of this movement was on 10/23/16 at the Lutheran School of Theology in Chicago. It's a long way to for an Alaskan, but I couldn't stay away. Once some of my friends knew I was coming, they signed up too. Thus, I had reunions, reconnections, and reformation (of the current church) all in a day. What a day.

The framework of the conference was sections of the Augsburg Confession pared with seasons of the church year. We heard small sermons or sharing and then had small groups to talk about our reactions and our thoughts. I'm still thinking about so many things, but here's my first thought:

Nice is the law and honesty is the gospel. 

Lutherans have a very specific way of thinking about the words "law" and "gospel". The law is anything, anywhere in Scripture (or in the world), that reminds and makes us glaringly aware of our need for God, God's work in Christ, and the aid of the Spirit. The gospel is the glad tidings anywhere in Scripture (or in the world) of how God is already aware of our need and is ahead of us, behind us, and within us- bringing us into the reality of our salvation through grace and the on-going truth of our sanctification.

In my small group, we talked about how people we know (including ourselves) resist the hard work of combatting racism, sexism, anti-LGBTQ behavior, and cultural appropriation without appreciation.   One person in the group asked if we could figure out how to use the framework of law and gospel as part of this work. I thought of my own work around "being honest, not good". I'm not a liar, but in general- my desire to be liked, efficient, and good means that I don't always own up to my own feelings, reactions, and perceptions.

In order to decolonize Lutheranism, we must stop the idolatry of "nice" and "good". We can no longer excuse that racist jokes are "just how so-an-so talks". We can't pretend it's okay to ask a queer couple if we could just not mention their wedding in the announcement or on the church calendar like we do for other couples. We can't ignore that there are women, people of color, and LGBTQ individuals who are gifted from God, but are ignored for call and service in this church and- if they get called- are held to a much higher and more scrutinized standard of behavior.

Nice and good behavior asks for there not to be so much fuss about this. Niceness says, "It's been that way for a long time and change is hard." Good behavior accepts being a token, being diminished, being ignored as part of what it means to be a child of God in a certain context.

No.

I said, NO.

No more.

No more "nice", No more "good".

When my therapist told me that I needed to work on "being honest and not good", I looked her in the eye and said "Honesty is not one of the fruits of the Spirit."

But are we really being kind without honesty? Does true generosity exist without honesty? Can we truly love without honesty?

In order to decolonize Lutheranism, we must begin a full-throated, full-bodied, and fully embodied embrace of honesty. We have to die to nice and good and be aware of how God is resurrecting us to honesty in Christ. We have to be willing to say what is obvious, what hurts, and what needs to be done. We have to be willing to sit with the pain of complicity, the reality of what we can and can't fix, and the emptiness of the seats of those who will refuse to do this work. We have to be willing to make changes and re-think how our work as congregations looks, sounds, and feels even before we believe it "applies" to anyone already there.

And we don't do it so that "others" will come. We do it so that we can be a church, the church, churches who are actively teaching and learning how to live and how to die in Jesus Christ. We do it because it is, honestly, the right thing to do.

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. 

Not Your Story to Tell

This was published first here at RevGalBlogPals.org.

She gripped my hand in the doorway  of the church, following the Good Friday service, “I’ve never really liked Jews.”

I had just finished decrying present-day harassment of Jews in the Ukraine and noted that we are kidding ourselves if we thought we would treat Jesus better now than he was treated then. We prayed. We grieved. I again felt the chasm between the religion of my heart (Christianity) and the religion of my blood and my ancestors (Judaism). Always the tension between betrayal and the realities for anyone of Jewish ancestry or culture, here I was, being told by a parishioner I love deeply something that amounted to, “I’ve never cared for an entire race of people [to which you belong through your mother and her parents and your grandparents].”

Gripping her hand in that doorway, I looked her in the eye and said, “Do you know any Jews?”

“No,” she admitted.

“Well, now you do.”

This story comes to mind as I watch the turmoil around Kate Breslin’s For Such a Time (Bethany House, 2014). Nominated for a 2015 RITA, For Such a Time tells the story of a blonde, blue-eyed Jewish woman who is rescued from a firing squad by a Nazi commandant and becomes his secretary. She hatches a plot to save people from the trains to Auschwitz and her uncle, Morty, foils a plan that would have killed the commandant. The commandant pressures her to kisses and into an engagement. And, in the way of magical realism, a Bible continues to appear unexpectedly and she learns to find some consolation in the New Testament, instead of in the Hebrew Scriptures of her childhood. All ends as most romances do with a happily ever after with our lovely Jewess marrying the Nazi commandant, who helped Jews escape the camp in question. Presumably, they raise lovely blonde Christian children.

I think I need to wash my hands after typing that. The to-do over this book is that many, many people- Jews and non-Jews- believe that romance between a Jewish prisoner and a Nazi commander violates any spirit of consent. In the portions of the book when Stella/Hadassah wrestles with her feelings about Aric, I was reminded of the guilt rape survivors sometimes feel when their bodies responded to the act of violation in a different way than their heads and spirits were. No matter how humane the Nazi in question was made to seem- he had the power to kill her or those she loved at any time.

This retelling of Esther misses a critical piece of the story. We never hear that Ahasuerus and Esther had a great love story because she was property, a girl more beautiful than the others who were culled from the countryside to see who would please the king. She made the best of a bad situation and, in so doing, saved her people.

For Such a Time is not the same thing. It is what I will call “supercessionism porn”, wherein the ultimate happily-ever-after for a Jew would certainly be to become a Christian. Breslin and her publisher, Bethany House, have received criticism for the book on the grounds that it violates consent at best and allows for a kind of truth of the Holocaust denial and anti-Semitism at worst. These criticisms have generated their own backlash to the backlash, with such authors as Anne Rice arguing that speaking against For Such a Time is a kind of censorship.

If one must write a romance about the Holocaust, one could write about the impossibility of one occurring between Jews in a ghetto, in a camp, or in the Russian front. One could write about two German non-Jews, who fall in love as members of the Resistance. One could write about a French, British, or American soldier or nurse rescuing non-Jews from a concentration camp (they were there) and falling in love through the healing process. Some of those stories could adequately include an aspect of Christian faith that would satisfy the audience of an inspirational novel. Any of the scenarios and a number of others allow for an equality in the relationship that would never, never be the reality between a Jewish woman and a Nazi camp commandant.

What it means to live as a Jew in modern America is to have complex feelings about history, about G-d, about Israel, and about one’s own practice. It also means, at a certain level, a wariness. No country has ever allowed us to stay, unharmed, permanently. We cannot take anything for granted. You never know when someone will say to you, “I’ve never liked Jews”. And you can’t always be sure what will follow that statement.

Arguing that anyone can write anything about anyone at any time, or else it is censorship, is the publishing equivalent of #AllLivesMatter.

Would a book about a Yazidi woman “falling in love” with her ISIS rapist be nominated for romance awards?

Would we hope for a movie based on a relationship between a police officer employed by Bull Connor and a young black woman?

Would ratings soar for a novel about a Cherokee teenager being “wooed” by the soldier escorting her family along the Trail of Tears?

Some stories belong to the people who lived them, the people who still grieve them, the people in whose bones they rest. Leave the Holocaust and its survivors alone. They’re not there as easy emotional background for your novel. If you aren’t sure, ask a Jew.

If you didn’t know any, now you do.

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/

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

To My Kindergartner

Twenty-eight years ago, my dad gave me a bath the night before I started kindergarten. I remember two baths from my dad really clearly from hundreds that he likely gave.

The first bath I remember is one in which he tried to scrub off a mole cluster on my left arm thinking was dirt. It’s still there.

The second bath was the pre-kindergarten bath. My dad told me that there might be kids in my class who looked different from me. He might have said more about that, but I don’t remember it. Then he said that there might be other people, other kids, who would say things to be mean about people who looked or seemed different. Not only was I not to join into that meanness, my father warned, but I was to stick up for kids who were singled out or picked on. If my dad heard about me doing otherwise, it would be big trouble for me.

I remember this conversation clearly because part of my personality involves playing and re-playing shoulds and should nots over and over in my head.

My own child is about to become a kindergartner. I went to kindergarten in North Carolina, in the mid-eighties, and my kindergarten teacher was black.

My son is going to kindergarten in Anchorage, Alaska in 2014. He is entering school a long way from Ferguson, Missouri and Sanford, Florida. His preschool class had children from a wide variety of backgrounds. Nevertheless, what should I say to my kindergartner-to-be on the night before school starts? What do I tell him in the wake of the Michael Brown shooting? What do I tell my white son, with two white parents, about his situation, his privileges, his responsibilities?

My darling-

You have been able to drink juice in the store, eat cookies, get balloons, and hold your toys without anyone looking askance at you or me. It’s because we’re white.

We have played on playgrounds in different neighborhoods, run through the woods, tried before paying, and been given the benefit of the doubt. It’s mostly because we’re white.

We have books with people who look like us, movies of people who sound like us, pictures of things that we do, CDs of songs we sing- none of which were hard to find. It’s because we’re white.

In the world, you will get second chances, encouragement, recommendations, and help. Even if you are shut down, something else will come about for you. It’s part of what it means to be white in America.

My darling, it is not that I don’t want these things for you. I do and I will fight for this to be your world.

I’m tell you this because I want these things for your friends too. I want these for black and Samoan and Alaska Native boys and girls who will attend school with you. I want these things for children in Missouri and Florida and Texas and California and across the country.

I want you to all have the freedom to be children, to know that community is there for you, to grow up knowing that you too contribute, are valued, matter, influence decisions for peace, safety, and a future.

In kindergarten, just like in preschool, there will be kids who don’t look like you. You won’t look like them. Their moms and dads think they are special, just like I think you are special. You are all at school to learn.

If another person- a kid or a grown-up- is not kind to a kid, if you see something that isn’t right, is scary, or unkind- you can tell me or Daddy or Nana or Uncle D. We will help you. We will believe you. We care about you and your friends.

The bigger we get, the more we learn about other people and other places. The bigger we get, the more we have to do to work together with other people. The bigger we get, the more we realize that we have run out of people to tell and the work of repairing injustice, unkindness, fear is in our hands.

That’s not your work just yet.

But that’s Mommy’s work. My work.

No, it’s not because I’m white. It’s because I’m human.

Inspired by T. Denise Anderson: http://soulascriptura.com/2014/08/watching-our-step-a-blues-for-michael-brown/

Cry, the Beloved Creation

Death stalks your beloved creation.

How long, O Lord?

Brown and black-skinned children are not valued, are afraid.

How long, O Lord?

Mothers and fathers wail in grief over fallen bodies. 

How long, O Lord?

False wars are declared, arming brothers and cousins against one another. 

How long, O Lord?

Lives trickle by, potential yet undreamed, never to be reached. 

How long, O Lord?

How long until we dare to dream something different? 

How long until we say, “Enough”? 

How long until we refuse to feed Death’s insatiable hunger, Fear’s unending drive? 

How long until we stop the machinery that allows the bodies of black Americans to be the grist that feeds money machines?

We pray for a new heaven and a new earth where righteousness and peace are at home. 

The tools, Your tools, for that are in our hands. 

Let us recognize them. Let us employ them. 

Let me join into the chorus, the drumbeat, the dance that answers, “How long?” with “No more!”

Reblogged from RevGalBlogPals.org

Remember Trayvon

Several months ago, I was reading a book to children at church. I pointed out the different skin tones of the kids in the book and asked why the children in the picture looked different. One of the children sitting across from me looked at me like I had crawled out from under a log, "Because they're people," he said.

Being "people" means having different skin tones, abilities, hair colors, tendencies, heritage.

It's great that these 3, 4, and 5-year-olds knew that. May they never forget it.

Apparently, some adults have. Or never knew it.

The stories about Trayvon Martin are breaking my heart. A teenage boy, on his way home from a store, shot to death for being people. For being black people.

There may be enough evidence within a few days or weeks to arrest the shooter, based on witness accounts. (Though, if a black man were suspected of shooting a white teenage, someone would already be under arrest.)

Or Florida's "Stand Your Ground" laws may protect the shooter, who claims he was defending himself.

I want to see outrage. I want to hear anger. I want to witness righteous foaming at the mouth on the behalf of Trayvon.

I am called to preach forgiveness, but right now not only would I not give the shooter "air in a jug", I would be likely to beat him with said jug. Remember the presumption of innocence does not mean that someone is actually innocent, just that the court treats them as such.

Then I see a racial slur directed at the president with regard to his re-election: "Don't Re-Nig in 2012". Horrible examples here.

I can't believe I just typed that, but this needs to be called out. I don't care what you like or don't like, you don't say that, print that, wear it, or stick it. Not about the president. Not about anybody.

It's bad in America for black Americans. Bad. Bad. Bad.

If your response to the sentence above is anything less than, "She's right", you're not paying attention.

The first boy I ever kissed was black. M.W. and I were practicing our multiplication tables when we were 8. We dared each other to kiss. It was chaste, dry, and quick. We went on to memorizing the sixes and no further. This is not my credential, it comes to mind when I think of Trayvon.

Trayvon was someone's first kiss. Someone's son. Someone's friend. Someone's confidante. Someone's grandchild. Someone's customer. Someone's future employee. Someone's future employer.

And all that he could have been is no more because of a trigger happy bigot who couldn't see past the color of Trayvon's skin. Which was black.

In the Civil Rights era, one could encourage by offering, "Remember the Little Rock 9", "Think of Rosa Parks", "Don't forget the Birmingham 4", or "Selma".

If we cannot rise to this occasion by an appeal for justice and neighbor love in Sanford, Florida and across the nation, let us cry out for equality in the name of Trayvon. Remember Trayvon.

Put it in your window. Say it in the prayers at your church. Put it in your Facebook status. Email one Florida politician a day until you've gotten to the whole delegation, state and federal. Pray for justice. Pray with your hands, your feet, your dollars, your vote, and, lastly, with your words to God.

If you are not angry enough to speak out for Trayvon, no matter where you live, you cannot delude yourself into thinking that you have been any different than the crowd that will sing "Hosanna" and "Crucify Him" with the same breath.

Yes, I just said that.

If not you, who?

Remember Trayvon. Who died for being black. Who died for being people.