Like many across the U.S. today, my heart is heavy, my mind is disturbed, my spirit is churning, by one more senseless tragedy. I have turned off the television coverage. I have limited myself to the printed word, for this allows me a little more emotional distance than images of the aftermath of carnage, images of grieving families, and the endless talk, talk, talk by news commentators and their hastily rounded up “experts” on the human psyche, with their frustrating speculations on why we humans do the things we do.

As a person who has struggled with depression, I am aware of my unique sensitivities, and how the cares of the world can trigger a downward spiral, so I cope by limiting exposure to that which can overwhelm my senses. As a trauma survivor, “soul memory” can be triggered by talk and images of violence. So, I’ve taken a step back from the emotionality of our collective grief. This is the work of recovery: learning your triggers, learning coping strategies, managing our inner world to help us negotiate the unmanageability of the outer world. Occasionally, though, despite my own inner turmoil, I am compelled to speak, particularly when outrageous things are said that go unchallenged. I am particularly frustrated when there is an effort to capsulize very complex issues into sound bites and simple solutions.

One of those complex issues is our relationship with guns in this country. I agree with those who say that there needs to be better gun regulation, as well as a more lengthy background check prior to purchase. I could support regulations requiring a psychological profile for potential gun owners, if somehow, we could agree on what the questions would be. Here’s the thing, we only seem to have this particular national conversation in the aftermath of incidents like Sandy Hook, or Columbine, or any number of mass murder events where innocents are mostly unknown, or only peripherally known to the shooter. I would ask why we don’t have these conversations when poor, urban children die, or when husbands murder their wives and sometimes children, and then commit suicide using guns. These things happen much more frequently. I say this to make the point that there needs to be a protracted conversation about violence, the propensity for violence that goes beyond access to, and regulations of guns. This conversation would just be a starting point for getting to the deeper issues that maybe have to do with our fear, our sense of powerlessness and our disconnectedness from each other.

Another of those complex issues hits me where I live (my inner world), and also where I work. I run a nonprofit whose mission is to provide recovery support to individuals living with mental illness, addiction and trauma. Between our two sites, more than 6,000 individuals have walked through our doors at least once. We promote ourselves as “run by and for people living in recovery.” We don’t require that people be in treatment. We assume that everyone who comes through the door is a person needing support for their recovery journey. We recognize that the 20+ individuals that comprise the staff of our organization are the walking, talking poster children of what living with a mental illness, or in addiction and trauma recovery looks like. So it stands to reason that we take issue when the “experts” get together and decide what needs to happen with people living with mental illness. Just like everyone who owns a gun is not going to go on a murderous and suicidal rampage, nor is every person living with a mental illness likely to do so.

Certain people of faith have a simple answer to violence in schools; return God and prayer to those “Godless” environments. I am a strong, somewhat orthodox Christian. Because of my own eclectic religious tradition background, I can flow from deeply conservative to radical charismatic faith expression, and most points in-between. The orthodoxy comes from that which is a foundational part of my belief system that allows me to be comfortable in these seemingly disparate religious environments. That foundation has to do with who and what is God? ; What is the role and purpose of prayer? And when and where does that intersect with my daily living? For the record, I was born in the late 1950’s, and I have no recollection of prayer ever being a part of my public school experience. Also, for the record, not sure that I would have supported any public school that required my children to participate in religious teaching and prayer. Why? Because I believed that it was my job as a parent to impart my religious/spiritual beliefs to my children; AND, some religious folk have some wacky ideas that I wouldn’t want my children confused by or polluted with. One of those wacky ideas is being shared around the various social media; the notion that prayer in schools would have prevented this, and other senseless acts of violence. This nonsensical concept is obviously being shared by folks, who like me, consider themselves devout Christians. It is to them that I direct this question…. Do you really think that God is limited by human efforts at containment? In countries that have outlawed “religion”, faith in a sovereign God persists. Do you really think that prayer is restricted by rules and laws? It is to you that I say God lives in the people who know Him. To you I say God hears our prayers wherever we are, even when we don’t use words. To you I say, God is limitless, and prayer has no boundaries. Teach your children this concept, and wherever they are, there will God be also.

There are no easy answers. The answers are not easy because the issues are complex. The complexity has to do with this false notion that we humans are independent of other humans. Tragedies like these do not happen in a vacuum. Just like when a volcano erupts, there are days, weeks, months, even, of underground activity that is observable and measurable. I would speculate that there were early signs that were missed, minimized or ignored by the community of humanity that surrounded the perpetrator of this horror. I’m including myself in the community of humanity, for I live in a world where unspeakable crimes happen every day in the name of politics and power. I live in a world where gun violence is used as a means of entertainment without regard for those among us with unique sensitivities. I live in a world where language can be violent, where music can be assaultive, where being different can feel and be isolating, where those who might ask for help are shamed, where places that purport to be havens of safety and healing, are not. We all collectively grieve in the face of the horror. What will it take for us to open our eyes and our hearts to the community of humanity that surrounds us; to do our part to prevent these horrors from happening again? What will it take?

So, Note to Self: Remember that each person you meet is a child of the living God and is deserving of love and respect, even if, especially if, they don’t know this themselves. Help me, God of humanity, to remember, that as I surrender to your will, I yield all that I am to your purpose, and that I become a living reflection of your love. I will not stop trying to rise to that bar of perfect love you have set. I will need your help. Thank you. Amen.

Words, labels, profiles, inventories, diagnoses, inclinations, proclivities, test scores etc…. all tell us something about ourselves. But one label by itself tells us nothing. My saying I’m a mother does not tell anyone about the quality of my mothering. My saying I’m a trauma survivor tells you nothing about the trauma, my telling you that I struggle with depression, says nothing about my recovery journey. It might tell you that I am at a point in time where I am comfortable using those descriptive words to describe myself — out loud.

I recently added another label to my long list of labels. I added the word “author” as one of my descriptives. Still deciding if I like how that word fits me as I never actually had that as a life goal. Yet here I sit with a book filled with words that I penned (typed?) from thoughts that I had on certain subjects. It helped that the focal point of these words, these thoughts, was directed toward a loved one. It also helped that the subject matter was one that I had a fairly good grasp of – me.

I did a workshop last week on finding passion and purpose. One of my slides was titled “Gifts Known, Gifts Undiscovered”. The point of that section was simply that it helps enormously to know who you are, know your gifts, know what your preferences are and why. But so what?? Labels can be both freeing and caging. The freedom comes from having good information, solid insight about yourself. The caging comes when you limit yourself based on that information. I ended that presentation with a long list of labels that described me. The final label was “Author”. It was a good exercise for me to see how maybe I might have been limiting myself in what I was capable of. My hope is that it was also a good object lesson for those who attended my workshop that just because you have certain labels doesn’t mean that new ones can’t always be added.

So, note to self, – on this road called life, as long as I keep putting one foot in front of the other, I will continually be on a path of discovery. My prayer is that the Holy Spirit will illuminate my steps forward and the retrospective view, so that I will know and understand that everything that has come before has served as preparation and empowerment for whatever rises to meet me on the path. May it also be with you!

Shalom!

…..began the heartfelt status message of the BlackLivesMatter facebook page in response to the tragic killing of two New York police officers by an African American man who, by many reports, was on a path of self-destruction even before this crime which was precipitated by an attack on his girlfriend that culminated in his final act which was to take his own life. Taken in context, this tragedy, pre-Trayvon Martin, pre-Mike Brown, pre-Eric Garner, pre-the many African Americans, both male and female denied equal protection and due process, would have roused the “too many guns” voices, or the “mentally ill people are dangerous” voices. Instead, on the heels of a massive largely peaceful response of like minded people to systematic injustice, this movement has had to defend itself against those who fail to think critically, who fail to learn from history, and who will never do what this statement implies, which is to look in the mirror.

I’ve had to look in the mirror for many days since #ferguson. I had to examine why I, a person who tries to live her life embodying peace and the love of Christ for all, while deeply troubled by the immediate response to the grand jury decision to not indict Mike Brown’s killer, I still could find no words to condemn the immediate and violent response. I like to believe that I would have had the Martin Luther King response vs. the Malcolm X (pre-Mecca) response. Truth is, I’m not sure about that. One thing that I understand about human nature, given the right set of circumstances, we humans, left to our own devices, our own proclivities, are capable of just about anything.

Peace loving me, is also a survivor of trauma, I intimately understand what if feels like to be cowering in a corner, or living on verbal and emotional lock down as tools for surviving a hostile and volatile environment. I remember what it felt like when I finally said NO MORE. On that day it was less about peaceful coexistence, and more about surviving by any means necessary. ANY MEANS. The fact that I can still touch that emotion deep inside after more than 25 years is informative. And yes, there is perhaps, a difference between intimate partner trauma, and historical, generational trauma, but as anyone who understands the intricacies of trauma will tell you, it is not just an event, it is something that has lasting impact on your life, your relationships, your environment and yes, your community. Yes, healing is possible, but trauma forever changes you.

So yeah, like the folks at the BlackLivesMatter facebook page, I looked in the mirror first. Their conclusion, that this tragedy no more reflects what they are about, then does any other heinous act committed by one person, or 19 people, armed with a gun or a plane, or a bomb, or living with a mental illness, or simply with evil intent. Nor is this act indicative of the attitudes and belief system of a given racial, religious, cultural group or otherwise marginalized group. Their conclusion, should be, and was echoed by all peoples of peace. But for others who will not self-reflect for any reason, and because of this heinous act, committed by one person, will cast aspersion on all who speak for justice, who speak against systems that have negative, systemic, and disproportionate impact on other human beings, and will spew the company line–whatever it happens to be– “the US is the greatest country in the world”– yeah, that one– well, frankly, I wish I could muster up some other emotion for you besides sympathy.

It takes a lot of energy to turn away, to shield your face, to bury your head in the sand. The wise and kind hearted man I am married to said that perhaps all of this turmoil, all of this devastation has been necessary to help the blind see. The miracle of light, working in the dark. And so perhaps, when it matters, I would choose Martin over pre-Mecca Malcolm. When it matters, I would look deeper, ask more questions, seek to understand. When it matters I would see your Exodus 21:24 (eye for an eye) and raise it with Matthew 5:38, which calls me to a higher place of love and forgiveness for my enemies. When it matters, I will cast my lot with the ones who are blocking traffic with their “die-in’s” and their peaceful marches, rather than the one’s who want to burn down the town. The fact that I have to think about that, says a lot about me actually, and I am grateful, grateful, grateful for the Holy Spirit that lives in me, who not only nudges me back into alignment with the way of Christ, but empowers the peacemakers, emboldens the truth tellers, and gives voice to the ageless wise ones among us .. the light bringers in this present darkness. Lord in your mercy …. come….

jdw
12/2014

Ps: I drafted this post nearly eight months ago, then stepped away from it because it felt too dark and too heavy. I hoped then that the feeling would pass and I would have more hopeful words. I did not come back to it until today. This post is as it was in December 2014.

Today is the first Sunday of Advent. Many Christian churches begin this season with the lighting of the first candle of the Advent Wreath; the candle that represents Hope. Advent came to be one of my favorite times to be in fellowship with my fellow Christians, but it was not always so. Before I became committed to living authentically in racially integrated communities, before responding to the call to ministry, before seminary and before Church History and Mission and Evangelism classes, this was just the lead up to Christmas. I did what most did during this time; trees and lights and gifts and food and traditional “Joy to the World” Christmas carols at church. On a certain level I knew there were deeper meanings, but I was content to focus on the familiar. The familiar offered ritual. The familiar offered comfort. Once I became a part of faith communities that connected early church history with modern church practice, the season of Advent took on new meanings, offered new rituals, which became familiar and offered comfort.

Today is the first Sunday of Advent. I am not sitting among a congregation participating in the traditional production of lighting the first candle, the candle of Hope. I had no plans to do so. Today, I am at home. I have turned off the news. I am wrapped in a blanket because, even though the temperature outside is more Autumn like, the house feels cold, or maybe it’s just that I can’t get warm. There was a time in the not so distant past that I would find comfort in the rituals of my faith. Today comfort is not what I seek. Comfort, I have found, has a way of lulling us to sleep. Not the sleep of rest, but the sleep of complacency; the sleep of fatalism; the sleep of pessimism; the sleep of helplessness; the sleep of apathy; the sleep of piety.

Today, this first Sunday of Advent, I am like Rachel in Jeremiah 31:15, “weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more.” There was a time in the not so distant past where I allowed piety, my religious devotion, to sooth my spiritual disquiet. My own personal earthquake (the reasons for starting this blog) forever altered that landscape. I can no longer look to the familiarity of ritual for comfort. This is not to say that the Word of God no longer speaks or teaches me. As my UCC friends will remind me, “God is Still Speaking”.

The last post to this blog was close to a year and a half ago. That post was the sermon I preached one week after the Zimmerman verdict for the murder of Trayvon Martin. A year and a half later, it is one week after a similar “verdict” of sorts, when a US grand jury has simply refused to hold a supposed officer of the law accountable for denying due process to a US citizen. So, today, on this first Sunday in Advent, when traditionally the first candle is lit, which represents the candle of Hope, I find that I am short on Hope and long on anger and frustration. And I am refusing to be comforted. Why should I be comforted? As an African American woman, the spouse of an African American man, the mother of African American children and grandchildren, the aunt of African American nieces and nephews, there were certain things that I did not expect to have to deal with in a post Obama America. In truth, racial equality has not been an issue I was focused on in my long career as a Social Worker. I have focused on a myriad of social justice issues for many communities, including my own. I chose to practice racial reconciliation in more personal ways. Yet I was somewhat unprepared for the rejection that would follow when I reminded people that I sat beside in worship, that my experience as an African American in the US was different from their experience. In my naiveté, I believed that the time of water hoses and attack dogs being used as weapons against people of color in this country was over. There are no dogs or water cannons now, but the so called systems of justice are now being wielded with as much deadly force. In my naiveté, I believed that living, working, playing and worshipping in racially integrated communities meant that we the people were moving forward. Today, on a day when I should be thinking about Hope, I am finding it difficult to get warm; I am looking around for constructive ways to channel my energy and to reconcile my feelings with God’s call on my life, to seek justice, to love mercy, to walk humbly. Today, I am trying to remember to breathe.

Today is the first Sunday of Advent. Today candles for Hope have been lit across Christendom. Here in the land of “Other”, I intimately know what the Lord requires. On this day for Hope, I will weep. I will grab another blanket. I will make myself a cup of tea. I will let the Christmas tree lights burn all day and maybe through the night. I will do this today, because tomorrow there are people who depend on me to lead by example, to serve them no matter their race, creed or culture. Tomorrow I will suit up for justice and mercy and hope. Today, I will cry.

What follows is an expanded for readability purposes version of a sermon delivered at New Song Community Church (Columbus, Ohio) on July 21, 2013, one week after the verdict of the George Zimmerman trial. ***********God of Grace and Mercy and Might-be here now for these your people. I yield myself, all that I am, to your righteous will and way. Let your message go forth to ears that would hear. In Jesus’ name I pray. Amen. Amen.

I, like many of you, have had a tough week. This week, I found that I was so angry that I couldn’t speak. Do any of you remember the “pressure cookers” they used to have back in the day? I don’t know maybe they still have those. You would put the food in the pot with the special lid, that had the little thingy on top that would spin and hiss every few seconds, so that the food in the pot would cook at a consistent pressure. Made great pot roast as I recall! That’s what I felt like–a mini pressure cooker. I knew on some level that it wasn’t even safe for me to speak. I intimately understand the power of words, and how words are alive and have creation power in them. It wasn’t that I didn’t have words to say. It’s just that the words in my heart and in my mind were in conflict with my inner Christian witness.

Truthfully, this pressure cooker in my heart and mind had been bubbling for a few weeks prior to the Zimmerman verdict. As a Social Worker by trade and training, I was already pretty steamed by the gutting of the voting rights act that put the constitutional right to vote in jeopardy for thousands, potentially millions of the poor, the marginalized and populations of color. Following that, the powers that be in this great state of Ohio blindsided us, we who are pro-reproductive freedom, with restrictions that set back the women’s movement by 40 years. As if that wasn’t personal enough, the two by four upside the head of the Zimmerman verdict might have been enough to simply push me over the cliff of good sense.

Fortunately, the steady and grace filled voice of Sybrina Fulton pierced through this place of righteous anger I was locked in, and by connecting with her grief; I was able to connect with my own. Sybrina Fulton leaned to her faith by quoting her favorite scripture passage Psalm 3:5-6, which from the NIV reads:

Trust in the Lord with all your heart
and lean not on your own understanding;
6 in all your ways submit to him,
and he will make your paths straight.
And .. this same passage from “The Voice”:
Place your trust in the Eternal; rely on Him completely;
never depend upon your own ideas and inventions.
6 Give Him the credit for everything you accomplish,
and He will smooth out and straighten the road that lies ahead.
7 And don’t think you can decide on your own what is right and what is wrong.
Respect the Eternal; turn and run from evil.

Sybrina Fulton stood, not only as Trayvon’s mother, but also as the mother of us all in a way – teaching us that if she can stand there, head held high, with her heart breaking, with her dignity intact, then we as a people can do the same. Trayvon Martin’s parents stood up for him, and became walking candles in the darkness … pointing the way, leading us …taking their place in line to STAND, not just for Trayvon, but for a long list of martyred children and adults in African American history.

So, now, here, in 2013 we ask that age old question ….. what do you do when justice is denied? Do you fight? Do you flee? Do you bury yourself in food, drink, or potentially negative social engagements? I couldn’t give energy to any of those actions or re-actions because there was nothing that I could step up or down to that felt effective for dampening my fury or to assuage my grief.

These two emotions were kissing cousins for the better part of three days before finally the grief won over, and I was quiet enough to feel the gentle nudge of the Spirit and to look to scripture for the balm for my own hurting heart.

I make an effort to follow along with the lectionary readings for a given week. And of course it is always my first stop when doing sermon prep. In my emotional turmoil, as I scanned “the text this week”, looking to scripture to grab hold of a little peace and calm, the last thing I needed was the prophet Amos (Amos 8:1-12) doing his smack down to Israel about their idolatry and inhumanity to the needy. But for a while, I have to admit, it felt good to know and to remember that Almighty God is a God of justice, and is always on the side of the poor, the powerless, the marginalized and the oppressed. But God, in her infinite wisdom, will meet me at a place, only to take me to a new place where he wants me to stretch and grow and heal.

What I also didn’t need was an image in my head of Jesus the Christ, arms outstretched and nailed to a wooden crossbeam, asking God the Father to “forgive them for they know not what they do”. I didn’t want that image. I wanted something or someone to answer for this travesty. Yet that is the image that remained, firmly imprinted.

With that image, Holy Spirit spoke saying …. time to breath, time to let go of the rage, time to cry and sit with the grief – look at it from all sides—look and listen, make note of the ones talking, make closer note of the ones who are silent.

In this place of tears, breathing and stillness … blessed and surprised was I to find the voices of those who didn’t share my culture or my history, but shared my pain; blessed and surprised was I to find that the God of Grace and Mercy and Might, had wrought a new thing right under our complacent noses. So many progressive prayers and voices raising questions about judicial fairness and how the lack of it it serves to deny justice to the poor, the powerless and the marginalized.

Iyanla Vanzant has a saying.. “All things are lessons that God would have us learn”. So finally, my prayer and my plea, for you, and for me this week, was, “God, what would you have us learn out of this devastating turn of events?” What, Dear God, do you require of us? And when I say us, I don’t mean just any “us”. I mean the “us” that are the ones called to the way of Christ. The ones who can put themselves at the foot of the cross and see the image of the outstretched arms of a dying Christ.

Hear this familiar reading from “The Voice” Micah 6:6-86 Israel: What should I bring into the presence of the Eternal One
to pay homage to the God Most High?
Should I come into His presence with burnt offerings,
with year-old calves to sacrifice?
7 Would the Eternal be pleased by thousands of sacrificial rams,
by ten thousand swollen rivers of sweet olive oil?
Should I offer my oldest son for my wrongdoing,
the child of my body to cover the sins of my life? 8 No. He has told you, mortals, what is good in His sight.
What else does the Eternal ask of you
But to live justly and to love kindness
and to walk with your True God in all humility?

And more from Psalm 15 O Lord, who may abide in your tent? Who may dwell on your holy hill? 2Those who walk blamelessly and do what is right, and speak the truth from their heart; 3who do not slander with their tongue, and do no evil to their friends, nor take up a reproach against their neighbors; 4in whose eyes the wicked are despised, but who honor those who fear the Lord; who stand by their oath even to their hurt; Many do not know, and choose to dismiss the hurt, the pain, the anger that fueled the wave of protest following the verdict. They have not lived our history. They do not know that the story of Trayvon Martin is a familiar one. They do not know and choose to dismiss that this grief of injustice has touched us intimately, and with this event, we are forced to relive our own unhealed history.

For many of us the grief of injustice has a name. For my husband’s family the grief of injustice is named Gilbert Williams, Jr.—an older brother who, though unarmed, was shot down and killed by police some 40 years ago. These words from my brother-in-law were shared on our family Facebook page this week: “He had no weapon but did run and was shot in the back and killed. Remember how well natured he was? He was in the Navy, protecting our nation, right after the Viet Nam conflict. He was a wrestler, a member of the state championship 440 relay team. He was a good son, and he was my brother and my protector because I was the baby boy then. My father hired a private investigator to handle this case (a young Johnny Cochran) but two weeks into the investigation, Mr. Cochran gave my father his retainer back stating that he (Johnny) was told to leave this one alone… Why does Justice have to hide?” my brother-in-law asks.

Grief has a name … for me the grief of injustice is named Marqus Anthony Ware … a tall, proud, military veteran, also known as my godson, or my nephew, depending on who he was talking to. Marqus was the only son to my sister-friend who I’ve known since we were 15 and 16 respectively. I had known him all his life. Just as his mother and I were “sisters”, my daughter and he claimed each other as “siblings” or as “cousins”, depending on whom they were talking to. Marqus was a natural leader, a loyal friend, a beloved son and confidant, one who loved hard. If he claimed you, he stood up for you. He didn’t back down. Three years ago he didn’t back down, and was shot and killed. He was unarmed. The man who shot him was never charged. There was barely an investigation. His life didn’t warrant an investigation. Just another Black man dead.

For many, many millions of us this day …. Grief has a name.

TRAYVON BENJAMIN MARTIN.

And through these experiences, we carry our collective hurt and grief and our cry for justice, and God calls us to something else. For this time, during this hour, I think God calls us not to stand our ground, but to stand and bear witness. I think God calls us to stand for our loved ones, stand for those who came before us, to speak our truth, but to stand as representatives or allies of living history. And while we do that, we draw strength from the knowledge that out of our pain, comes our purpose.

God reminds us that the way of the cross is not a journey of sweetness and light, meadows and wildflowers. The way of the cross is rocky and rough shod. But God does not leave us defenseless. God asks us to lean not to our own understanding, but to yield to the call, draw strength from God, slap on our armor and war with the powers of spiritual darkness. We war by staying prayed up – we pray for ourselves, we pray for our loved ones, we pray for God’s people everywhere.

We stand for justice. We stand for the ones who have paid the price. We speak truth to power. We do not suffer in silence.

Here these words of Ephesians 6:10-18 from The Voice:

10 Finally, brothers and sisters,draw your strength and might from God. 11 Put on the full armor of God to protect yourselves from the devil and his evil schemes. 12 We’re not waging war against enemies of flesh and blood alone. No, this fight is against tyrants, against authorities, against supernatural powers and demon princes that slither in the darkness of this world, and against wicked spiritual armies that lurk about in heavenly places. 13 And this is why you need to be head-to-toe in the full armor of God: so you can resist during these evil days and be fully prepared to hold your ground. 14 Yes, stand—truth banded around your waist, righteousness as your chest plate, 15 and feet protected in preparation to proclaim the good news of peace. 16 Don’t forget to raise the shield of faith above all else, so you will be able to extinguish flaming spears hurled at you from the wicked one. 17 Take also the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.

The bible commentary from this passage offers much: Paul knows that the real battles and dangers we face are not against flesh and blood. The enemies we see are real enough, but they are animated by spiritual forces of darkness that stay strategically hidden from view. These powers often reveal themselves in institutional evils—genocide, terror, tyranny, and oppression—but the weapons needed to combat them are not earthly weapons at all. What is needed, Paul advises, is to stand firm in God’s power and to suit up in the full armor of God. Although the devil and his demon armies are destined for destruction, they are serious threats now and must be resisted and beaten back. For Paul, the best offensive weapons we have are the word of God and prayer.18 Pray always. Pray in the Spirit. Pray about everything in every way you know how! And keeping all this in mind, pray on behalf of God’s people. Keep on praying feverishly, and be on the lookout until evil has been stayed.

These powerful weapons are tools we need to make sure that our fight remains righteous. We do not fight institutional evil with the world’s weapons of war. We who are called to the foot of the cross are the same ones who are called to be bold warriors on the battlefield of justice. We resist evil by not letting it stand unaddressed. Standing our ground means meeting the power of spiritual darkness with the power of a resurrected Christ. We cannot do that in silence. There is work to do my friends. We have just been given a wake-up call.

DO NOT GO BACK TO SLEEP.

And all of God’s people said …Amen.

“Congratulations”, the email said, “I hope you feel validated in your ministry.” We celebrated with you in spirit”. This in response to my email indicating that I wouldn’t be present for regular church service because the agency I am blessed to be the leader for, had been nominated and selected for an award, and I would be accepting the award that day.

That congratulatory email sent me into the cave—that cave of silence and introspection—that place of silence I retreat to when things are too hard and too heavy to bear. No way for the sender to know that I would somehow be triggered into doubt and despair and the ever spiraling “what if’s” of my interrupted path to ordained ministry in the church denomination that owned my heart. No way for the sender to know that, though I had begun the process of thawing out from the big freeze that had become my latest coping mechanism, that simple sentence – “I hope you feel validated” – would send me back into lock down, and into a hole from which the only way out, was to crawl out on my hands and knees and to prostrate myself at Jesus’ feet in surrender to whatever it was that God was saying, whatever it was God wanted me to see, whatever it was God needed me to surrender to—again.

All this frozen in the cave-ness, in the middle of the time that I should be writing a sermon because somehow I am now on the rotation and it’s my turn. OY!

Routine is generally a good antidote when one is on spiritual lock-down. My routine is running a busy agency where no days are exactly the same. My agency is such that the running joke is that we show up every day just to see what’s going to happen next. There is nothing really routine about my daily work routine. We do what needs to be done, we do it with care and with heart, and occasionally something magical, mystical even, happens.

The mystical happens for me a lot at my agency. I am spirit-led so I recognize it when I see it. Daily, I lean into the Holy Spirit to lead, guide and direct me. I do this because for the most part, I generally don’t know what I’m doing. This perhaps seems an odd thing to say or even admit. But the simple truth is that the work unfolds and evolves and is only slightly predictable. On any given day we gear up, prepare as best we can, and simply move from one task to another because we know what needs to be done, and we are reasonably sure we are doing the right and appropriate thing. Nothing is ever certain. The work, is very like life; you go on – day by day—doing what’s necessary—because to not do so is irresponsible—there are people depending on you—lives in the balance—bills must be paid—people must be tended to—and even if the world ended tomorrow—that’s tomorrow—this is today—and stuff TODAY needs to be dealt with.

So, while turning my face and attention to my routine, a story unfolds smack in the middle of the team meeting – during the round the table check in—a story – a life story about families, about alcoholism, about mental illness, about abuse and childhood neglect—and how one team members son, until very recently, never wanted to go to his grandmother’s house out of fear of being left there like the other miscellaneous kids that were there. These miscellaneous kids had found a haven at the grandmother’s house. This grandson, even at his tender young age, knew on some level, that these miscellaneous kids had been abandoned, maybe not physically, maybe not completely. But for some reason, those children had found a safe haven in the house of someone not officially their family. That inner sense of possibly being abandoned made him afraid. So he simply refused to go, or be left there without his parents.

And since we were clearly off the agenda of the meeting—and because this is actually how we roll at our agency—we stopped; we paused in that time and space where the Spirit of Truth showed up – we paused for that spirit to spirit connection that was happening …and I spoke up ….”I was one of those miscellaneous kids”, I said, I was one of those kids that found a safe haven in the neighborhood—that house where that lady lived—who let you play and gave you cookies and really looked at you when you spoke. That lady – an angel from God really—who didn’t ask why you were there, just enfolded you in with the rest. The moment passed, we carried on with our agenda. Tasks were delegated. On to the next thing.

But the story of the miscellaneous children, of which I was one, wouldn’t let me go after that meeting. I tried and tried to write a normal type sermon, a text, a title and three take home points, but the words wouldn’t come together in a way that seemed real or true. So, I went to the text this week to see what David or Paul or John had to say about miscellaneous children and their journey through life. And there, right there did Spirit speak –and pierce through the veil —and demolish my unbelief and my lack of faith. For like Paul, or in his earlier incarnation, Saul, I have been a true believer. I have been a grasping on with both hands soldier for the church. Some would say, simply by virtue of my membership in some of the most fundamental Christian denominations, that I was very, very orthodox or conservative, if we want to go there, in my Christian belief and practice. My daughter could tell you old stories of my “issues” with Halloween, and of my being firmly in the camp of “keeping the Christ in Christmas”. I’m BETTER NOW. Somehow though, even though I was very fundamental, I have always been a social worker, even before I was officially a social worker – because we are BORN not MADE—and the realities of people’s lives dampened my enthusiasm for “all they need is Jesus”. Because even back then, I knew that, yeah, they needed Jesus, but they also needed someone to help them get their faces out of the mud, and to help them get food in their bellies, and to help them get to safe shelter FIRST—and then maybe I can tell them about Jesus.

So, reading about Saul, before he was Paul, I understood Saul’s zeal for the Jewish faith. The Old Testament historical account of the journey of the Children of Israel, had taught the Jews of Saul’s day, that disobedience of God’s laws and God’s ways would cost them dearly, so they held fast to what they thought they knew. It was Saul’s job to root out and destroy that which would endanger the nation, that which would tip the balance of that tricky little dance of home rule that the Jewish authorities had worked out with the Roman authorities. Saul, and his Jewish countrymen and women were children of trauma, historical and culturally embedded trauma. As a survivor of trauma, I understand the language. I understand about clinging to a person, clinging even to the dogma of the family, because this is what you know, and it is terrifying to know or even think of the consequences, the known consequences of straying off the path. Straying off of the path will get you exiled away from your land, all that you know, all who you love. You will be abandoned by your God, and cast out to spend your days outside of the city gates, away from love and safety, separate, apart, no longer considered worthy to be cared for. Trauma. Those lingering effects will keep you lock step committed to a cause, a person, a country, a political system, a way of life, because THIS. IS. ALL. YOU. KNOW. THIS is all you’ve been taught. There is safety and belonging by staying within the lines of all you know, all you’ve been taught. So, Saul, in his zeal, pursued to the death, those who, in his mind, would rain down punishments on his country, on his people. Saul was good at his job. Saul, by all credible reports was a smart guy, a dedicated guy, a passionate and determined guy. A guy who embodied the mission, and pursued it with all he had. This was how he came to be on the road to Damascus. Pursuing to the death those who would tear down the fabric of safety and security he and his countrymen and women fought and died for across the centuries.

The Road to Damascus, the text says, is where Saul’s life, got turned upside down and sideways, and all he knew, all he understood was ripped away by a supernatural visitation by none other than the risen Savior himself, who blinds him with his holy illumination and at once separates him from all he knows, and chooses him for divine purpose. When Saul is healed by Ananias, the text says that “scales fell from “ Saul’s eyes. I submit that those were more than physical scabs that fell, but Saul’s heart and mind were changed—in that moment, Saul, now Paul, was given new sight, new INSIGHT about God, the world, his life, his purpose.

So as I kept trying to put together a regular sermon, with a title, and three take home points, I continued my review of the lectionary text for this week when God coaxed me out of the cave of frozenness with Psalm 30, where through the words of David, God spoke plainly and gave me new eyes to see— that in the year of my defeat, awards and accolades abound. Because you see, this most recent accolade, for which I received the congratulatory email, was not the first. In the 16 months that I have been sitting outside the city gates, set adrift by the church of my heart, there have been several awards, and magazine features, books launched – lot’s of praise and fanfare for me, and for this agency where I serve, and where I lead. And that was all fine and wonderful, but it was still not ministry, or at least not considered ministry, by those with the power and authority to name a thing as such. It didn’t matter that I believed the work I was involved in was sacred, it only mattered that what I was doing was not leading people to sit in the pews of a local church, somewhere—or at least that’s what I was told.

So when you are in the cave, you need for The Word to talk to you, and from the words of David in Psalm 30, came this prayer of praise: “God—you brought up my soul from the dark cave, you did not let my foes rejoice over me; O’Lord – awards and accolades abound for this sacred work, in the year of my defeat. You, O’God, thawed out my heart through the love, acceptance and validation of my gifts, you allowed me to experience Resurrection – you ended my exile, my isolation from your house. You reclaimed me.”

It was like the scales falling from my eyes. After Paul’s encounter on the road to Damascus, this adult child of cultural trauma became a miscellaneous adult child of trauma. Abandoned by all that had been his foundation. Now having to rely on the help and kindness of strangers, strangers who offered their help, reluctantly, but out of obedience to the risen Savior, stepped past their own comfort zones to aid in the healing and help of this enemy, turned brother. And for Paul, accepting help from those who would give it, even those who gave it reluctantly was only the beginning of his journey of going where he was led, talking to people who mistrusted his motives, never again being accepted back into the family of his birth. Paul was now a part of the miscellaneous community. That community that Jesus built with his body and with his blood. Those reclaimed to the heart of God. Partnering with people he didn’t know, humbly, because of his past misdeeds, Paul didn’t necessarily feel worthy to be among their numbers. Many of these, who might have been his family of choice, could not accept who he ultimately became. Paul was a miscellaneous adult child, called to do a great work, without the grounding that had served him his entire life. Yet, in the end having the legacy as perhaps the greatest disciple of Jesus.

Miscellaneous kids often have trouble with acceptance and belonging. It’s hard to trust anything but your own truth. Many times they are difficult to understand. Hard to know. Once they believe something, unless they have an encounter on the road to Damascus, they are often immovable forces. God has to get their attention in a big way, to bring a new level of awareness. Before this latest award, I had been living in my own version of the road to Damascus. God’s illumination kept growing ever brighter, the longer I resisted coming out of the cave of frozenness, that place of safety and retreat.

This text, marks, only the beginning of Paul’s ministry. All that he initially feared would come to pass—he would be rejected by family and friends. He would be ousted from his faith community. Even the new people that might have been his friends because of their now shared belief system, could not forgive him for his earlier misdeeds and did not fully welcome him into the fold. But then that was not his purpose. Paul’s purpose was to be the instrument God used to bring to pass the Gentile Church, and he fulfilled that mission, unto death. Paul had to go his own way to fulfill his mission. Scripture tells us that he knew, in the end, that he had fought the good fight.

In true miscellaneous kids fashion … the writings ascribed to Paul are hard to understand at times. His motivation often comes to question. His purpose is often challenged by the powers that be. But if there were ever a take home message from the text this week, it is that even though the powers that be doubt you, reject you, count you out, we still must show up every day, to whatever work God has called us to, and present ourselves as willing servants of the most High. We still, no matter our circumstance, “affirmed”, lauded and celebrated or NOT, we still must SHOW UP fully each day to meet the DAY. We show up, if for no other reason then, just to see what God’s going to do NEXT. We remember that we are simply grateful that God chooses to use us in the feeding of His sheep. We are not sure, when we are being brutally honest with ourselves if what we are doing is ministry in the traditional sense—but we absolutely know that when we look into the face of the one standing before us expecting rejection, but receiving acceptance instead—we know for sure—that the work we do is holy. And in that moment, graced with a sense of the sacred, we can surrender to calling it, not a work, but a ministry. And after all that, the only thing left to say is, Amen. Amen.

Been struggling with this concept of late. In this, my self-imposed exile from regular church attendance, intentional effort to listen and hear where God is leading, here in the quiet. There are a few passages in scripture that speak to the responsibility of all believers to take up the mantle of priesthood — a holy nation– a royal priesthood– chosen — living stones rejected by men (humans) but chosen by God and on and on and on. Somehow, though, this has not been the way the church structure is built. We talk about it. We promote it. We study it in scripture and we preach about it, but we build up organizational structures that are antithetical to these precepts. I’m as guilty as any having bought into the structure. Granted, I had help.

On my second “attempt” toward ordination, though I was a part of the ministry team, where I was on the preaching rotation, I preached, I taught, I prayed etc., but during communion, I was forbidden to stand in a certain place, or to assist with serving the elements of bread and wine because I was not ordained. On my third “attempt” toward ordination (different denomination this time) I served in any manner I was called on, preaching, teaching, praying etc., including assisting with serving the elements. Actually, upon reflection, I was doing all of that before I attempted the third attempt. The one thing that was really considered above my pay grade was the “blessing of the elements”, which for you non-churchy types, is the prayer that is said over the bread and wine which consecrates it and makes it …. holy. Pretty sure, after typing that, that I don’t have the correct level of reverence for this as I should. Probably why my “third attempt” at ordination failed– because I lack the proper amount of reverence. But that’s for another posting. And yeah, I realize there’s some snark in there.

In the last month, I’ve been asked to preside over a memorial service; I’ve been asked if I would preside over a wedding, I’ve been asked to deliver the prayer, because “you’re a minister, right?” I froze, sort of like that proverbial deer in headlights. I didn’t know what to say. While noting that my heart was pounding, I explained that I was not ordained, but that I would be happy to — help–pray–assist– in whatever manner needed. My heart pounds still while recalling these moments.

So, circling back to the title of this post, and the reason actually for this blog— hearing God’s voice, following where God leads, discerning the fullness of this journey I’ve been on for the past 16 years. I believed, because I was taught to believe that the way to serve God in an “official” capacity was to become ordained. On that journey there have been three definitive attempts to do just that. The first attempt was halted because of a life change that resulted in a move from one state to another. The second attempt was halted due to a supernatural intervention — can’t call it anything else, the third attempt was halted via committee. Because I’m a total believer in a supernatural God, I have to now know that this experience, taken in total, is purposeful for what God is calling me to. For whatever reason, these experiences were necessary for me to come to the end of all that I know, or thought I knew, and for me to now lean on the Holy Spirit to lead, guide, reveal, enlighten and ….. dispatch.

Speak Lord. Your servant is listening.

Although I have absented myself from traditional church routine these past months, I find that I am a bit hardwired to the “church year”. There are days that I can move throughout life without giving church a second thought. That is not to say that I am not thinking about God or praying on some level, indeed, God is like an under the skin, constantly active underlying hum of my awareness most of the time. Probably all of the time. I say most of the time because there are times that I experience “the hum” as more back burner than others. I think that is how God’s Spirit, the Holy Spirit, works in us. A constant feed that we can consciously tap into or simply open to. So, today is one of those high holy Christian church observances, Pentecost, which is typically recognized as the birth of the Christian church. I haven’t always known this. I’ve attended church most of my life. Around age 6 I began attending a Pentecostal church with our neighbors, the family of my playmates. I was Sunday schooled for years in that tradition, but I don’t think I learned about Pentecost. I moved on from that tradition to a Baptist tradition — American, missionary and southern– where I was Sunday schooled and bible studied and sermoned at — but do not recall learning the significance of Pentecost. It was only during my journey through Methodism — several different flavors of Methodism– and my seminary studies that the full import of Pentecost pierced the veil of my understanding. And it is only during this Sabbath rest from church participation that I get the irony.

It is curious to me that we (we the church) observe this holy hush period of reflection called Advent leading up to the traditional observance of the birth of Jesus. Then there is this six weeks of reflection on sacrifice leading up to the traditional observance of Jesus’ death and Resurrection. Now we are at the traditional observance of the post resurrection experience called Pentecost, when the Holy Spirit, the promised comforter, teacher, truth revealer, power giving, spirit of God descended on Jesus’ followers who were waiting, as instructed, huddled together in fear of the Roman and Jewish authorities, in the upper room. Waiting. Praying. Waiting. Praying. Waiting. Praying. Tradition says, for about fifty days. The book of Acts chronicles the final descending of the Holy Spirit into that upper room as a rather violent, windy, fire like experience that left those in that room forever changed. So changed that not only did their language change, but their understanding of other languages changed. They waited. They prayed. Until their change came through a Holy visitation.

Such a beautiful thing to me is church tradition. The irony to me is that for all the acknowledgements of the day, the many days, the meaning of them, the hope of them, seems …….. lost in the observation. It is also ironic that only during this self-imposed exile, during which I am compelled to wait and pray, that I get this.

It’s Holy Week in Christian Circles. It’s the first Holy Week in nearly 20 years that I have intentionally absented myself from the traditional ebb and flow that begins with Lent, through Palm Sunday, the deliberate embrace of the heartbreak of Good Friday, to the Hallelujah chorus of Easter. I read the status messages of my Christian friends as they acknowledge the day and the season we are in, and I am moved in the same way that I would be if I was sitting beside them. I know what time it is; what day it is; and what season it is. I am moved by the universal embrace and celebration of our collective salvation as The Church. I am not moved or motivated to make my way to the building, any building, where these celebrations are occurring. Yet, I remember. I celebrate. I remember that the cost for my redemption was a price I could not pay. I remember that my redemption was paid for with blood and death. I remember that it was love for me, for ME, that held my Savior to the cross. And while it is today that we acknowledge the horrendous price, it is also today, and everyday, that I say Hallelujah to the Lamb of God who was slain but lives. I raise my heart and voice to celebrate and praise the King of Kings and Lord of Lords. Most likely I will not be among that number who gather to celebrate in the traditional building on Sunday morning. It is an odd, but OK for now, feeling. Walking in the quiet means that I am not choosing a path, at least not right now. Truth is that there are multiple paths that present themselves, but none in which Holy Spirit has said “here is a path, walk therein.” So I will walk forward, in the quiet, prayerfully observing the shiny objects on the side of the road. Pausing occasionally to act or speak as I am compelled, but then continuing on the road, to a destination yet unrevealed. A discovery (maybe re-discovery) this week as I was pondering being un-moored (set adrift), my direct encounters with the presence of God consistently happen in these periods of quiet dis-quiet. The quiet dis-quiet. Ahhhh … Thank you God for that revelation. But that is for another post! Wishing any who visit here a blessed Happy Easter. He is Risen!

It’s so hard to get perspective on anything when the noisemakers crowd out the voices of the truth tellers. My perspective on the media has changed how I take in information. During the 2008 election I made an intentional effort to read, watch and listen to different news sources, not the ones that shared my particular views on a given matter. It was enlightening, and disappointing, to learn that a single sound bite that is factually in error could make its way across the media universe and be touted, verbatim, as fact. I was amazed that what I thought was basic journalism – fact checking – was virtually ignored. I was shocked that opinions of the noisemakers then became the facts. No fact checking. No resource citations. Just simple opinion becomes facts. At one point I was so frustrated by the noisemakers that I posted on a blog that I followed what I now refer to as Sacred Conversation Part 1 (below). I felt a little better getting that out of my system and shortly after I took a media fast— no TV news, no talk radio, stopped reading beyond the headlines of the newspaper. I realized that it was making me sick—soul sick. I share it now because not a lot has changed since 2008. The precipitating incident is new, well sort of new. . But we, humanity, is still stuck in this place where healing does not seem possible. The “fixer” in me wants to believe that maybe if we could stop talking at each other with our respective armor up, rather than to each other with our hearts open, then maybe there is hope for us, hope for humanity. It’s hard to find the hope in the midst of the noise. Sometimes we have to absent ourselves from the noise. I guess maybe that’s what Jesus did when he left the crowds that followed him to find a quiet place to commune with his Father. Finding the quiet place to commune. Oh yeah, that’s what this blog is all about………….

Soul sick….Spirit sick …. If my spirit is sick, then you God, the spirit that lives in me, You, you are sick, grieved is probably the right word. You are grieved to see your children, the ones that make up the world, that you so loved, wounding each other out of our own woundedness. ‘Cause that’s where it comes from, right? We hurt inside, so we project that hurt outside. We are broken inside, so we use our words, our hands, our created instruments as weapons of warfare. It’s easier to lash out then to rise above. It’s hard for us God, to rise above. But your Word says that all things are possible, and that we can do all things, when we look to you, when we depend on you as the source of our strength, when we look to you as the source for our very breath. We, your children, need your help to rise above. We need your help to deal with each other with armor down, and hearts open. Help us, help me, to rise above. Thank you God for helping us. Thank you God for your Holy Breath. Thank you Jesus for showing the way. Amen. Amen. Sacred Conversation about Race, part 1 (originally posted in the God’s Politics yahoo group).

May 2008 “Because I’ve been deep into my textbooks I have not been following the dialogue on this group very closely. While perusing the topics, I noted the conversation about Rev. Wright and all the supposed controversy surrounding his remarks. A question that still seemed to be lingering was where or when Rev. Wright accused the US. Government of injecting African Americans with the virus that causes AIDS. I would be surprised if anyone could ever find such a definitive statement by Rev. Wright or anyone else. What you might find is plenty of speculation among African Americans on why this could be possible. Rev. Wright would have been accurately reporting, this speculation. I too, can attest to the speculation that exists. It was an extremely frustrating thing to deal with in the decade that I worked in the HIV prevention field. After HIV Prevention, I shifted into the minority health field. It was then that my real education began and how I have come to understand, not agree, but understand why some African Americans believe it could be possible. During the intensity of the Rev. Wright media storm, frustration and anger motivated me to post the following at a God’s Politics blog. I apologize for its length, but I believe it may answer the question……

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As a 50 yr old, middle class, professional, African American woman in the US, I struggle with the uneducated comments made here in this and other forums about how much has changed in the last 40 years, and how African Americans just simply “need to get over it” and the supposed “racism” of Rev. Dr. Wright and how he and others are just out of touch and factually wrong. My generation is perhaps the first to experience the “fruit” of desegregation. I remember my mother’s stories of separate entrances, sitting on the back of the buses etc. But I now have my own stories about being denied housing and how that although I now live, work, play and worship in an integrated environment there are frequent small and large reminders that I am still not always welcome or safe everywhere I go. I am still somewhat amused by the reactions I get upon meeting whites face to face when they have only spoken with me previously by phone. My point here is that, yes, there have been a lot of changes, but there is still a lot of unacknowledged pain and injustice that is just under the surface of race relations in this country. The only outlet for some of this has historically been the African American church. This was the only place where it was “safe” to talk about this.  For those of you who do not know how dangerous it was, then I invite you to visit the website “Without Sanctuary” to learn why “hanging nooses” could be considered American terrorism by many African Americans. For those of you who do not understand why African Americans may believe that AIDS was “manufactured” then I invite you to read the book “Medical Apartheid, The Dark History of Medical Experimentation on Black Americans from Colonial Times to the Present” published in 2006. Read this if you have the stomach for it. I would invite you to read about the government sponsored “Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment” which lasted from 1932 – 1972. In terms of how far we have come, I would invite you to read “Unequal Treatment: Confronting Racial and Ethnic Disparities in Health Care” which is an Institute of Medicine study released in 2002. “We” haven’t come as far as we would like to think. That said, to really examine how far we have come then you must at least know where we started. “Before the Mayflower, A History of Black America, by Lerone Bennett Jr, is a must read if anyone really wants to “seek first to understand”. Finally, I’m not convinced that African Americans want an apology. Speaking for myself at least, NO, that is not what I want. What I would like to see in my lifetime is an acknowledgement that these things happened, and because of this history a continuing culture and system of privilege exists for Whites today. This systematic injustice has and continues to result in disadvantage for African Americans and other minorities. What do we do about it? We make the effort to talk about it, even when, especially when, it’s painful and makes our stomachs tight (like mine is right now). We stay in the conversation. There is a saying in the recovery movement — “you can’t heal what you don’t feel.” We (African Americans) need to talk about the pain of our history and everyday experiences without having to worry about offending Whites. Not talking about it leads to festering wounds that never heal. Whites should work at educating themselves about the history that wasn’t taught in their schools, and listening without becoming defensive. All of us need to learn how to talk and listen without attacking, belittling or shutting the other down. I would like to feel a sense of hope that it is possible for the collective “WE” to go on a journey of discovery of that which unites rather than divides. I am saddened that this does not seem possible in my lifetime.

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I’m more encouraged now then I was a couple of months ago when I posted this. If you made it all the way to here, thanks for reading. It is because of you that I am encouraged.

Shalom” ************************************** Fast forward to March 2012—it’s not the Rev. Wright controversy this year.  Rev. Wright’s public reputation was destroyed in 2008. This year it’s Trayvon Martin, who was profiled, judged guilty, and who lost his life. And the noisemakers have geared up.  Armor is up.  Hearts are closed.  Let us all try to find a quiet place.