A love letter in hard times

I, perhaps like you, have found myself many times this year curling into a ball under the covers as I awaken to the creeping existential angst that comes with each new disaster, each new political headline. I’ve grown numb to headlines about nuclear war, lies from politicians, national trauma, even death. How can each new story affect me, when the ones before it haven’t even had time to settle?

Overload leads to paralysis, paralysis to lots of Netflix. (Everything in moderation, my dad always said- but this consumption has lately not been very moderate).

Today, in an effort to break the malaise, I turned to those individuals who had been on my mind more and more lately- the authors and theologians who lived and wrote through WWII. This seed of thought began while reading Thomas Merton’s The Seven Storey Mountain earlier this year- while there were many interesting and profound aspects to it, the thing I was most struck by reading it in this particular year was that even in the midst of global calamity and violence, coffee was still served in cafes and discernment to monasteries still happened and people still fell in and out of love.

Life for many went on, at a very basic level, just as it had before the war, and just as it would after the war. It is naïve to admit, but in all the history I have studied this came to me lately as a surprise. That underneath big historical moments, people still made plans to meet up for lunch.

That in the midst of this time, of great upheaval and change and discord, I still have a job that needs doing and bills that need paying and an internal life that needs tending.

As I stared at my bookshelf, I grabbed two books- Markings by Dag Hammarskjöld, and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis.

I started with Markings, which is more a series of short quotes or reflections from a truly accomplished and great man (more here). I share a few of the excerpts that struck me, like a punch in the gut, today.

“Your cravings as a human animal do not become a prayer just because it is God whom you ask to attend to them.”

 “You cannot play with the animal in you without becoming wholly animal, play with falsehood without forfeiting your right to truth, play with cruelty without losing your sensitivity of mind. He who wants to keep his garden tidy doesn’t reserve a plot for weeds.”

Whoa.

What our fear, hatred, and misunderstanding cause us to pray does not become God’s because we ask it of God. What we propose in the name of God does not become of God because we say it is so- this is, in part, what the Bible so often calls idol worship. Mistaking our own idols of self and prejudice for God. And we cannot fight cruelty with cruelty, without losing our own compassion. Hate does not grow justice, in our world or in our own hearts. My own fear, even spoken in the name of God, is still not of God.

I then turned to C.S. Lewis’s famous text, The Screwtape Letters. If you haven’t read it, I recommend you do- in it, Lewis imagines that an “"Uncle" demon is writing to his "nephew" demon on how best to accomplish the devil’s work of distracting humans from God. It is humorous, uncomfortably true, and illuminating. The passage I opened to this time felt divinely appointed for me today.

“The great thing is to prevent [the human from] doing anything. As long as he does not convert it into action, it does not matter how much he thinks about this new repentance. Let the little brute wallow in it… Let him do anything but act. No amount of piety in his imagination and affections will harm us if we can keep it out of his will. As one of the humans has said, active habits are strengthened by repetition but passive ones are weakened. The more often he feels without acting, the less he will be able ever to act, and, in the long run, the less he will be able to feel.”

So why do I call this a love letter in hard times? Because I write to you all, my internet peoples and IRL peoples, to say that shit’s really rough right now. And that the bad news is, it’s been terrible before. And the good news is, it’s been terrible before.

If we allow this to keep us from acting, or allow it to excuse us acting in hate, we risk losing the very heart of what makes us human. This is a love letter because love is about resiliency, about showing up when it’s inconvenient or tough. Because love is of God.

And I see love from so many of you in ways big and small; from those I see daily or weekly, and even from those who message me online to let me know I mean something to them even though we haven’t spoken in years. I see the resiliency in this love, woven over many years and in so many places, and I feel bound together and held in that knowledge during these hard times.

Difficulty can be a gift when we allow it to unveil that which we should have seen before, and transform who we are now into the fullness of who we can be. Because quite frankly, if it is happening anyway, we may as well take control of its effects and bend them towards love and real justice. First within ourselves, and then within the world around us. Lest we run the risk of, as Lewis writes, allowing imagination to pass for action, inner anger to pass for outward justice.

“The overtones are lost, and what is left are conversations which, in their poverty, cannot hide the lack of real contact. But why? Why—?

We reach out towards the other. In vain- because we have never dared to give ourselves.” Dag Hammarskjöld

The story around us may be new, but the work before us is much the same. Life somehow goes on, and the bills must be paid and the inner life must be tended. We must remain awake, and hold on to love. And as always, in each day to day moment, we are asked: “Will we dare to truly give ourselves?”

Sermon from 2.26.17- the Transfiguration

For those who asked, here is my sermon on the Transfiguration from 2.26, the Last Sunday of Epiphany. Here are the texts from that Sunday, if you're interested. xo

Praying for our enemies, especially when we think they're awful.

One function of love is that it can help us see past ourselves- unfortunately, this often means seeing the brokenness in ourselves we would rather not see.

These are terrible times, and perhaps like many of you I have been anxious and scared and angry. I have posted angry things on social media, and I have said disparaging things about President Trump and those who voted for him. I have felt justified in this because of the outrageous things he and his affiliates have done. I want to stand for what is right and true and just.

And to be honest, I have denounced the vitriol from the far right as I have applauded it from far left.

So it was painful on many levels to see the discussion within the Episcopal Church regarding the National Cathedral choir's participation in the Inaugural Prayer Service and the Inauguration itself. I love the National Cathedral- I was sponsored for ordination from there, and remain close with many there. And I despise the actions and rhetoric of President Trump.

I found myself in a deeply painful quandary. And as I tried to parse out my own thoughts and feelings, I started to read what others were saying. On Facebook groups specific to Episcopal clergywomen, on Twitter, on people's personal pages. The anger and hate which flared up and was fanned by misinformation spread swiftly and violently through social media, landing squarely on the shoulders of those I love.

I was heartbroken. And pissed. Like, really pissed. Not theologically or anything- I was pissed to see people I know and respect going after people I love in a way I experienced as hurtful or mean-spirited. (To be clear, not all responses were such, and I am all for good disagreement and discussion. Anyway. Keep going for my real point here.)

Suddenly, I was seeing the very hate which was denounced by many on the left coming from the left. The inclusiveness of the white Christian left I identified with had reached its boundary, and those left outside it were subject to its derision and dismissal.

In short, I saw that we had become those whom we had claimed to hate. And I might have never felt it were it not for love, I am sad to say.

As I read Presiding Bishop Curry's statement in regard to President Trump, I was struck by this portion in particular:

"I grew up in a historically black congregation in the Episcopal Church. We prayed for leaders who were often lukewarm or even opposed to our very civil rights. We got on our knees in church and prayed for them, and then we got up off our knees and we Marched on Washington. Following the way of Jesus, we prayed and protested at the same time. We prayed for our leaders who were fighting for our civil rights, we prayed for those with whom we disagreed, and we even prayed for those who hated us. And we did so following the Jesus, whose way is the way of unselfish, sacrificial love. And that way is the way that can set us all free." (Full statement here)

It struck me that, for many white folks like me, this is the first time we have been afraid, like really afraid, of a leader. Of a President. I can't speak for everyone, but I see a lot of white fear out there.

So what struck me was that this is not a new experience for much of the black church. They have long been praying for and praying with leaders who work against their basic dignity and rights, all the while marching in the streets and fighting for justice. They have long had to hold the contradictory together as Christians. 

Instead of doing what white people are notorious for doing- acting like we're the first to discover things- I started to wonder... how can we white folks learn about real, deep, painful prayer from our brothers and sisters of color? (To be clear- people of color have enough on their plates right now and are not obligated to be our tutors- the hard work is for we who are waking up. How can we listen and watch and learn and not oppress?) How can we white women learn from black women and women of color about how to "find a way when there is no way?" Because there are leaders already among us who have been leading in dangerous times for a long time. They know things I don't. They remind me that just because many of us feel something now does not mean it is new.

Jesus calls us to pray for our enemies, and to work for justice. Back to the words of the wise and faithful Bishop Curry:

"We can and, indeed, I believe we must pray for all who lead in our civic order, nationally and internationally. I pray for the President in part because Jesus Christ is my Savior and Lord. If Jesus is my Lord and the model and guide for my life, his way must be my way, however difficult. And the way [of] prayer for others is a part of how I follow the way of Jesus.

This practice of praying for leaders is deep in our biblical and Anglican/Episcopalian traditions. Psalm 72 prays that the ancient Israelite king might rule in the ways of God’s justice, defending “the cause of the poor,” bringing “deliverance to the needy.” 1 Timothy 2:1-2 encourages followers of Jesus to pray earnestly for those in leadership, that they may lead in ways that serve the common good. Even in the most extreme case, Jesus himself said, while dying on the cross, “Father forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing,” was praying for Pontius Pilate, the Governor of Rome who ordered his execution, and for all who were complicit in it."

This prayer muscle in the white church has atrophied under the privileges of white supremacy, I contend. Mine has. Because white supremacy doesn't just take away the humanity of people of color- it also erodes the humanity of white folks. It is naïve to think white supremacy hasn't seriously impacted the white church just as it has the black church.

How can we as the white church learn from the hard work of our brothers and sisters of color, particularly the black church, and how can we exercise our atrophied muscles through prayer for those we hate or find incomprehensible? We seem to have quite a lot of time on our hands to practice this, especially as we also act. 

Will these fearful times form us, or will we form these times into something more resembling the Christ we love and follow?