At my last congregation, I often preached at a small Saturday evening service in our chapel. I came to call it affectionately, the "early edition." One of the occasional attendees was a nice older woman who I came to know pretty well. Sometimes she came early and we had an opportunity to visit.
Did I mention she is very nice? She liked my sermons. She said I gave a good "Lutheran" sermon. Sometimes she worshipped with the Methodists on Sunday, but she was a Lutheran at heart. I think we have pretty awesome theology, what with radical grace and the reality of brokenness and the paradox of being a saint and a sinner at the same time, so I would take this as a compliment, although every once in awhile, I am not so sure.
A few years ago, well, 2008, to be exact, I remember a conversation I had with her, either right before or right after the worship service. I remember because it was about the presidential election, and she was afraid. Very afraid. She was afraid that Barack Obama would become president. She was afraid of what would happen if he became president, and she was also afraid of what would happen if he did not become president, because if he lost, she was sure that "the blacks would riot", and terrible, terrible things would happen.
I could tell that she was genuinely afraid, which made me sad.
I like to think that I said something to her. After all, I had just read a book that traced the history of race riots back to the early part of the last century. Growing up, I remember hearing about Los Angeles, and Detroit. But I never knew about Tulsa, or Florida, or all of the other places where whites rioted and destroyed African American Communities.
I like to think that I said something to her, but whatever it is, I am certain it was not awesome. It was not enough. I can blame the fact that I was too shocked to have a cogent response. But I think it was an excuse.
A number of years later, I was preaching the "early edition" again. My sermon topic was prayer. I used an illustration from a book I had purchased when my husband and I visited Martin Luther King Jr's home in Atlanta. The book was called "No Turning Back", and was about a white seminarian who worked with Martin Luther King Sr. in the early days of the civil rights movement. There was a lovely story about the white seminarian learning to pray from one of the African American teenagers in the congregation. As a sideline, I got to say something about the struggle for civil rights.
My friend, the occasional visitor, was there again that evening. I had a conversation with her about the book, and about our visit to Atlanta.
She told me that she had been to the South once, long ago, as a young woman. She loved it. She loved the people there. In the summer, she told me that they felt so safe that they could sleep out on the porches at night.
She felt so safe back then. You know, during segregation.
My heart sank, a little. I like to think that I said something this time. I think it did. But in my heart of hearts, I know it was not awesome, what I said. If I had said something awesome, I would have remembered.
I also knew then that whatever I thought I was saying in my sermons, when I thought I was being brave, when I thought I was communicating clearly: I wasn't.
Racism doesn't just live in the Ku Klux Klan, or in segregation, or in hateful words of violence. It doesn't just live in the fear of this nice woman, but in me, and every one of us who have not, for some reason or another, spoken out clearly.
Maybe even more.
Showing posts with label racism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label racism. Show all posts
Friday, August 7, 2015
Thursday, July 9, 2015
Fear Itself
I remember visiting an older woman in her home. It was early in my ministry. She lived just a couple of blocks from the church but had been inactive for awhile. We didn't know why. It was one of my jobs to get re-connected with her.
We had a good visit and communion. We talked about a lot of things, most of which I do not remember any longer. We talked about the new development that might go in, and the probably would have to move, but that there were not any good options for retired people moving out of their homes to stay in this community.
At one point in the conversation (I no longer remember the context, but perhaps because "the neighborhood is changing") she said, "I used to be okay with black men, but then a black man robbed me, and now I don't trust them any more."
Those were not her exact words, but that was the general gist of it.
I remember as well, that my first instinct was to say, "I understand." My first instinct was to feel sad that she had that experience, and to sympathize.
It was not until sometime later, after I had gone home, that I thought something else.
I thought: I can't imagine anyone making that sentence this way, "I used to be okay with white men, but a white man robbed me, and now I don't trust them any more." Well, I suppose someone could make that sentence, but they would get a lot of pushback on it.
If you have a bad experience with a someone in the dominant culture, someone whose skin is fair, someone who we call "white," you can't get away with being afraid of everyone else who resembles that person.
As well, if you are a white person, you assume that people will judge you as an individual, not as a member of a group. And if people dare to characterize you or stereotype you or make assumptions about you, you have a lot of venues for righteous indignation.
I think about the nine people who were praying at Mother Emanuel in Charleston. They had every right to be afraid of that young man who came to the Bible study. In fact, they should have been afraid of him. Maybe they should have locked their doors and politely told him 'no.'
But they didn't. They didn't act out of legitimate fear. They didn't treat him as a representative of a race that had harmed them over and over again. Instead, they treated him like a person, like a child of God.
He did not return the favor.
The realization drives me to silence.
We had a good visit and communion. We talked about a lot of things, most of which I do not remember any longer. We talked about the new development that might go in, and the probably would have to move, but that there were not any good options for retired people moving out of their homes to stay in this community.
At one point in the conversation (I no longer remember the context, but perhaps because "the neighborhood is changing") she said, "I used to be okay with black men, but then a black man robbed me, and now I don't trust them any more."
Those were not her exact words, but that was the general gist of it.
I remember as well, that my first instinct was to say, "I understand." My first instinct was to feel sad that she had that experience, and to sympathize.
It was not until sometime later, after I had gone home, that I thought something else.
I thought: I can't imagine anyone making that sentence this way, "I used to be okay with white men, but a white man robbed me, and now I don't trust them any more." Well, I suppose someone could make that sentence, but they would get a lot of pushback on it.
If you have a bad experience with a someone in the dominant culture, someone whose skin is fair, someone who we call "white," you can't get away with being afraid of everyone else who resembles that person.
As well, if you are a white person, you assume that people will judge you as an individual, not as a member of a group. And if people dare to characterize you or stereotype you or make assumptions about you, you have a lot of venues for righteous indignation.
I think about the nine people who were praying at Mother Emanuel in Charleston. They had every right to be afraid of that young man who came to the Bible study. In fact, they should have been afraid of him. Maybe they should have locked their doors and politely told him 'no.'
But they didn't. They didn't act out of legitimate fear. They didn't treat him as a representative of a race that had harmed them over and over again. Instead, they treated him like a person, like a child of God.
He did not return the favor.
The realization drives me to silence.
Thursday, March 12, 2015
Building Trust
I was meeting with a small group of adults who were dreaming about, and hoping for the future of adult faith formation in our congregation. What did we want faith formation to look like? What did we hope to accomplish in the life of adults?
It is called "strategic planning", but I also call it hoping. I call it sharing stories. We started by sharing stories of moments of faith formation in our lives, things that picqued our curiosity, made us grow. One person shared the importance of witnessing an adult baptism. Another person told about shepherding youth through writing faith statements, and how that helped her consider how she would speak of her own faith. Another person shared faith retreat weekends, and how that intentional time together helped their whole family.
There were just seven of us around the table. We had considered the purpose and outcomes we desired, and now we were honing in on some values that were important to us. One value came up again and again, that we want to be a safe place where people can bring their questions, the questions and doubts of faith. We don't want faith formation simply to be a place where people find answers, but a place where people wrestle, can speak up about the things they don't know, the things they might never know. They were going beyond information, venturing forth to the deeper waters of formation.
But at the same time were were passionate, we realized that we were stuck.
Someone shared about his daughter's experience in a class at college, where they discussed deep issues of faith and community: abortion, racism, poverty, and many other areas where faith and life meet. He said that these conversations were transforming to his daughter's faith. And someone else said that we should be able to talk about these things in church. The church is a sanctuary, that is, a safe place, where we can bring our true selves and be assured of God's grace and forgiveness.
There was a deep deep pause. The word "should" hung in the air, as we realized the gulf between our ideals and where we are. And we realized that one of our first tasks, if we want to become a community safe for questions, was to inch along toward becoming that place that we desire to be: a sanctuary, a safe place for questions, for the doubters and believers.
How do we make it so?
I think we can only do this by practicing, and that is what makes it so hard, because we will make mistakes, and there will be some people who are too wounded to try. We can only do this by practicing, by beginning to have the conversations, practicing grace with one another. I think there are ways we can lay some ground rules as we begin, and hope that people trust enough to engage with us. We can lay some ground rules about how we listen, and how we receive each other's stories, about not having to agree with one another to listen.
And then we need to learn to practice forgiveness, which is a part of trust.
It is a great vision and goal that we have identified: to be a safe place for questions. We will never fully accomplish it, in this life. But I like to think that when we stand before the throne of the Lamb, we will stand there with the choirs and the feast prepared, and even our questions will find a home.
It is called "strategic planning", but I also call it hoping. I call it sharing stories. We started by sharing stories of moments of faith formation in our lives, things that picqued our curiosity, made us grow. One person shared the importance of witnessing an adult baptism. Another person told about shepherding youth through writing faith statements, and how that helped her consider how she would speak of her own faith. Another person shared faith retreat weekends, and how that intentional time together helped their whole family.
There were just seven of us around the table. We had considered the purpose and outcomes we desired, and now we were honing in on some values that were important to us. One value came up again and again, that we want to be a safe place where people can bring their questions, the questions and doubts of faith. We don't want faith formation simply to be a place where people find answers, but a place where people wrestle, can speak up about the things they don't know, the things they might never know. They were going beyond information, venturing forth to the deeper waters of formation.
But at the same time were were passionate, we realized that we were stuck.
Someone shared about his daughter's experience in a class at college, where they discussed deep issues of faith and community: abortion, racism, poverty, and many other areas where faith and life meet. He said that these conversations were transforming to his daughter's faith. And someone else said that we should be able to talk about these things in church. The church is a sanctuary, that is, a safe place, where we can bring our true selves and be assured of God's grace and forgiveness.
There was a deep deep pause. The word "should" hung in the air, as we realized the gulf between our ideals and where we are. And we realized that one of our first tasks, if we want to become a community safe for questions, was to inch along toward becoming that place that we desire to be: a sanctuary, a safe place for questions, for the doubters and believers.
How do we make it so?
I think we can only do this by practicing, and that is what makes it so hard, because we will make mistakes, and there will be some people who are too wounded to try. We can only do this by practicing, by beginning to have the conversations, practicing grace with one another. I think there are ways we can lay some ground rules as we begin, and hope that people trust enough to engage with us. We can lay some ground rules about how we listen, and how we receive each other's stories, about not having to agree with one another to listen.
And then we need to learn to practice forgiveness, which is a part of trust.
It is a great vision and goal that we have identified: to be a safe place for questions. We will never fully accomplish it, in this life. But I like to think that when we stand before the throne of the Lamb, we will stand there with the choirs and the feast prepared, and even our questions will find a home.
Saturday, August 16, 2014
Saturday Night: Trying to Figure out What to Say
This week I have been filled up with bad news. Filled to the brim with sadness, with violence, with despair. I keep reading stories about police violence and racism, about the despair of being hunted down because of your religion, about death by depression, about pain that does not go away.
And I want to say something. I know God wants me to say something, too. I am a preacher, and one of my jobs is to preach light in the darkness. I want to point to God, and say, despite everything, God has not absconded with the goods.
Not only that, there have been many essays written this week admonishing us (me) to Say Something. I do take it personally. I feel like they are talking directly to me, even though I am not preaching this weekend. They are saying: Put on your Big Girl Pants and Get Out There and Preach. Preach the reality of the world, and God's fierce presence in it.
This is where I started:
Sometimes I am rendered
speechless
at the world.
just at the time
when I think the world
demands a word.
just at the time
when I think the world
demands a word.
Tonight I am not in Ferguson, Missouri.
I am not fleeing persecution in Iraq.
I am not at the border where children wait.
I am not in Gaza, not in Israel, not in Syria.
I do not know the deep darkness of depression
from the inside out.
I am not fleeing persecution in Iraq.
I am not at the border where children wait.
I am not in Gaza, not in Israel, not in Syria.
I do not know the deep darkness of depression
from the inside out.
Lord, give me ears to hear
in humility
the stories of those who are there,
who live injustice,
who carry fear,
who long for life.
in humility
the stories of those who are there,
who live injustice,
who carry fear,
who long for life.
Help me bear witness
when the world demands
a word
and I am speechless.
when the world demands
a word
and I am speechless.
Lord, make me an instrument
of your peace.
of your peace.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Faith and (Non)Fiction
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For the past several years, I have held a monthly book study at my congregation, called "Faith and Fiction." I'm an English major, and the book club title came from my conviction that inside every really good story is a faith story of some kind, either overt or subliminal. Great literature covers all of the theological questions: redemption, epiphanies, sin, suffering and brokenness, forgiveness -- you name it.Rarely have we ventured outside of the fiction genres (although we have read a handful of memoirs). We've read some classics, children's books and a couple of mysteries as well. But this month we read a piece of science writing: The Immortal life of Henrietta Lacks.
To be fair, "Henrietta" is not just science writing -- it's also the story of Henrietta Lacks, her history and her family. But, also to be fair, it's not fiction, either. And though the book came highly recommended, it met with mixed reviews. Some people thought that the science writing was dry; they were interested in the story of Henrietta's family, didn't find some other parts of the story awfully compelling. Others were fascinated by the science, the history and the family's story. Some considered the book a window to racism and poverty as well as the development of scientific breakthroughs.
Near the close of the conversation, one woman held up her book and said, "What does this have to do with 'Faith and Fiction'? It was a fair question, given that we had gone off-genre, so to speak; we weren't anywhere near fiction. But what about faith?
The author is pretty open about her lack of religious faith; we all thought that by the end of the book, she at least grew to appreciate the faith that sustained the Lacks family. And we admitted that faith played a large role in the book, especially in how the family made peace with what had happened to their mother, and that somehow, God had used her cells for a greater purpose, to heal people and to save lives. They were able to let go of their anger and see a wider purpose in Henrietta's life, and in their lives. Especially, Henrietta's daughter Deborah, when she died, seemed to have found a peace which came both from finding out more about her mother, and also from finding out about the good that her mother's cells had done.
As for me, there is one more part of this book, not overtly connected to faith, that gave me pause, and made me think about faith. And that is the story of the author of the book, Rebecca Skloot. She chronicles not only the story of Henrietta's cells, and the story of Henrietta's life, but she also her own journey to get to know the Lacks family. I caught myself several times thinking about the patience she had to have in order to get this story, to get to know and interview the family, to gain their trust. The Lacks family did not trust people; but Rebecca Skloot did not give up. She was tenacious. And she did gain the trust of the Lacks family. Maybe they could see that she really did care about them, and was not just interested in using them.
I caught myself thinking about the patience and tenacity of God in search of us; about our ongoing lack of trust in God's purposes (sometimes justifiable, I'll admit). I caught myself thinking as well about the mission of the church. What is missing from most evangelism efforts, I think, is not a better method or strategy. What is missing is tenacity, the patience necessary to gain people's trust, the conviction that what we have to share is really that life-giving that we need to share it.
What is missing, at least most of the time, is that kind of love.
So, I'll remember not only Henrietta Lacks, but also Rebecca Skloot, who wanted the world to hear this story, and who loved Henrietta's family.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Prayer and Justice
I'm behind, I'll admit it. I haven't been preaching much lately, and I've had a little mini-vacation, to boot. So, instead of thinking about this Sunday's readings, I'm thinking back to last Sunday.We are in Stewardship season already in our congregation, so we haven't been preaching on the texts. We've been talking about generosity and giving and why we should pledge and our congregation's mission and ministry.
But I caught myself listening to the texts, and especially the gospel, with special interest on Sunday. I listened to myself reading the story about the unjust judge and the persistent widow in light of our visit to the Martin Luther King Center last week. We toured the old Sweet Auburn neighborhood, the house where Rev. King was born and raised, checked out the exhibits about the history of the civil rights movement. (Among other tidbits, I learned that, as a child, Martin hated doing the dishes.)
At the gift shop, I bought a book, No Turning Back: My Summer with Daddy King
. The book was written by an Episcopal priest called Gurdon Brewster. I had read a review in the Christian Century magazine about the book, so I looked for that one in particular. I ended up reading the whole book on the plane home.
In the summer of 1960, Gurdon Brewster was a seminary student in New York who spent the summer working with Martin Luther King Sr. and his son at Ebenezer Baptist. He worked with the youth group at Ebenezer, and tried to put together some special events for integrated youth groups. He had a couple of successes and a lot of setbacks, and some close calls.
He also learned to pray.
When he first got to Ebenezer, he had never said a prayer out loud, except for those written in the Book of Common Prayer. He relays his fear of speaking, his stilted language, and his progress in prayer as he gains more and more experience throughout the summer. In particular, he tells the story of a young teenager who is in the hospital, dying of an unknown disease. It is as he prays for and with her, that he begins to pray intimately, as if he were in conversation with God. This dying young girl teaches him how to pray.
Prayer and Justice.
I don't know about you, but for some reason I rarely think about them in the same sentence, or even the same breath. My friends who are passionate about social justice: I don't think of them as being passionate about prayer. Social justice is Doing Something, and prayer is, well, isn't prayer just the opposite of Doing Something?
On the other hand, the people I know who are passionate about prayer, for the most part look at me blankly when I talk about social justice.
Prayer and justice. Those were the two things that Gurdon Brewster learned from his summer with Daddy King.
And, as I listened to the gospel reading on Sunday, it seemed to me that these are more connected than I had thought before. Is the parable about the widow beating on the door of the unjust judge about persistent prayer? Or is it about seeking justice?
Yes. I think the answer is yes.
Persistent prayer and seeking justice: both of them, it seems to me involve struggle, involve wrestling, involve honest questioning. When we come to God in prayer, we learn to speak honestly, to ask questions, to persist despite failure, despite silence. And when we persist in seeking justice, we also struggle, become more honest with God and with others and with ourselves, and persist despite failure.
In both cases, we persist because, somehow, we have learned to trust God. We believe that God is just, that ultimately, God is on the side of healing, or reconciliation, of the poor being lifted up and the silent finding a voice. I don't know why we keep believing it, sometimes, but we do. There's so much failure, so much silence, so much injustice, so much death -- except for that strange story that intrigues us, that we keep coming back to, you know the one: about the Son of man rising on the third day. So, despite ourselves, we keep praying. Or we keep seeking justice. But usually, not both. Why not?
Prayer and justice. If we put them together more often, what an explosion the world would hear.
In the meantime, the question remains: "When the Son of man appears, will he find faith on earth?"
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
How I'm Doing, Reading-Wise
First, I finished Nineteen Minutes. (7) This was our February book club offering. It's one of Jodi Picoult's many novels, and it offers a fictional account of a school shooting. In the novel, the boy who becomes the shooter is bullied terribly. He hear his point of view, as well as the point of view of a young woman who had been his only friend, and both parents. When I first started reading, I was immediately skeptical, because it wasn't that long ago that the book Columbine came out, and I read excepts. The excerpts revealed that the two boys had not been bullied; this was not the cause of Columbine. But there is such a thing as bullying in schools, and despite my skepticism, I was still drawn into Picoult's story. Now, I see that the book Columbine is out in paperback. I picked it up off of the shelf a couple of times....
(8) I read our March book club book, Olive Kittridge, while on vacation. We are discussing "Olive" tomorrow night at my book club meeting, so I'll save comments for afterwards.
(9) I read The Help on vacation as well. This is a civil-rights story of a young woman who wants to be a writer, and two african-american maids ("the Help") who tell their stories about what it's like to work for white families, raise their babies, be a part of their lives, but also to be treated like 2nd class citizens. I had conflicting feelings about this one; in part, I thought it was well-written, and there are things it made me think about in my own life, about what stories I might need to tell, and about who has encouraged me. But I also was aware of the fact that, at least in part, it was a white woman telling the stories of black women, and I wondered about that. I want to know how this book is received in the African American community as well. More on this later.
(10) Transforming Congregational Culture, by Anthony Robinson. Lots to think about regarding how to lead a congregation -- will post more with quotes soon...
I've got more than a few books on the "interested" list right now. So many people have told me I "have to" read Walter Bruggemann's "The Prophetic Imagination" that I guess I really have to! Our April book club book is "The Book Thief." I have many books that I am pining after, but I don't want to clutter up the house any more than it is already cluttered, so I am pining after a "Nook" as well.
(8) I read our March book club book, Olive Kittridge, while on vacation. We are discussing "Olive" tomorrow night at my book club meeting, so I'll save comments for afterwards.
(9) I read The Help on vacation as well. This is a civil-rights story of a young woman who wants to be a writer, and two african-american maids ("the Help") who tell their stories about what it's like to work for white families, raise their babies, be a part of their lives, but also to be treated like 2nd class citizens. I had conflicting feelings about this one; in part, I thought it was well-written, and there are things it made me think about in my own life, about what stories I might need to tell, and about who has encouraged me. But I also was aware of the fact that, at least in part, it was a white woman telling the stories of black women, and I wondered about that. I want to know how this book is received in the African American community as well. More on this later.
(10) Transforming Congregational Culture, by Anthony Robinson. Lots to think about regarding how to lead a congregation -- will post more with quotes soon...
I've got more than a few books on the "interested" list right now. So many people have told me I "have to" read Walter Bruggemann's "The Prophetic Imagination" that I guess I really have to! Our April book club book is "The Book Thief." I have many books that I am pining after, but I don't want to clutter up the house any more than it is already cluttered, so I am pining after a "Nook" as well.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
I have a lot on my mind....
...things like: I'm not really sure that it was so awful that Sonia Sotomayor said that she thought that sometimes a wise Latina might make a better decision than a white male. Everyone is having conniption fits about it, thinking that she is being biased, and this shows a particular mentality, you know, "reverse discrimination", or even "racism." (I'm putting "racism" in quotes, because it's my understanding that while anyone can be prejudiced, racism has to do with the overt and assumed power of the dominant class over minorities.)
I'm thinking also that for so long it was assumed that "white male" was THE norm, and that twelve white men could be considered "a jury of your peers", for, say, a woman, a black man in the South, or any minority. Please, also, let's not forget that there was a time when only white men could serve on juries. Perhaps, as Ms. Sotomayer has said, it was a poorly worded sentence.
I'm just going to go on record that I think that sometimes a wise Latina would actually make a fairer decision than a white male.
So Pentecost, the third major festival of the church year, every bit as important as Christmas and Easter, almost always takes place in the summer, and just doesn't get as much pizzazz. No midnight services with candles, no special carols, no "Pentecost dinners" with the whole family coming over. We did have a choir at 10:00 this year, and the Senior Pastor's children's message was a stroke of genius. He had a children's toy, it looked like some kind of a plastic toy air pump with a plastic rocket attached to it, and he had the kids feel the little burst of air when he squeezed the pump. Then he put the pump on the ground and launched the rocket in to the air. I didn't say this, but I thought, "maybe we should have done this on Ascension." Bad me. Bad me.
I also thought of the line from Annie Dillard's book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (and I don't have the exact citation) where she said that if we really understood what was going on at worship, what we were praying for, we'd all be wearing pith helmets.
I'm still thinking about whether I will post my Pentecost sermon. I'm thinking so many Pentecost-al thoughts lately, and they did not all get into the sermon. In fact, most of them didn't. I thought about the Service of the Word at my Synod Assembly on Saturday, presented by Bread of Life Lutheran Church, the only Deaf Congregation in the ELCA. Did you know that 90% of deaf people are unchurched? They long ago got the message that the church considered them defective, and that somehow their disability was the result of something they did wrong. I had no idea. But Pentecost is all about the Spirit widening our circle, telling us that the love of God is bigger and wider than all of our categories and all of our prejudices and all of the barriers we can erect.
Once upon a time there was a funeral for a grandpa. At the visitation, grandma and children and grandchildren were there, including two granddaughters. The older was was eight years old. She had something she wanted to put into her grandfather's casket. It was a letter.
It was not a letter to him. It was a letter that she wanted her grandfather to deliver to someone else. She wanted her grandfather, when he got to heaven, to deliver this letter to her other grandmother, her mother's mother.
This grandmother had also died recently. This grandmother also had lived in Korea.
Her grandfather and grandmother had never met. They didn't speak the same language. They lived on the other side of the world from one another. But this 8 year old girl was sure that in heaven they would meet, and would know each other, and would be able to communicate.
Is this a vision? I think this is a vision, and not just of heaven, but of the Kingdom of God, the kind of world God is bringing to be. It's a vision of barriers of culture and language and time and place being broken down, and replaced with a vision of the wide wide love of God
"Your sons and your daughters shall prophesy...."
I'm thinking also that for so long it was assumed that "white male" was THE norm, and that twelve white men could be considered "a jury of your peers", for, say, a woman, a black man in the South, or any minority. Please, also, let's not forget that there was a time when only white men could serve on juries. Perhaps, as Ms. Sotomayer has said, it was a poorly worded sentence.
I'm just going to go on record that I think that sometimes a wise Latina would actually make a fairer decision than a white male.
***
So Pentecost, the third major festival of the church year, every bit as important as Christmas and Easter, almost always takes place in the summer, and just doesn't get as much pizzazz. No midnight services with candles, no special carols, no "Pentecost dinners" with the whole family coming over. We did have a choir at 10:00 this year, and the Senior Pastor's children's message was a stroke of genius. He had a children's toy, it looked like some kind of a plastic toy air pump with a plastic rocket attached to it, and he had the kids feel the little burst of air when he squeezed the pump. Then he put the pump on the ground and launched the rocket in to the air. I didn't say this, but I thought, "maybe we should have done this on Ascension." Bad me. Bad me.
I also thought of the line from Annie Dillard's book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (and I don't have the exact citation) where she said that if we really understood what was going on at worship, what we were praying for, we'd all be wearing pith helmets.
***
I'm still thinking about whether I will post my Pentecost sermon. I'm thinking so many Pentecost-al thoughts lately, and they did not all get into the sermon. In fact, most of them didn't. I thought about the Service of the Word at my Synod Assembly on Saturday, presented by Bread of Life Lutheran Church, the only Deaf Congregation in the ELCA. Did you know that 90% of deaf people are unchurched? They long ago got the message that the church considered them defective, and that somehow their disability was the result of something they did wrong. I had no idea. But Pentecost is all about the Spirit widening our circle, telling us that the love of God is bigger and wider than all of our categories and all of our prejudices and all of the barriers we can erect.
***
Here's a story:Once upon a time there was a funeral for a grandpa. At the visitation, grandma and children and grandchildren were there, including two granddaughters. The older was was eight years old. She had something she wanted to put into her grandfather's casket. It was a letter.
It was not a letter to him. It was a letter that she wanted her grandfather to deliver to someone else. She wanted her grandfather, when he got to heaven, to deliver this letter to her other grandmother, her mother's mother.
This grandmother had also died recently. This grandmother also had lived in Korea.
Her grandfather and grandmother had never met. They didn't speak the same language. They lived on the other side of the world from one another. But this 8 year old girl was sure that in heaven they would meet, and would know each other, and would be able to communicate.
Is this a vision? I think this is a vision, and not just of heaven, but of the Kingdom of God, the kind of world God is bringing to be. It's a vision of barriers of culture and language and time and place being broken down, and replaced with a vision of the wide wide love of God
"Your sons and your daughters shall prophesy...."
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
What We See
When I was in about the 3rd or 4th grade, I remember getting a school assignment at about this time of year (nearing Thanksgiving, that is) to write an essay about the First Americans. I remember procrastinating for awhile, thinking for awhile, and finally getting out our set of Golden Encyclopedias to find out all I could about the Pilgrims. I loved to write, even then, and felt proud of my work.
A few days later, our teacher held up just one of our essays for special mention. But it wasn't my essay. It was one of my classmate's, a girl who lived just down the street from me. She and she alone had written her essay, not about the Pilgrims, but about Native Americans.
****
A long time later, I lived in Japan. First I lived there as a missionary and teacher of English. Later I studied some Japanese at a college in Tokyo. I used to like to go to the campus library and sit in a big chair and read newspapers from the United States.
One Sunday I read with interest an article in the Sunday New York Times called "American Survivors of the Atomic Bomb." The article was an in-depth exploration of the fates of a handful of prisoners of war who were in Hiroshima on August 6th. I hadn't known that there were any American prisoners in Japan at the time, and drank in every aspect of the long, detailed article.
A week later I read the letters to the editor. Many letters thought that the in-depth article was quite illuminating. But one I have remembered for all these years. This letter-writer took the article to task for not mentioning the many Japanese-Americans who happened to be in Japan when the war broke out. After the declaration of war, they were not able to return to the United States. Some of them had been victims of the atomic bomb, too. Why were their stories not researched?
****
A number of years ago I was working at a church in a large Western city. Our congregation was in a central-city, diverse location: large mansions and poor neighborhoods within a few blocks in different directions. Our church held a food pantry, a mental-health center, congregate dining for seniors, and a variety of other ministries. However, we were not a terribly diverse congregation.
One Sunday morning an African American woman and her two adult sons walked into our Sunday worship service. Though nobody talked about it at the time, we discovered later that several of us were thinking I wonder if they will be able to follow the liturgy.
Turns out that they knew it by heart.
****
So much of what we believe depends on what we see -- or what we choose to see.
A few days later, our teacher held up just one of our essays for special mention. But it wasn't my essay. It was one of my classmate's, a girl who lived just down the street from me. She and she alone had written her essay, not about the Pilgrims, but about Native Americans.
****
A long time later, I lived in Japan. First I lived there as a missionary and teacher of English. Later I studied some Japanese at a college in Tokyo. I used to like to go to the campus library and sit in a big chair and read newspapers from the United States.
One Sunday I read with interest an article in the Sunday New York Times called "American Survivors of the Atomic Bomb." The article was an in-depth exploration of the fates of a handful of prisoners of war who were in Hiroshima on August 6th. I hadn't known that there were any American prisoners in Japan at the time, and drank in every aspect of the long, detailed article.
A week later I read the letters to the editor. Many letters thought that the in-depth article was quite illuminating. But one I have remembered for all these years. This letter-writer took the article to task for not mentioning the many Japanese-Americans who happened to be in Japan when the war broke out. After the declaration of war, they were not able to return to the United States. Some of them had been victims of the atomic bomb, too. Why were their stories not researched?
****
A number of years ago I was working at a church in a large Western city. Our congregation was in a central-city, diverse location: large mansions and poor neighborhoods within a few blocks in different directions. Our church held a food pantry, a mental-health center, congregate dining for seniors, and a variety of other ministries. However, we were not a terribly diverse congregation.
One Sunday morning an African American woman and her two adult sons walked into our Sunday worship service. Though nobody talked about it at the time, we discovered later that several of us were thinking I wonder if they will be able to follow the liturgy.
Turns out that they knew it by heart.
****
So much of what we believe depends on what we see -- or what we choose to see.
Monday, September 15, 2008
This is all I am going to say about it
Last February, I wrote a post about sexism and racism in politics. I think the basic message remains.
I respect women in leadership for their accomplishments. But, especiallly in politics, that doesn't mean that I have to agree with them. And I don' t think that is sexist. So, I can react with respect, and say, "This person is a talented and astute politician," but also, ask the question, "Does this person share my values?" I would afford that respect and that questioning to men and to women.
....and that's all I'm going to say about it.
I respect women in leadership for their accomplishments. But, especiallly in politics, that doesn't mean that I have to agree with them. And I don' t think that is sexist. So, I can react with respect, and say, "This person is a talented and astute politician," but also, ask the question, "Does this person share my values?" I would afford that respect and that questioning to men and to women.
....and that's all I'm going to say about it.
Monday, June 30, 2008
An email I received
Someone forwarded the email seen below to me the other day. Usually I ignore most of these forwarded emails, but, having met recently with the principal of our middle school, who happens to be African American, I decided to reply to this one.
The principal told us that "Minnesota Nice" is part of what makes it harder to combat racism than in the south. He said if people hear something they disagree with, they will often not say anything, or leave the room. He said we need to do more than that.
Here's the email:
Proud To Be White
Someone finally said it.
How many are actually paying attention to this?
There are African Americans,
Mexican Americans,
Asian Americans,
Arab Americans,
Native Americans, etc.
.....And then there are just -
Americans.
You pass me on the street
and sneer in my direction.
You Call me 'White boy,'
'Cracker,' 'Honkey,'
'Whitey,' 'Caveman,'
.....And that's OK.
But when I call you Nigger,
Kike, Towel head,
Sand-nigger, Camel Jockey,
Beaner, Gook, or Chink,
.....You call me a racist.
You say that whites commit a lot
of violence against you,
so why are the ghettos the most
dangerous places to live?
You have the United Negro College Fund.
You have Hispanic History Month.
You have Martin Luther King Day.
You have Asian History Month.
You have Black History Month.
You have Cesar Chavez Day.
You have Ma'uled Al-Nabi.
You have Yom Hashoah.
You have Kawanza.
You have the NAACP.
And you have BET.
If we had WET
(White Entertainment Television)
.....We'd be racists.
If we had a White Pride Day
.....You would call us racists.
If we had White History Month
.....We'd be racists.
If we had any organization for only whites
to 'advance' OUR lives,
.....We'd be racists.
We have a Hispanic Chamber of Commerce,
a Black Chamber of Commerce,
and then we just have the plain
Chamber of Commerce.
Wonder who pays for that?
If we had a college fund that only gave
white students scholarships
.....You know we'd be racists.
There are over 60 openly-proclaimed
Black-only Colleges in the US,
yet if there were 'White-only Colleges'
.....THAT would be a racist college.
In the Million-Man March,
you believed that you were
marching for your race and rights.
If we marched for our race and rights,
.....You would call us racists.
You are proud to be black,
brown, yellow and red,
and you're not afraid to announce it.
But when we announce our white pride
.....You call us racists.
You rob us,
carjack us,
and shoot at us.
But, when a white police officer
shoots a black gang member
or beats up a black drug-dealer
who is running from the LAW and
posing a threat to ALL of society
.....You call him a racist.
I am proud.
.....But, you call me a racist.
Why is it that only
whites
can be racists?
There is nothing improper about this e-mail.
Let's see which of you
are proud enough to send it on...
Here are some of the things I said:
I know you didn't write the email you forwarded to me, but I will tell you that I AM proud of my background and heritage, not simply "white" but Scandinavian-American. And my parents belong to the Swedish Institute and there is nothing racist about that. I know that my Swedish grandmother was ashamed that the Swedes, to remain neutral, sold arms to Hitler during World War II, but I told her I was proud that Sweden took in Jewish people when so many other countries were killing them. But of course, it is up to me, as an individual, to live up to the high ideals that I am proud of.
But then, I am usually judged as an individual, not primarily as a member of my race. I have never heard anyone say, "A white man cheated me, or robbed me, or held me up, so not I don't trust white men." If one white man (or white woman) does something shameful, we do not judge all white people on that, do we? That is the kind of society I want to work for.
Martin Luther King had a dream that we would one day be judged not by the color of our skin, but by the content of our character. I don't believe that is still the case.
I also wrote:
Also, while I am proud to call myself an American, I am prouder still to call myself a "child of God," which is something I did nothing to earn and has nothing to do with my race or ethnicity, the color of my skin or my class.
Though all of us can be prejudiced (blacks can be prejudiced against asians or whites or whoever), usually those of us who are white are judged as individuals -- not our race or culture. Unfortunately, that hasn't always been the case with people of color.
I do understand how it feels to be in the minority from when I lived in Japan. There is something about sticking out and knowing people see you and are watching you all the time that perhaps makes you want to band together with people like yourself sometimes. I assume that is where some of the ethnic groups' organizations came from.
Also, just as the "ladies aids" came from a time in our church history when women couldn't vote or have any power in the church, so some of the organizations for minorities (and the historic black colleges) came from a time when black people didn't have power in the wider society.
I realize that there were many parts of the email I didn't address, especially the part that begins "You rob us...." which implies that victims of crime are mostly white, and that perpetrators are mostly people of color. (in reality, victims of crime are disproportionately people of color.)
Anyway, I'm glad I responded, but I'm not entirely happy with what I wrote. What would you have said?
The principal told us that "Minnesota Nice" is part of what makes it harder to combat racism than in the south. He said if people hear something they disagree with, they will often not say anything, or leave the room. He said we need to do more than that.
Here's the email:
Proud To Be White
Someone finally said it.
How many are actually paying attention to this?
There are African Americans,
Mexican Americans,
Asian Americans,
Arab Americans,
Native Americans, etc.
.....And then there are just -
Americans.
You pass me on the street
and sneer in my direction.
You Call me 'White boy,'
'Cracker,' 'Honkey,'
'Whitey,' 'Caveman,'
.....And that's OK.
But when I call you Nigger,
Kike, Towel head,
Sand-nigger, Camel Jockey,
Beaner, Gook, or Chink,
.....You call me a racist.
You say that whites commit a lot
of violence against you,
so why are the ghettos the most
dangerous places to live?
You have the United Negro College Fund.
You have Hispanic History Month.
You have Martin Luther King Day.
You have Asian History Month.
You have Black History Month.
You have Cesar Chavez Day.
You have Ma'uled Al-Nabi.
You have Yom Hashoah.
You have Kawanza.
You have the NAACP.
And you have BET.
If we had WET
(White Entertainment Television)
.....We'd be racists.
If we had a White Pride Day
.....You would call us racists.
If we had White History Month
.....We'd be racists.
If we had any organization for only whites
to 'advance' OUR lives,
.....We'd be racists.
We have a Hispanic Chamber of Commerce,
a Black Chamber of Commerce,
and then we just have the plain
Chamber of Commerce.
Wonder who pays for that?
If we had a college fund that only gave
white students scholarships
.....You know we'd be racists.
There are over 60 openly-proclaimed
Black-only Colleges in the US,
yet if there were 'White-only Colleges'
.....THAT would be a racist college.
In the Million-Man March,
you believed that you were
marching for your race and rights.
If we marched for our race and rights,
.....You would call us racists.
You are proud to be black,
brown, yellow and red,
and you're not afraid to announce it.
But when we announce our white pride
.....You call us racists.
You rob us,
carjack us,
and shoot at us.
But, when a white police officer
shoots a black gang member
or beats up a black drug-dealer
who is running from the LAW and
posing a threat to ALL of society
.....You call him a racist.
I am proud.
.....But, you call me a racist.
Why is it that only
whites
can be racists?
There is nothing improper about this e-mail.
Let's see which of you
are proud enough to send it on...
Here are some of the things I said:
I know you didn't write the email you forwarded to me, but I will tell you that I AM proud of my background and heritage, not simply "white" but Scandinavian-American. And my parents belong to the Swedish Institute and there is nothing racist about that. I know that my Swedish grandmother was ashamed that the Swedes, to remain neutral, sold arms to Hitler during World War II, but I told her I was proud that Sweden took in Jewish people when so many other countries were killing them. But of course, it is up to me, as an individual, to live up to the high ideals that I am proud of.
But then, I am usually judged as an individual, not primarily as a member of my race. I have never heard anyone say, "A white man cheated me, or robbed me, or held me up, so not I don't trust white men." If one white man (or white woman) does something shameful, we do not judge all white people on that, do we? That is the kind of society I want to work for.
Martin Luther King had a dream that we would one day be judged not by the color of our skin, but by the content of our character. I don't believe that is still the case.
I also wrote:
Also, while I am proud to call myself an American, I am prouder still to call myself a "child of God," which is something I did nothing to earn and has nothing to do with my race or ethnicity, the color of my skin or my class.
Though all of us can be prejudiced (blacks can be prejudiced against asians or whites or whoever), usually those of us who are white are judged as individuals -- not our race or culture. Unfortunately, that hasn't always been the case with people of color.
I do understand how it feels to be in the minority from when I lived in Japan. There is something about sticking out and knowing people see you and are watching you all the time that perhaps makes you want to band together with people like yourself sometimes. I assume that is where some of the ethnic groups' organizations came from.
Also, just as the "ladies aids" came from a time in our church history when women couldn't vote or have any power in the church, so some of the organizations for minorities (and the historic black colleges) came from a time when black people didn't have power in the wider society.
I realize that there were many parts of the email I didn't address, especially the part that begins "You rob us...." which implies that victims of crime are mostly white, and that perpetrators are mostly people of color. (in reality, victims of crime are disproportionately people of color.)
Anyway, I'm glad I responded, but I'm not entirely happy with what I wrote. What would you have said?
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