When I thought I was full, God sent more. God inspired more. God provoked and instigated more. And the Love that is of God grew.
Love that is of God is big love, good love, enduring and grounded and soaring and sweeping and lyrical and quiet.
It is ferocious love that knocks-down-barriers-and-borders the I AM never made because the love that is of God refuses to be small.
Love that is of God is practical and joyful and transformative and subversive -- refusing to ever leave us be love.
Love that is of God is sufficiency and transforms into abundance when shared with another.
Love that is of God never subtracts, never diminishes, never humiliates, never erases - anyone.
Love that is of God is the antidote to lies. Love that is of God tells the healing truth, weaves and re-weaves, and braids together, and adds and multiplies and compounds love.
Love that is of God is limitless and stubborn and it never, ever dies.
That love is too big for borrowed tombs. That love swallows up death. That love shares power with the beloved to keep getting up because that love loves.
Love that is of God makes a home in all of the places and in all of the people, and in all of the stories that we would not.
Love that is of God beckons us to stretch, to be more - to see more - to want more - to pursue more - to feel more - not because we are not enough but because we are more. Love that is of God says, "Be who you are."
Love that is of God shows off, leading with a heart that delights in the giggles of children and the songs of the aged.
Love that is of God cries and weeps and storms and becomes furious and indignant at the sight of God's beloved fashioning God's own words and resources into weapons and bonds and chains and stumbling blocks for God's beloved.
Love that is of God breathes on the canvass of every night, turning up the wattage of every sparkling star assigned to lead the beloved to freedom.
Love that is of God sings.
Love that is of God searches, never sleeps, travels light, makes room, gathers chicks and stubbornly refuses to leave not nary a one behind, not nary a one out, not nary a one alone. Ever.
When we think we are full, God sends more. God inspires more. God provokes and instigates more.
And we know the love that is of God is alive among us when the love of God grows.
Image: “Three Girls Watching a Plane,” by Vivian Cherry.
No words – just a remix on W.E.B. Du Bois’ “Prayer for Persistence”
“Yet with joy – the prayer of our souls is a petition for persistence; not for the one good deed, not just for our single lives, or the one single thought – but deed upon deed, life upon life, hope upon hope, prayer upon prayer, until Day calling unto Day shall make a life worth living.”
Children deserve safety and our protection. All children. Everywhere.
I’m spending this day with my family and community. It’s not “Thanksgiving” for me – it’s “we have the day off so we are going to enjoy each other” day.
If you have children be coming to your home, it’s your responsibility to protect them. You are the designated adult so be sober.
They don’t have to hug Uncle Junior.
They don’t have to kiss Aunt Trudy.
They don’t have to let cousin Will tickle them.
They don’t have sit on Mr. Peter’s lap.
They don’t have to dance and entertain your friends.
Let their No be No.
You are the adult and it’s your responsibility to protect the children.
Watch for eyes that don’t match the smiles on their faces around certain adults and handle your responsibility to keep these children physically, emotionally, and psychologically safe.
And for the beloved little bitties who want to take you to task because “we family” or hit you with “you gon take that child’s word over mine?!” – decide real quick if it’s more important to you that they have their way or if it matters that a child is protected. Because you do have to make a choice, and your choice needs to be the child.
I know you can enjoy yourself and create memories with loved ones without sacrificing your child’s well-being. And if you don’t think you can, edit that guest list right now even at this late hour or cancel that thing altogether.
It’s your house.
Do something else.
When you have a moment, check out the folks over at Darkness to Light (yeah, I know. The name. Whatever, just use the resources – they are SOLID!)
"I looked at the Statue of Liberty, but she didn't wave after me. I said, I looked at the Statue of Liberty but she didn't wave after me. You see, I was born in Haiti and the Coast Guard dumped me in the raging seas..."
How long? How much more long, how long? How long? How much more long, how long? I wanna know how much more longer Is I'm just gon' have to wait on you?
Remember when, as the New York Times front page headline termed, “Reagan Orders Aliens Stopped on the High Seas”? And no one seemed to care that dozens drowned a month later as boats overturned off Florida. Maybe because they were “aliens”?
Remember when US Border Patrol Agents on horseback herded Haitian refugees like cattle? And everybody seemed to be ok because the Agents may have used unnecessary force on human beings, but at least they didn’t hit them?
Remember when Donald Trump lifted a baseless lie on international television, accusing immigrants of eating pets? And with a few weak “fact check” comments from moderators, the debate between Trump and Kamala Harris went on as if there was no reason to be concerned about the implications of a dehumanizing lie from the unhinged leader of a national political party on the lives of the every day Haitian immigrants living in Springfield, Ohio.
Healing doesn’t mean that there was never any damage, that the damage didn’t hurt us, didn’t bring us to our knees, or didn’t make us wonder if we would make it through the night.
Healing doesn’t mean that God was alright with the wound, that God didn’t howl in distress With-Us.
Healing doesn’t mean we don’t remember, doesn’t mean we won’t cry at the oddest times, at the oddest things, and in the oddest places.
Healing doesn’t grant us a pass to induct others into the trauma we experienced because, “Look at me, I’m better for it.” No, you are not better for the trauma. You were not designed to be traumatized. You are better because each day you breathe – you can be better.
Healing means that the trauma cannot define us, yesterday’s damage cannot control our tomorrows. We can choose a different way forward.
On to liberty.
We confound the author of the harms done to us when we attend to our own healing because harmers never expected our resurrection to be the every day, here and now, and glowing evidence that God absolutely, always, forever and ever gets the last word on our lives, our hopes, our future.
O’Shae Sibley vogued. Laughed. Felt the kind of joy with friends that leads one to dance, dance, dance.
We can have a world - this one right here - where it is the norm for gay people to dance every time they felt the spirit moving in their hearts, we keep praying.
But the world we have, right here, right now - is the one where having joy can lead to death.
Seems like a hateful reversal. Joy leading to death? That’s hell on earth, seems to me.
Yet - it wasn’t Sibley’s joy that killed him. No, the murderer was hate taught to a 17-year old carrying a knife.
This hate fuels an irrational bothered-ness about the very sight of what should be normal - the Gay-est, most joy-full-est joy expressed by someone whose joy led them to do what joy is supposed to do in a world that wasn’t hell on earth: Dance.
A sound was heard in Ramah weeping, weeping, weeping.
May a sound be heard in Brooklyn, dancing, dancing, dancing, refusing to stop dancing.
O’Shae deserved a world where he could dance with joy anytime and anyplace.
He was sent to pick up his little brothers from Northeast 115th Terrace. By mistake and without GPS, he ended up at 115th Street instead. A confusing 3 blocks away. He rang the bell and Mr. Andrew Lester answered the door and promptly shot him. He then stood over Ralph Yarl and shot him again. For good measure, I guess.
Ralph Yarl and his twin little brothers
Wounded, Ralph made it to 3 different homes before someone finally agreed to help him. They told him to lie on the ground with his hands up.
Being a 16 year old Black boy in Kansas City, Missouri means you don’t get to be without GPS, don’t get to be confused or end up at the wrong house, don’t get to knock on the door expecting the adult who answers to see you as a human being. You’re an animal. A criminal. A thing to be taken down.
Ralph Yarl
Shooting Black youth on sight while Christian nationalist legislators invade schools across the country to protect the feelings of white children presumed to not have the fortitude and wherewithal to handle the truth and facts of American history – tells us what we need to know about America.
Sick. Diseased. Moral monsters.
Being Black is not America’s problem.
Being white and incapable of naming and addressing the anti Black narratives that live in your soul, that make you trigger happy when it comes to Black children, that empowers you to scroll pass Ralph’s face and not be enraged and radicalized – that is the problem. And I have it on good authority that God Almighty is supremely pissed about it.
His family members are doing what so many Black family members have had to do because the press will portray this Black child as deserving to be taken down like an animal – they are talking about his grades, his artistry, his goodness, his character. As if they have to justify Ralph’s worthiness.
Will we need a Green Book to mark the homes where the occupants have declared creating hell and misery on earth for Black children to be their vocation? Will we need to post lawn signs and stickers where neighbors have declared that a bleeding Black child is not their concern?
I’m weary. And I wish there was a North Star, a Drinking Gourd, a Canada even – because I’d gather Black children up and we’d start walking to freedom.
But there isn’t and so I’ll have to scream like Rachel.
I remember the day as if it were yesterday. I was on my way to the Fisk Memorial Chapel one late Saturday afternoon to prepare for the next day’s worship service. It was fall of my junior year — and the university was broke, and unfortunately stuck with me as a makeshift student chaplain. If there was to be leadership for Sunday worship, if there was to be an effort to make ready a space for students to gather to give praises to God — if there was to be someone to choose the morning’s hymns and to figure out how to transpose the keys on the opening and closing hymns and play them on the broken carillon with its keyboard full of stuck and missing keys (and to do that without cussing!), then I needed to get my butt in gear.
As I headed to the Chapel, two brothers (as in dudes — don’t know if they were related!) approached me. I vaguely heard their attempts at getting my attention, but my mind was focused on the task at hand (i.e., what is the deal with tomorrow’s worship — and where are You, God — do YOU really think this is funny?!?!?!? At least keep me from abusing the campus with wrongly transposed hymns on this broken carillon because everybody’s got enough ISSUES and who needs to hear a weirded out version of “O, For a Thousand Tongues to Sing”!!!!).
I did not hear the brothers call out to me. Bad mistake. Rude dudes do not like to be ignored. They stopped a few other classmates and asked questions about me — probably something on the order of, “who does she think she is, ignoring all of this double good Mack-daddy-ness?!” From what I understand, these brothers were assured — “she’s not ignoring you, she’s not like that — she just focused on the ultimate challenge for tomorrow.”
And, that did not sit well with the dudes.
Later, they came knocking on the door.
Them: “We’d like to talk to you. We heard that you are studying to be a “minister”.
Me:Okay.
Them: “Well, let’s talk about that. We are seminary students here in Nashville — and we know that God doesn’t call women to preach. In fact, it’s ridiculous for a woman to serve as a minister of the Gospel in any capacity.”
(I would like to say that I was being open-minded about this and just wanted to debate with them. The truth is, nobody told me that God did not call women to preach. This bit of info was relatively new “news” to me. Even though I did not meet a woman minister (the Rev. Dr. Karen Y. Collier) until I landed at Fisk University, it did not occur to me that folks had real issues with this until long after I had accepted my call and preached that first sermon at the age of 17. My role model for ridiculousness was James Snodgrass. I grew up watching him walk the Jericho roads in my hometown of Newark, NJ. He invited me and others to walk with him. I watched him challenge the conditions that produced Jericho roads for so many people. It was not glamorous work! Who would volunteer for that? Who would do that outside of being compelled by God? So, I’m thinking the unglamorous work of deconstructing and constructing roads is what ministers do –it just never occurred to me that there were folks who cared that the Jericho Road deconstruction crew be “manned.”
I really wanted to hear why these students thought it was ridiculous for a woman to serve as a minister of the gospel in any capacity. I mean, we were standing on the campus of Fisk University, whose heartbeat was life for formerly enslaved ancestors who proved that God often calls the least expected to do ridiculous things.
Ridiculous? Maybe, I was. Yet even so, here I stood listening to fragments of this conversation. A “first generation” college student standing here because of the whispering dreams of the enslaved – people who dared to hope that their dreams for me would not be too ridiculous for God to honor.
Anyway, I digress….I wanted to hear the arguments so I listened more intently to their conversation, and they were more than happy to share.
Them: (Actually, Dude No. 1) — “it’s really about Eve. She brought sin into the world through her weakness.”
Me:Wow. You really think that? (But, I’m really thinking…dude, if you think that, my preaching is really the least of your problems, buddy. Just who is your momma?)
Them: (Actually, Dude No. 2) — “no, it’s really about the Apostles admonitions for women to be quiet in the church. We need discipline and order. Going against a direct command like that is a sin.”
Me.Oh. (I’m really thinking…what about all the other commands and admonitions? Shellfish, pork, relieving yourself within the confines of the camp, differentials in time for “uncleanliness” after the birth of a son or a daughter, slaves obeying masters….gosh, if faith and obedience was really that simple, just who has been in charge of making it so hard???? Get them to stop it!”)
Them: Literally, them — they started arguing back and forth between each other about the real reasons God’s call to me was ridiculous. God prefers men. Black people need strong men in the American context. Women?! The Bible says, the Bible says…..
There was no agreement among them, no consensus on anything except “no women.” But, who knows why? Naturally? Inherently and uniquely sinful? Or, because it was the command of the Apostles, the command of God?
My head swung back and forth as if I were at a tennis match. Pretty soon, They forgot all about Me and argued and debated with Each Other as if I were not in the room. And then it hit me –I experienced a phenomenal moment of grace as this “discussion” was raging on – grace that ushered in a watershed moment for me with respect to understanding myself as God’s own and understanding.
Their discussion shifted from sharing their scriptural “proof-texts” to arguing among themselves about the real reasons God does not call women to lead. As I was registering the disagreements they were having among themselves – and the range of scriptural texts they were throwing around to prove God’s propensity to steer away from women — something happened to me that changed my life forever. By now, these guys had forgotten all about me in the room and were totally focused on their own argument.
I knew that I was where I was, not because of scriptural texts. I was standing in the fullness of who I was – poor, black, female, maybe ridiculous, but called — standing on the campus of Fisk University because of the whole God-story. At that moment, by the grace of God, I saw it: they were arguing about something that God had settled long ago. I am made in the image of God. I could get lost in the “verses,” over which we will argue until the end-times, or I could find my life in the God-story.
Fisk University, 1984
I am still choosing the Big God-Story.
It is a big, big, simple story: God traveled down through generations and interrupted the flow of time and history to wrap God’s self in flesh and to move into our neighborhood. God did this so that God could walk with us, turn us around, grace us with freedom and liberty, show us how much we are loved and teach us how to love one another. That love was not conquered by Calvary and that same love raised Jesus up on the third day for God’s sake, but also so that we would know that our lives — our hopes, our ridiculous dreams, and our spirits — did not have to end in a borrowed tomb. There will never be dead ends with God’s love. For those who pursue that love, there is a charge and challenge for today and a resting place for tomorrow. Tomorrow’s rest is not sleep. It is an exit from weariness, slavery, brokenness and travail. It is entry into the greatest choir of Singers of all time. These Singers never stop singing in harmony — incredible voices of an untold number! (You need voices of all kinds to sing this kind of harmony — the songs of the redeemed!)
It is an awesome responsibility to faithfully extend — every day — the invitation to all of God’s people to find themselves in this big, big, simple story. It is a huge effort to witness to God’s desire for all people, not just some, to be caught up in this story…especially when power prioritizes a few verses of incomplete stories here and there.
Because those dudes really liked to hear themselves talking, their argument raged on without my input. Most arguments do not need my input, hence the conviction that my energy will be spent elsewhere, namely, picking up people (with my hand and with a Word) who have been beaten down on the Jericho Road, and witnessing against the power of that old enemy – slavery. I will be doing the ridiculous work of challenging the conditions that create Jericho Roads in a world where God intends the beloved to flourish.
I thanked God for the grace of the moment. Then I served them popcorn as I worked out in my head the order of Chapel Service for the next day and prayed that I could settle on a simple call to worship in the key of C, the only truly working key on the carillon!
Here is a prayer for anyone who finds themselves on a bench at a world-class tennis match where the ultimate goal is to be overcome and worn out by an argument that is not yours, and not God’s:
“God, send us Your Grace that we might not get lost in anything except the incredibly Big Story of your amazing love. That’s it. That’s the prayer, God. Help us not get sidetracked and lost in texts and arguments. We need our carillons tuned to play your songs in the many keys of a thriving world.”
Excerpts from Jan Richardson's
"Blessing in a Time of Violence" (The Cure for Sorrows: A Book of Blessings)
Which is to say
this blessing
is always.
Which is to say
there is no place
this blessing
does not long
to cry out
in lament,
to weep its words
in sorrow,
to scream its lines
in sacred rage....
Which is to say
there is no day
this blessing ceases
to whisper
into the ear
of the dying,
the despairing,
the terrified....
Which is to say
there is none
that can stop it
none that can
halt its course,
none that will
still its cadence,
none that will
delay its rising,
none that can keep it
from springing forth
from the mouths of us
who hope,
from the hands of us
who act,
from the hearts of us
who love,
from the feet of us
who will not cease
our stubborn, aching
marching, marching
until this blessing
has spoken
its final word,
until this blessing
has breathed
its benediction
in every place,
in every tongue:
Peace.
Peace.
Peace.
Today – 500 more people hospitalized, bringing the total COVID hospitalizations to 6,767.
Today – urgent care medical centers are closing because staffing can’t meet demand.
Today.
Today. I read an article highlighting persons demonstrating against vaccinations, masks, and any and all interventions; while the article situated right beside it highlighted medical professionals at the breaking point, exhausted, demoralized, and angry tired because their facilities are overwhelmed with COVID cases.
Dissonance. It’s like we are living in a dystopian television series. Today.
I read through the local COVID statistics for New York and was unable to wade through the news for the rest of the country. I am weary. I had to acknowledge my own grief. I am a hugger, for God’s sake! I’ve lost so many people in these last two years. So many. I never had the chance to say goodbye to some of them.
Grief exacerbated by not being able to say goodbye may not seem like a lot to some. But I am carrying a knot of grief the size of my beloveds in my heart. Heavy. Numbered among those lost to me is my sister, Betty.
Sigh.
God has already given us everything we need to work together to write a different story. Dystopian misery is not the intractable will of God. We are not doomed by God to want no more for each other than a wretched comeuppance.
We can take a position on the wall and declare with the actions of our lives – no more energy-draining shame and ridicule for our neighbors. The times call for loving and hopeful action. No rebuking words, no pontificating words, no lying words, no accusing words, no condescending words, no judgmental words, no hateful words, no partisan words. No more biting words.
I am just coming to reckon with the weight of my own grief.
This sucks.
I don’t want thoughts and prayers – no more holy words masking inaction and maintenance of the status quo.
Regardless of whether a person was vaccinated before they died, spoke against vaccinations, or whatever – they left behind communities, people who will spend their lives untying messy knots of grief. That grief will look like anger and rage and stubbornness for some; and depression, reckless behavior, and compassionless actions for others. I wish for all who are hurting – even if they don’t know that they are hurting – a measure of what I need for myself. — the loving presence of God and wise, silent friends.
Over 820,000 people lost nationwide.
132 deaths in New York on Monday.
77 deaths in New York on Tuesday.
97 deaths in New York today, Wednesday.
306 local hearts stilled.
There are no words to prepare us for how many we will lose tomorrow.
I hope that Gene Sharp, whose strategies for nonviolent direct action helped to topple repressive governments across the globe, can appreciate and allow for my pastoral reinterpretation of one of his principles. We who want peace, justice, life, and the possibility of a flourishing tomorrow for everyone, not just the members of our own tribes, will be a strong and compelling force for life only when our preaching, moralizing, and raging is accompanied by the withdrawal of our consent and cooperation with a death-dealing culture that presses us to “move on” – unmindful and dismissive of the 820,000 empty chairs around our dining room tables.
No more violence. Speak, rehearse, over and over again, the hopeful, compassionate, and loving life. I say “rehearse” because choosing love requires practice, discipline, and persistence. Choosing loving behavior that keeps your neighbors safe is not instinctive. It’s not easy. We all swim in the waters of blatant disregard for the dignity of our neighbors.
Maybe that is the dialogue we can have within our circles of influence today. What does it mean to love our neighbors? How can we support each other to choose love? What role can I play in influencing those in my circle to engage in loving action?
I’m not suggesting that our individual acts and commitments will exempt us from undertaking the massive job ahead of us to create a just and enduring infrastructure of care. What I am saying is that whatever revolution we might hope for in our society has a better chance for grounding if it takes hold within us personally and individually.
In an interconnected world where not having the resources to contain a virus in one country has profound implications for life and health in another country way across the world, hoarding, monetizing, and capitalizing on tests, vaccinations, and treatments is just violent. It is a blatant disregard for humanity.
In the face of children across the globe who have lost both parents to this virus, insisting on the individual right to reject reasonable interventions is a violence that just propels grief into the future, encased in their little parentless bodies. It is a blatant rejection of a hopeful future for us all.
I don’t know what hopeful action action looks like in your neck of the woods. I’m sure that you will know, however. You do know.
In mine, it looks like doing everything I can not to add to the burden of overwhelmed health professionals; not creating risk for my immune-compromised neighbors; and, sharing what I have with those who must choose between safety for their families or food on their tables.
The revolution always begins with the choice to love and to hope. It always begins within.
A Voice In Ramah 
