Mourning with those who mourn…

I almost didn’t write this. I’m a straight, white male. Christian. Educated. I’ve had no crosses burned on my lawn, no hateful names yelled at me as a child by other children who didn’t understand what they were saying, or by adults who definitely did know what they were saying. I don’t feel the fear that many of my friends felt when they woke up this morning – the fear that maybe they are not as welcome in this country that is their home as they thought they were – as they deserve to be.

But tonight I have friends who are mourning – that the America they thought they lived in, that they thought would welcome them, that they thought they belonged to, does not exist in the way that they thought that it would, in the way that they hoped it would. Refugees. Undocumented children, women, and men. LGBTQ friends. Muslims. Latinos. Women and girls. Syrians. Women and men of color. Theirs are the voices you should be listening to tonight. Theirs are the words you should be reading. I merely want to stand by them.

All I can offer is my support. My presence. My love. My love to all of you who mourn. My love to all you who feel shell-shocked. I am with you, and for you… My life – our country – would be the poorer for your absence.

—–

But I can’t stay completely silent. To see friends, family, and strangers – many of whom are Christians – celebrating the election of the same man that is celebrated with such glee by David Duke, by the far-right neo-fascist nationalist parties in Europe, by neo-Nazis and white supremacists and white nationalists in the United States, by the KKK, by Putin, LePen, Farage – it is disturbing, and disheartening, and cause for grief.

—–

I grew up in a village in the Andes mountains with an outhouse. I played with my Quechuan neighbors in the dirt outside our home, speaking a mixture of Quechua and Spanish and the universal language of play: floating sticks down the irrigation ditch, chasing and being chased by the pigs and the sheep. But I had a US passport. I had opportunities that so many of my neighbors lacked. Not because I worked for it, or because I was better than them, or smarter than them. Completely unearned.

And when I graduated high school (I got to go to school, and didn’t have to stop studying in order to put food on the table for my family) I boarded an airplane and flew to another country – the country I was “from,” and had grown up hearing so many wonderful things about.

America. The land where all men and women are created equal. The land of opportunity. A country that was “blessed by God.” The land where freedom of speech and freedom of religion and freedom of the press and freedom of assembly were foundational. The country that said “I might disagree with what you say, but I’ll fight for your right to say it…” The country that stood for something – that welcomed immigrants and those who were willing to work hard – that lived up to the ideals of “give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to be free…”

But when I arrived, I slowly discovered what many who grew up here and experienced life from the margins already knew – that the ideals often failed to live up to the reality.

I still had hope.

(scratch that…)

I have hope.

(actually, scratch that…)

As Dr. West says, “I am a prisoner of hope.”

It’s hard to maintain hope though, when the children you work with every day – those who have fled violence, hunger, religious persecution, and have come through strong and brave and creative and resilient – when they are demonized and told to “go back to where you came from.” When they are told there isn’t enough for those of us already in the lifeboat, so please move along. “I’m sorry you were born in the wrong place, but that’s your fault. Next time, be born in a better country… or with a better skin color… or to a better religion…”

—–

Am I my brother’s keeper?

Who is my neighbor?

—–

If you accept me, but not the people I grew up with, my neighbors, my co-workers, my friends, the people I love, where does that leave us?

Is the only reason I’m accepted in this country the color of my skin, that I say the right things, that I fit in, that I am a member of the in-group, that I can pass?

Because I can. For a while.

(Until we start to talk about baseball, or any college sports, and then it becomes pretty clear that I am a fraud and an impostor who is not a “real American.” Or until I grow tired of stifling what I really think and feel because I am afraid it will alienate people that I love.)

Dishonesty is a small price to pay for the absence of conflict right?

But only out of honesty comes shalom – peace – wholeness – reconciliation. Only out of telling the truth – the whole, messy, honest truth, can we know each other and be known. Only then can we embrace freedom.

So I am going to try to be honest, and try to tell the truth. I don’t want to be silent.

—–

My love to all of you friends who mourn. My love to all you who feel shell-shocked. I am with you, and for you…

—–

For my friends and family who are Christians – it doesn’t matter who you voted for. But it does matter how you treat others. It does matter if you stand up for those who don’t have the privilege you wield without thinking. Your words matter. Your actions matter.

—–

I heard Trevor Noah last night. He was born in 1984 in South Africa. Mandela was still in prison, apartheid was the law of the land. It was illegal for his parents to be together.

He said:

“You can be dejected. You can be sad. But don’t let it turn in to fear.

Because that’s what Donald Trump used to get his side to do something that they never should have done.”

—–

Perfect love casts out fear.

We mourn.
We rest.
We will rise.
We will walk.

There is much to be done.

Ryan

My friend Ryan is dying.

If you want to get technical about it, we’re all dying, slowly, one day at a time – moving closer towards the day we eventually, inevitably, some day die.

But he is much closer to death than I.

He has cancer, and it’s been aggressive, and virulent, and over the past year it has been slowly killing him.

He’s done chemo. He’s received treatments. He’s tried it all.

We’ve prayed. We’ve fasted. We’ve wept.

And the cancer is still winning.

We got an email from his mother a few nights ago, telling us that he’s not doing well – in pain, on hospice care, and fading fast.

And my heart breaks. It breaks for Ryan, who is dying so young. It breaks for his family – for his mother and father who are watching their son fade away, for his siblings who are losing their brother, for his “family” here in Chicago that has come to love him and walk alongside him and meld their lives with his, and will miss him more than we know.

I’m tired of death.

I’m just so tired of it.

A few of us are driving up to visit him tomorrow – to move some of his things home – to show him again that he is loved – to spend time praying and pleading once more for his life, for healing, for restoration and resurrection, knowing full well that it is possible, and hoping against hope that the answer is “YES!”

But, in case the answer is “no,” we go up to say good-bye.

Good-bye…

And we mourn. We weep.

…but not without hope…

 

Hope

 

Hope for the day when all things are made new.

 

“The City becomes the Bride adorned for her husband and comes in fine linen to the marriage supper of the Lamb.

…The Signs and the Promises detonate each other, and the freight of imagery, accumulated over a thousand years, bursts out in one blinding flash: For the Temple has become Jerusalem, and Jerusalem has become the Bride, and the Bride has become the Mystical Body, and the Lamb and his Wife are one. And everything is Christ, and everything is the Bride, and everything is the City where there is no temple, sun or moon, but only the Lamb who is its light. And the River flows back from the dawn of creation, and the Tree of Life returns from Eden, and the Gates of Jerusalem are not shut at all by day, and there is no night there. The tears, the sorrow, the crying and the pain are gone. It is all gardens, gallant walks and silver sounds:

There they live in such delight,
Such pleasure and such play,
As that to them a thousand years
Doth seem as yesterday.

By the drawing of the Mystery, the world has passed from its lostness and found him whom her soul loves. The Beloved comes leaping upon the mountains, skipping upon the hills. The time of the singing perpetually begins.”

~ Robert Farrar Capon, Hunting the Divine Fox

And so we will mourn, but believing, hoping, trusting that Ryan will know peace, rest, delight, embrace, and perpetual song.

This is not the end…

 

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For those of you who pray, pray with us…

Thank you.

Bleeding daylight

Something about Tuesday nights makes me want to sit down and write… (that’s not entirely true. I may not want to write, but it’s times like that I need to sit down and make myself tell stories and share life, thoughts, and ideas.)

That said, I manage to put it off to super-late, and am falling asleep… so, in light of that, quick vignette for the day…

Dang it. No vignettes for now… I think my problem is that lately I have been seeing connections everywhere – I haven’t been able to take things in isolation – and the individual instances of the day to day aren’t representative of the whole – of what moves my heart, excites me, challenges me, relaxes me, makes me angry…

I was reading recently that writing is about making choices – beginning with a blank page (or screen) and filling it – choosing which words go where, what stories to tell or not tell, what details to fill in or leave blank… and my choices have been paralyzing me lately.

—–

I’ve been re-reading Gary Haugen’s “The Good News about Injustice” with this Servant Team who’s now here – this morning we say down and discussed the first part – I forget how good it is, and the hunger for justice that it wakes in me… Since then, a couple of songs by different Bruces have been resonating with me…

Bruce Springsteen singing a classic from the great depression – sung again shortly after Hurricane Katrina… the chorus is simple, poignant, and true “How can a poor man stand such times and live…” – and at the end the Boss sings “gonna be a judgement that’s a fact, a righteous train rolling down this track…”

Bruce Cockburn (a favorite, and proof that good things can come from Canada) has some great songs – two in particular have played over and over in my head today. In one (called “If I had a rocket launcher“), he sings “I don’t believe in guarded borders and I don’t believe in hate. I don’t believe in generals or their stinking torture states… I wanna raise every voice. At least I’ve go to try. Every time I think about it water rises to my eyes. Situation desperate, echoes of the victim’s cry…”

“Water rises to my eyes…” When I walk the streets of the favelas, and truly see what is going on like I did tonight, water rises to my eyes. Longing for hope, longing for change. And we do what we can. It is so little, and the need is so great. Many refuse what we do offer – an evening off the street, some food, talking, medical care, prayer… and yet, we keep offering.

Ran into a young boy named Tiago* who used to be on the streets downtown. I hadn’t seen him for almost a year – he’d graduated from the downtown streets to the favela streets. That means more drug abuse, more violence, closer ties to traffickers… I stopped and talked to him this evening amidst the smells, smoke wafting, crack, coke, and marijuana mingling as pushers yell out and offer free samples to 10-year olds… My heart burns. When I call him by name, he smiles, and is shocked. “You remember me. You remember…” it’s not enough to pull him away from the crack, but for a second, he is touched.

Bruce Cockburn has another song (“Lovers in a dangerous time…”) – in it, perhaps my favorite line in any song, ever…

– “When you’re lovers in a dangerous time, sometimes you’re made to feel as if your love’s a crime. But nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight. Got to kick at the darkness ’til it bleeds daylight.” –

That’s what I’m still doing here in Brazil. Kicking at the darkness…