Ferguson: Why White People Need To Talk About It

protestI’ll preface by saying that this message is mostly for white people and white Christians in particular, though I offer it as a confession to all of my non-white friends as well.

On August 9, 2014, Michael Brown, an unarmed black teenager, was shot and killed by an officer in Ferguson, MO. Following this event, people took to the streets of Ferguson to protest not only the unjust killing of Michael Brown, but also the systematic oppression and racism experienced by people of color in that city and in our country. The police responded to these protests by deploying SWAT teams and utilizing military-grade equipment and protocols, including tanks, tear gas, and rubber bullets. The event facilitated a wave of protests in both Ferguson and around the country which have continued more than two weeks later. If you are unfamiliar with Michael Brown or the events that have been occurring in Ferguson, MO, go here to familiarize yourself. 

Since the event, I have posted article upon article upon article on my Facebook page in an effort to keep this on people’s radars. One week after the killing of Michael Brown, all I was seeing on Facebook were videos of the ice bucket challenge, and barely anything about Ferguson. (For an interesting article regarding the ways in which the ice bucket challenge may actually be obscuring/ignoring systemic injustice, read this.) The events of Ferguson deserve at least as much attention as this viral campaign has received, and my endless Facebook posts have been an attempt to keep this event at the forefront of people’s minds.

At the beginning of this entry, I posted a link for people to check out if they are not yet aware of what’s been happening in Ferguson. The title of this blog post is “Ferguson: Why White People Need To Talk About It.” The reason for these things is that—18 days after Michael Brown’s death, 18 days after protests started and continued, 17 days after the SWAT team was called in and tear gas and military-grade weaponry was deployed, 8 days after this police officer on the ground in Ferguson was suspended for pointing a weapon at protestors and threatening to kill them, 5 days after another police officer was suspended for a video that surfaced in which he said things like, “I’m into diversity. I kill everybody, I don’t care”, 2 days after Michael Brown’s funeral service occurred, which was attended by thousands (4500 people according to CBS news)—after all of this, I am still encountering white people who do not know who Michael Brown is and who do not know what is happening in Ferguson.

Yes, you read that right.

There are hundreds of reasons why this might be so. We could talk about the fact that “75% of of whites have ‘entirely white social networks without any minority presence,’” that “on average white Americans live in communities that face far fewer problems and talk mostly to other white people,”  and that maybe this lack of presence is rendering the experiences of people of color invisible to white folks. We could talk about the phenomenon that people who use Facebook are half as likely to bring up controversial political topics in fear of causing conflict or losing friends. Christians could talk about the fact that, according to a study performed in 2008, “only 7 percent of American churches are racially integrated” (we can only hope it’s gotten better since then), and consider whether the church’s separatism has something to do with the lack of integration.

For now, I’m choosing to talk about the decision of white silence.

 White silence is something that I’ve been complicit in, largely because I will never know what it’s like to walk in the shoes of a person who’s not white, and there’s a sense of not knowing how to deal with that tension. I never feel my skin. I never think about my skin until I’m in situations where white people are the minority in the room—and these situations are few and far between. I never worry when I’m around authority figures or police officers that they might be threatened by my skin color. I remember once after a cop pulled me over as a teenager, I opened the glove compartment to retrieve my identification. I didn’t have to think about whether the cop might mistake that as going for a weapon. I didn’t have to tell him why I was opening the glove compartment. In fact, I never once wondered whether I would come out of that experience alive. I never once wondered whether I was going to be unfairly arrested. I never once thought, “I better be careful right now because I’m white.”

It’s hard to think about the fact that my non-white friends have to think about these things. I don’t know how to resolve that tension, and I don’t always know how to talk about these things with non-white people. What I’ve come to understand, though, is that my inability to know how to resolve the tension does not mean that I have the right to be silent about it. In his blog post, “This Is What We Mean When We Say It’s About Race,” Jelani Greenidge says, “When impassioned people of color are saying that a particular event or issue is about race, what we’re aiming to both uncover and dismantle is the racialized system of interlocking societal institutions that perpetuate these kinds of outcomes. We’re not necessarily trying to blame you for what happened, as much as we’re asking you to consider your situation, consider the reality around you, and try to make it better for those of us who, for a variety of reasons, aren’t getting a fair shake.” As a white person, I have the immense privilege of not even having to think about race if I don’t want to, which means, of course, that I have the equally immense privilege of remaining silent—because I don’t have to worry about whether or not I’m going to get a fair shake as a white person. (As a woman, that’s a bit of a different story—though as a white woman, I’m still not too worried.)

White silence, or what can also be viewed as “impartiality,” is “the logic of privilege, the logic of those who are actually protected and served by the system and are so safe to give or withhold judgment freely.” It is this white privilege that not only gives me tacit permission to be silent when I read the stories of injustices that people of color have suffered, but it is also white privilege that renders these stories invisible. White privilege means that the following stories, all of which happened since the killing of Michael Brown, might not be something white people know about: 

Kajieme Powell, a black man, is killed by police in St. Louis. Police fired 12 shots because Powell was displaying erratic behavior and approaching them with a knife. Those who knew Powell state that he was suffering from a mental illness.

TV-Producer Charles Belk is cuffed and booked outside of a pre-Emmy event for being a “tall, bald head[ed] black male,” the description of a suspect in a nearby robbery.

Kametra Barbour, a black mother with four children in her car, was pulled over and detained at gunpoint—apparently her burgundy red Nissan Maxima looked a bit too much like the beige Toyota they were looking for? (Or maybe they saw a black person driving and figured she must have done something wrong anyway.)

White privilege means that the names Eric Garner, John Crawford, Ezell Ford, and Dante Parker, all unarmed black men killed by police in the last month, may have been unfamiliar before Ferguson, and may even remain unfamiliar now. Read more about their stories here

These are just some stories. How many more have occurred that I don’t know about?

In the past year I’ve taken two seminary classes about race, and it’s made me think a lot about privilege and silence. Silence means that racism goes unchallenged, that these things might never change. Silence means that violence will continue to occur and be deemed normal. As I’ve wondered how to challenge the notion of privilege and its oft-accompanied silence, the first step for me was to begin asking some pretty hard questions, both of myself and of the institutions in which I have found myself. Here are some of them:

In the two years that I served in AmeriCorps, the team I served with was overwhelmingly white, and in the school site where I was placed, most of the teachers and principals were white. The communities that we served were diverse, but the leadership was not always very diverse. Why?

Seattle does not lack diversity, but in the past two years the spaces I’ve found myself in have been incredibly white. The private Christian university where I’m in graduate school is really white. The church I’ve been attending for the past four years is really white. Most of my friends are pretty white too. Why?

The neighborhood I live in isn’t all white, but the majority of the neighbors whose names I know are white. Why?

After the death of Michael Brown, various social media sites began listing the names of other black men and women who lost their lives to police brutality. Some of the names I knew, many I did not. Why?

I don’t know the answers to many of these questions, but by asking them, I’m breaking a silence. I’m confessing white privilege—privilege that I didn’t ask for and wish I didn’t have—and attempting to step into a different kind of reality than what I’ve known in the past. I’m confessing that in the ways that I have been silent in the past, I have been complicit in this oppressive structure of white privilege. I am confessing that, as a church and as a society, we need to begin a deeper process of listening to the stories of non-white people in our lives, to attempt to understand the history of racial injustice and oppression in our country, and to actively seek out opportunities to learn under the leadership of those whose experiences and perspectives are different from ours.

The following are some of the ways that I am going to attempt to live as a result of this confession, and are ways that perhaps can be useful to some of my fellow white friends.

1. Find and participate in environments that value diversity, especially nonprofit organizations that work in areas of community building, poverty relief, and education.

Find an organization in your community with a diverse population and volunteer there. Make a concerted effort to get to know people of a different race and/or culture than you, whose experiences may not have been as easy as yours. I know many people who thought they knew everything about how to solve poverty, welfare, and racism, without ever having worked with people who are affected by these realities every day, and when they began volunteering in nonprofit agencies, their perspectives drastically changed. It is problematic if someone thinks s/he knows how to solve the problem of poverty, but has never known people who are experiencing it. It is problematic if someone judges a person on welfare, but has never known anyone trying to live through that system. It is problematic for a person to claim that racism doesn’t exist in our country, when that person does not have any non-white friends from whom s/he can learn.

2. Find some news sources that consistently report on the experiences of non-white people in this country, and check those sources often.

After seeing the names of people of color who have been killed or profiled by police in recent months, I wondered why I did not recognize a lot of them. I realized that the news sources I relied on were not reporting these things. I have since started following The RootUrban Cusp, and ColorLines, where I’m sure it doesn’t take military tanks rolling down the streets of a suburban neighborhood for news to make headlines.

3. Learn some history.

In my undergraduate program, I read a book titled Long Memory: The Black Experience in America, which profoundly shaped the way that I think about the experience of black individuals in American society. The authors state in the preface, “Convinced that the ideas articulated by blacks in poetry, song, folklore, novels, cartoons, plays, speeches, autobiographies, newspapers, and magazines reflected their attitudes and significantly affected their actions in the political, social, and economic arenas, we have relied heavily on such material in developing our themes.” The inclusion of various art forms in this history book not only makes for an incredibly interesting read, but also reminds me that the people in these history books are real, their stories are real, their pain is real. Other books that have been recommended to me in recent days are The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness, by Michelle Alexander, Racial Domination, Racial Progress: The Sociology of Race in America by Matthew Desmond and Mustafa Emirbayer, and The Condemnation of Blackness: Race, Crime, and the Making of Modern Urban America by Khalil Gibran Muhammad. I hope you’ll join me in reading some of them.

4. Be willing to be unpopular.

This week I attended a local event in which artists, activists, columnists, and scholars presented on the events of Ferguson. One presenter urged participants that if they wanted to be a part of a movement of change, they needed to be okay with being unpopular. One of my professors, Brian Bantum, said something similar once—that affecting change in the area of racial justice means being “that person” who always brings up the topic of race, who is always willing to say something and challenge people when it is clear that a racial injustice is happening. As a white person, talking about race has not made me the most popular kid in the club. People have argued with me, put me down, called me an idiot, and made me feel both incredibly angry and “less than” all at once. Despite this, however, I have committed to speaking up. It’s too important. I would rather lose friends than stay silent when black men and women are being systematically oppressed and executed by the very systems that have served to keep me privileged. If I am silent, I am complicit.

As the church, in this moment, it is incredibly important to be a part of this conversation. It is important for white people in the church to listen to our non-white brothers and sisters, to learn from their experience, to come under their leadership. As Christena Cleveland notes, “The gospel calls us not only into individual faith in Christ, but also into the multi-racial family of God.” This means that white Christians must be intentional about forming relationships with non-white people, learning about the experiences of non-white people in our society and elsewhere, and working to build bridges across racial divides through education and raising awareness.

I will conclude with this, from Brenda Salter McNeil and Rick Richardson’s book The Heart of Racial Justice: How Soul Change Leads to Social Change. They state, “What should the church’s response be in a world being torn apart by prejudice, hatred, and fear? We believe it is imperative that the Christian church regain its integrity to address injustice. This will require that we relinquish the individualism and isolation that have been prevalent among evangelical Christians in the past, so that we can develop new models of racial reconciliation, social justice and spiritual healing. Our unity and reconciliation efforts could be the greatest witness of the church to the power of the gospel in the twenty-first century” (Kindle Location 148).

There is indeed hope. Hope is found in the body of Christ uniting as one to “loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yolk, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke” (Is. 58:6). White Christians—don’t be silent. Don’t be complicit. Ask questions. Listen. Become more informed. Don’t be afraid to start conversations, and don’t be afraid to be unpopular. This conversation is simply too important to ignore.

Ferguson: Conviction, Lament, Hope

I have been sitting on this blog post for about a week now. There are so many things that I want to say, so many thoughts whirling in a hundred different directions, and it’s been hard figuring out what to write. Many Christians are writing about racism in our country, urging white Christians to wake up to these realities if they haven’t already and listen to the voices of those who experience racism every day. Others are writing about practical action steps and encouraging churches not to simply say they stand with Ferguson, but to show they stand with Ferguson. While I hope this will contain some of those elements, I think in this moment I simply need to reflect on the turmoil and tension that was happening within myself, a white woman who grew up in a white, privileged family, as I slowly began to see the story of Ferguson unfold. What follows is a narrative, and I hope that it expresses something of what many of us are feeling as we try to figure out where to go from here.

*****

I’m on vacation. My family and I are in a cabin in the woods in the middle of nowhere. We’ve been here since Saturday, floating in plastic boats on the lake, driving into town to shop and eat potato pancakes and omelettes for breakfast, laying in the sun. On Tuesday August 12, I hear the name Michael Brown because my friend has posted a Facebook status that says, “Peace to the loved ones of Robin Williams, Michael Brown, and all who are suffering or gone in Gaza and Iraq.”

Michael Brown? I google the name. Multiple wikipedia pages come up, but nothing that looks like it could be what my friend has referenced. The rest of my newsfeed is inundated with Robin Williams and something called the ice bucket challenge. It’s late at night, I’m tired. If the name is important, I’m sure I’ll find out more later. I sleep.

The next morning my family is watching the news, and I find out who Michael Brown is. Another black boy killed by a cop. I can’t believe that it’s taken this long for me to hear about it, that my google search didn’t turn up anything more last night. I should have searched more. Some family members start commenting about the news report, and the message underneath the words indicates something I’ve heard many times before—“of course they’re going to try and make this about race.” I don’t like what they’re saying. I shout at them, I leave the room, I stew. I decide to try not to think about it. I make some Harry Potter jokes on someone’s Facebook. I read some theology books I’ve been meaning to read for awhile. I try to get further on my 2048 game. I go to breakfast with the family. I post a picture of myself on Facebook holding a waffle cone—the epitome of summer vacations in Wisconsin. That photo gets 42 likes, and including my own contributions, 21 comments.

That night I start seeing more articles on Facebook about Michael Brown and Ferguson. Protesting, riots, militarized police. I start liking the ones I find pertinent. This feels risky, because I have many friends on Facebook who I know won’t be sympathetic to Michael Brown. I don’t want them to criticize me, and I hate arguing so I don’t want them to confront me. Maybe if I just “like” things instead of “sharing” things people will leave me alone.

But things get worse, and conviction settles in. I begin to remember things I learned in seminary classes from professors Brenda Salter McNeil and Brian Bantum about the responsibility of Christians to speak up when witnessing racism and injustice. I remember the reasons I joined AmeriCorps, and ultimately the reasons I decided to enter seminary—to participate in God’s work of loosening chains that bind and dismantling systems of oppression and violence. I remember the first time I started caring about racial justice at 17 years old in AP Government—I remember how passionate I was, how outspoken I was, how I devoured information about the civil rights movement. I remember listening to Bob Dylan’s the “The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll” and “Hurricane” over and over again. I wonder where that passion went.

I begin posting articles on Facebook, because finally I simply can’t not post. Over the next week and a half, 20 posted articles generates 29 likes. I wonder why a picture of myself with a waffle cone garners more attention than articles speaking truth about racial injustice in our country.

*****

It’s Tuesday. We’re driving to St. Charles, Missouri to visit more family. Over the next 36 hours I will see eighteen family members. We will eat meals together, go swimming, talk, go to a baseball game. It is difficult to get these many family members together at once, and this will be the only time I see them this year.

Ferguson is 14 miles away. Michael Brown has become personal to me, and this city has become something that I feel in my body, a deep weight that has settled in my chest. I protect that weight fiercely. I am personally affronted when I hear people criticizing the protestors or questioning Michael Brown’s character. I continually hear comments from people who simply wish that this would be over soon, or that the media would stop covering the events of Ferguson. I am so angry.

I feel profound tension. I have come to Missouri to visit family that I hardly get to see, to visit a grandfather who has just been moved into a nursing home. I need to spend as much time with them as I can. But I need to go to Ferguson.

It’s Wednesday. I have a three-hour window of free time. I take a cab to a bus stop, and then I’m travelling to Ferguson. It’s strange to me that I need to take a cab to get to the first bus station—to get in, to get out, means effort, means money, I think. On the first bus I’m the only white person. I feel my skin in a way that I haven’t in a long time. It’s good. I transfer to another bus. As we enter Ferguson I see stores with boards over windows and signs that say We ♥ Ferguson and Justice for Michael Brown. This bus is different than the first bus—no one is talking, it feels somber and heavy. I pray for the people on this bus, for the people in this community, for the people who are fighting every day to expose the injustice that has happened.

I get off the bus. I walk. It’s taken over an hour to get here. I need to be back in St. Louis soon because my family is going to a baseball game. I wrestle with whether to go because I want to be here, in this place, doing this work. I pray, I walk. It’s early afternoon, the street is quiet. I don’t want to leave. I stay as long as I can, then I get on the bus and begin the trek to Busch Stadium. I feel alone. I want to stay. 

The next day, I watch the video of Kajieme Powell’s confrontation with the police. Nine shots. Kajieme is killed, then cuffed. Feared even in death. I am shocked, though I don’t know why.

I should have stayed, I think. It wasn’t enough to just show up, to just pray. I should have stayed.

Later in the day, I see this:

photo 1

I am still angry at myself for deciding to attend the game instead of staying in Ferguson, but this feels like some sort of comfort from God. Even though I couldn’t stay, at least I went—and somehow, Ferguson was there at Busch Stadium too. There is not only history of Ferguson in this baseball team, but Ferguson is carried with me. My family looks at me and knows where I have been—my body, in this moment, is a reminder of Ferguson. There is continuity in this story despite the incongruity of these spaces, a stadium of cheerful fans and a city ridden with grief.

*****

I’m back in Seattle. I attend the Sunday church service at Quest, a church that is dedicated to racial reconciliation and freedom for the oppressed. I hear of the tangible ways this church is planning to support the people of Ferguson. I learn of future plans to stay committed to advocacy and education, to partner with other organizations and communities who fight this fight every day. I’m humbled at the opportunity to participate in this community. I’m hopeful.

peacevigil

Photo courtesy of Quest Church, Seattle.

There is a peace vigil at Westlake. Christians are invited to come and stand in solidarity with the people of Ferguson, to protest the killing of Michael Brown. I go. I don’t know anyone here, but we are all united in one purpose—to stand against injustice, to lament, to pray. We listen as pastors and leaders of the community speak truth. We sing African-American spiritual hymns. We pray. We chant “hands up, don’t shoot.” We hold signs that declare God’s truth. People stop and stare, take pictures, record videos. People stop and join us in prayer. The gospel is revealed, the gospel is declared, the gospel is heard. There is hope in that. There is hope in the body of Christ coming together for the sake of the gospel, committed to exposing and fighting against systemic injustices in our country and our world. There is hope, even in the profound tension of a life filled with the hope of Christ and the lament of fallenness. It is to this I cling as I move forward.

My vacation draws to a close on the day of Michael Brown’s funeral. I am reminded that there is no space of time in which we are immune to the painful realities of our world. Life is a profound tension of holding joy and sorrow in one body. Laughing with family members while mourning the loss of life in another’s. Attending a baseball game while people lament and protest injustice 14 miles away. Ice bucket challenges while police unleash tear gas on men, women, and children.

Can we hold these tensions within ourselves? Can we enjoy the life God has given us and still mourn? Is it possible to laugh, to play, to dance, and still stand against injustice and fight for freedom of the oppressed?

It is possible. I pray that we as a church, as one body of Christ, can figure out how to do it.

Today, I pray that we would let our sorrow encourage conviction, our anger drive us to action. I pray that God would use our lament for our own transformation, that we would not succumb to indifference or helplessness. I pray that we would not forget the joy we have in Christ, and that we would not forget to pray this joy over all people. I pray we would not forget Ferguson and Michael Brown, that we would not forget those who live with the realities of racial injustice every day. I pray that, as time moves forward, we would not let this become a mere shadow of our past. I pray that we will remember these days, that we will remain impassioned, that we as a church will continually stand for justice and peace, that we won’t forget. I pray that the joy in our lives would remind us of the reasons we fight—for the hope of Christ’s kingdom come. I pray that we will cling to the promise that God will wipe every tear from our eyes, that one day this world will no longer suffer under the weight of death and sorrow—and I pray that we will actively participate in God’s work to build this kingdom on earth. The call of Jesus requires it.

#PrayforSPU: Reflections on the tragic events at Seattle Pacific University

Screen Shot 2014-06-08 at 9.36.33 AMI don’t blog often, but if there is anything that warrants it, this is one of those times.

On June 5th my school experienced a tragedy that I never thought I would see firsthand. I remember watching the news for hours  during other school shootings, and I remember thinking to myself, “Thank God that hasn’t happened to my school.” With that kind of statement comes a sense of guilt, as well, because though it’s not true, you feel like you’re saying, “Thank God this has happened to someone else and not to me, not to my people.”

This has happened now. To me, and to my people.

I co-lead an undergraduate women’s Bible study, and Thursday night was going to be our last event of the year together. Our plan was to go to the beach, have a bonfire, eat good food and sing worship songs together as we celebrated the amazing year we have had. Another year of “making it through.” I went to pick up one of my small group women from the UW, and was parked outside of her house when I received a group text message. The first in the thread was from a friend I’d attended seminary with and is also a Seattle police officer. The message was simply, “You guys OK?” The next—“I’m okay, with friends in Bellevue.” The next—“We are in Bellevue, so we are okay. A bunch of people are in Kingswood [our seminary house] in lockdown.” The next—“Really good to know. I’m not working today, so I’m just getting scraps of info. Right, Kingswood, good place to be right now.” The next—“Glad you’re not working.”

My simple response—“What’s happening?”

What is happening? Why is there so much gun violence in this country? Why do the perpetrators all look the same? What are we doing to the boys and men in this country that makes them think this is a proper response to pain and suffering and anger? What systemic evil is in place that is so deeply engrained and yet so carefully obscured, such that the response of the people who knew this perpetrator was simply, “He seemed like such a normal guy.” I can only ask, is this what normal has become in our country? As Anna Minard from The Slog states, “this isn’t a new story, and it’s not a new event, not an unusual event, not a surprising event. There was a double-shooting this last weekend. There was a dramatic spate of gun violence in the city just a month ago. This is the world we’ve built.”

“There’s been a shooting on campus,” my friends told me. My first reaction was that it must have been at the bank, or maybe the 7-Eleven. There’s no way there’s been an actual shooting on campus. That doesn’t happen at SPU.

Except that it did. This is exactly what was happening.

I started receiving text after text after text, “Are you ok?” My response was—“I’m okay, I wasn’t on campus.” The latter portion of this statement is what has been turning over in many of our minds as we’ve begun to process. “I wasn’t on campus.”

It seems like something gets let off the hook when you say that. “I wasn’t on campus” means “I’m fine.” But a very wise friend of mine blogged about this and reminds us, “even if we were all safe, we were never going to be ok. We aren’t ok. I’m not ok.”

I was not on campus. But that does not mean this event is distant to me. It does not mean that I’m “okay” even if my body has not been broken, even if most of my friends were not in that building.

I had a class in Otto Miller just this past winter. A psychopathology class, in fact. Every Monday night we gathered in that building for three hours. We spent our breaks in the lobby, sitting on couches, standing in foyers, laughing, talking, commiserating. We never sat in the lobby and thought, “What if a gunman came in at this very moment?” We never thought to ourselves, “I don’t feel safe.” We never thought that someday the floors of that hall would be stained with the blood of our schoolmates.

We never thought these things, but now we must think them. We will never again live in the luxury that our school is the safest place we can be. We will never again enter Otto Miller without remembering the moment when a life was taken, when so many other lives were threatened, when evil pressed against us and over us and onto us so profoundly.

Checking Facebook in these times is the best and the worst thing. Your newsfeed is filled with prayers for SPU, with people checking in as they huddle together in the various buildings around the school, waiting for the lockdown to end so they know the threat has been contained. “There’s been a shooting on campus, I’m safe, please pray for us” was the status of many. Amidst these statuses were updates from people in other places just living their daily lives as though nothing happened. Here’s a selfie, isn’t the outfit I’m wearing to the bar tonight great? On a hike, aren’t these mountains beautiful? Watch this video of my dog performing the new trick I taught him!

Don’t these people know what has happened? Don’t they know that our world has been profoundly rocked, altered, disfigured? I don’t care about your selfie right now, I don’t care about these mountains, I don’t care about your dog. Don’t you know what has happened? How can you carry on as though nothing has happened?

These thoughts are not fair, I’m the first to admit that. But it so perfectly exemplifies where we were at, and where we continue to be. The world keeps moving on around us, people keep praying but keep going to work, keep living their lives, keep taking their selfies. We all do it—even we do it—but at the same time that we try to continue living our lives, going to work, writing our final papers and taking final exams—still, this tension lives in us. How can I possibly write a final in the midst of all of this? How can I possibly go to work? How can I live as though this hasn’t happened, as though this isn’t happening?

I wasn’t on campus, and “oh good” people say. I wasn’t on campus, and “it’s so weird, I knew that was your school so I just had to text you and make sure you weren’t killed!” people say. I wasn’t on campus, and “I need you to fill out this paperwork for corporate,” people say.

I wasn’t on campus, and “I’m glad you’re okay,” people say. I wasn’t on campus and “Thank God,” people say. I wasn’t on campus, and “are your friends okay?” people say.

So much tension. So many things to balance. People I haven’t talked to in months checking in to make sure I’m okay, and yet people I love dearly who haven’t checked in at all. We have all experienced this, every one of us. We are all trying to figure out how to balance these things.

The plan for Thursday night was to celebrate with my Bible study women, to sing songs of worship, to laugh together, to talk about the year, about what we loved and what was challenging, about things in the future that we were looking forward to and things we were scared about. Instead, many of those women were in lockdown. One of them was in lockdown in Otto Miller. An evening that should have been spent in celebration at the beach was spent praying, singing, and lamenting together in churches and buildings and outdoor venues around campus. Instead of celebrating our victories, we grieved our losses. Instead of rejoicing that we “made it through,” we mourned the young man who didn’t. Instead of ending the year with a sense of closure, we are ending it with a sense of ambiguity, of displacement, of wondering how things will ever look and feel normal again. Instead of looking forward to saying goodbye to this school for the summer, we want to cling so desperately to it, and to the people who are such wonderful family, whether we know them personally or not.

And tomorrow is Monday, and we must take finals, and sit in classrooms and libraries, and walk past memorials and signs of “We will overcome.” We must live in this new reality, this tension, this sense that nothing is okay but we must continue to live our lives.

I am so profoundly thankful for my SPU family, for my professors, for the people who are continuing to support this community. I am grieving, but am so grateful for this school, for these people, for the body of Christ that has surrounded us, for the face of God shining upon us. We remain faithful, we remain hopeful, despite the fact that our world has been torn.

A Brief Response to Boston

This morning we reel from continued news of the tragedy of Boston. As updates about the events of the past few days and newly discovered information about the suspects continues to be revealed to the public, I am left with an impending sense of dread of the public response.

Inevitably, when our nation is hit with tragedy such as this, we are quick to point fingers, to place the blame, to argue that “if only we had done such-and-such none of this would have happened.” People will say we need gun control, and our Facebook newsfeeds and Twitter accounts will suddenly fill with arguments about 2nd Amendment rights. Unfortunately, most of these won’t be real conversations or debates about the issue. People will post propaganda on their walls and “like” memes that mock the opposing side’s argument in disparaging and crude ways. Recent news reports have stated that the two suspects are Muslim. I can only imagine the kind of comments that will arise from this information, but I’m imagining a lot of religious bigotry, racial profiling, and hate speech.

Here are three thoughts I am left with as I prepare to move forward in light of these terrible events, and I would encourage all of us to consider them:

1. The actions of these two men were terrible and wrong. But I grieve for their souls. They were wrong—their actions were evil—but they were human souls. I grieve the fact that they clearly did not know what a gift it is to have been created by God for the purpose of loving God and loving others. I grieve that they did not honor others as made in God’s image, and I grieve the fact that they clearly did not recognize this in themselves.

2. As we prepare for the inevitable arguments about gun control and religious/racial profiling, let us remember those who are victims and survivors of these events. Let us remember and pray for them, their families, and their communities. Let us make a conscious effort not to let these events turn into mere bolstering of our existing political or religious affiliations. Let us remember the people who have suffered, and let us honor them.

3. Remember that God is here. God is present and God cares. It is difficult to see where God is in all of this, and why God would let this happen. We will probably never know the answer to that question in this lifetime. But when tragedy happens, we are called to bear God’s light, to display the light and life of Jesus to all the world. We are meant to be people of peace, hope, mercy, and love. We might not be able to see God in this—but let us remember that we are temples of God, that when we are in the presence of another believer, we see Jesus’ face looking back at us. When we can’t see God, it is these moments when community is most important. We are God’s hands and feet in this world—so let’s act as Jesus did.

To help me remember these things, I will be meditating on the following verses in the coming weeks to remind myself of who God is calling me to be in response not only to these events, but also to the inevitable maelstrom of vitriolic comments that are sure to emerge:

James 2:19-20: Everyone must be quick to hear, slow to speak, and slow to anger; for the anger of man does not achieve the righteousness of God.

Romans 12:18: If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.

Matthew 5:43-44: “You have heard it said that it was, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”

Matthew 5:3-10

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.

Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they will be called children of God.

Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

The Lorax and other things

The Lorax has always been my favorite Dr. Seuss book. I’ve always appreciated its message of  caring for the environment, and the dangers of colonialism and manifest destiny, and just how cute that little Lorax is when he speaks for the trees. I remember asking for the movie The Lorax on my 16th birthday and watching it again and again–and feeling wistful and yearning at the end, wishing that something had gone differently or something could be fixed.

I saw the remake yesterday, and though I won’t give away the ending for anyone who may have stumbled across this blog, I will say that I left feeling more complete–this was a movie of reconciliation and restoration and hope, whereas the previous version had a rather melancholy conclusion.

I’ve felt more hopeful about the church in recent years, and the growing concern in churches about issues of the environment, social justice, and even simply loving our neighbors. Granted, I’ve lived in Seattle for the past couple of years, where these are core issues of the political and social sphere, and incidentally, the primary focus, I would say, of the church I attend. It’s been easy to forget that people don’t operate from this mindset in other places–the church in particular. And it’s been easy to forget that one of my main reasons for leaving the church as a teenager was because of the lack of attention the church paid to these issues.

Last week I had a friend visit from Montana where I went to school for a year, and was reminded that 15 hours of distance really is a lifetime away, if I can express it that way. Montana’s beautiful, but in some cities things are a lot slower over there–not just in day-to-day living, but in mindset. I remember being mocked regularly about my vegetarianism, and my concerns about the environment and unethical industry practices denounced because meat-eating was “the way  of life” in Montana. I remember being ridiculed for my concerns on social justice, and people laughing at me when I expressed my anxiety about gun policies. I remember sitting in my dorm room at school while the guys “wrestled” a pig before they shot and slaughtered it, and after the school had feasted on it, was pressured into participating in the social hour in the dining hall where I could still smell remnants of that poor pig. And these were Christians treating me–and each other–this way.

This week I’m back in Milwaukee, Wisconsin for spring break, and I’m again reminded of the vast cultural and theological differences that made me want to escape this place to begin with–where phrases like “All those Mexicans need to learn to speak English if they’re gonna be stealing our jobs over here” are abundant, and recycling is a thing of the distant future. I’m deemed a Leftist and a liberal because I’m concerned about the ideological implications of our vernacular, because I don’t think that birth control is only for women who want to have a lot of sex without the consequences, because I’m concerned about the psychological implications of negative self-talk and communication, and because I don’t think that every single detail in the Bible is to be interpreted in a literal context (four corners of the earth, anyone?).

Jesus’ message to us was to continue His work, bringing the kingdom of God to view with mercy, justice, and peace–and yet there is dissonance, there is a lack of understanding of what this means, and how we are to bring this about. I’m reading a book called When Helping Hurts in which the authors discuss the great shift of thinking concerning the evangelical perspective on helping the poor:

“The idea that the church should be on the front lines of ministry to the poor is not a new concept in the North American context. As numerous scholars have noted, prior to the twentieth century, evangelical Christians played a large role in ministering to the physical and spiritual needs of the poor. However, this all changed at the start of the twentieth century as evangelicals battled the theological liberals over the fundamental tenets of Christianity. Evangelicals interpreted the rising social gospel movement, which seemed to equate all humanitarian efforts with bringing in Christ’s kingdom, as part of the overall theological drift of the nation. As evangelicals tried to distance themselves from the social gospel movement, they ended up in large-scale retreat from the front lines of poverty alleviation. This shift away from the poor was so dramatic that church historians refer to the 1900-1930 era as the ‘Great Reversal’ in the evangelical church’s approach to social problems” (Corbett & Fikkert 45).

How sad that theological and ideological differences caused this split, and the result is that, in the eyes of many in the “fundamentalist” or “conservative” church, concern about social justice, the environment, poverty alleviation, and civil rights is a “liberal” issue. Concern about what should be done regarding the Trayvon Martin case is a “liberal” issue. Concern about how to treat your gay neighbor is a “liberal” issue.

A couple of months ago I was very struck by the article “I’m Christian, unless you’re gay,” which highlights the issue of Christians judging and condemning anyone who is different than them–even other Christians. The author says, “Why is it that sometimes the most Christlike people are they who have no religion at all?”

When Jesus’ message is one of hope and love and reconciliation, why is it that when people think of “Christian” they think of hate and condemnation? When Jesus’ message is to let the oppressed go free and care for the poor, why is that when people think of “Christian” they think of colonialism in the name of evangelism, or war, or Rick Santorum, or Mitt Romney?

How did it come to be that the body of Christ became synonymous with any of these?

I don’t know how it came to be–but after continually pondering these issues I’m left with the feeling that Christians who don’t live this way, who are trying to do what Jesus said to do–“loosen the bonds of wickedness, undo the bands of the yoke, let the oppressed go free and break every yoke, divide your bread with the hungry, bring the homeless poor into the house, when you see the naked to cover him” (Isaiah 58:6-7)–we need to be louder. In love. Whatever way we can be. And it might be the simplest thing.

For me, I need to shed the fear of disagreeing with my family and friends in these matters–to make my stance known. The problem is that when you make your stance known, oftentimes the other party feels that you’re condemning them, even if your delivery is made in love, or in the interest of scholarship. But I’ve come to realize that if I’ve done everything I can to deliver my message in love, if I’ve done it using all the great communication training and experience I’ve had, and I’ve done it to the best of my ability, then I can be at peace with that, even if my message isn’t received well.

Because above all else, I think that Christians need to learn to love others–and as this mom’s response to her teenager’s report on the “I’m Christian, unless you’re gay article” proves, there is hope that we are moving forward.

We can disagree with a lifestyle choice without declaring hatred. We can disagree with a lifestyle choice and still love people. We can be Christians and care for the environment, because caring for the environment doesn’t mean that we agree with abortion or Democratic political policies or socialism. We can be Christians and show love and acceptance to gay couples without supporting gay marriage. We can even be Christians and agree with certain socialist ideologies, because the church, in Acts 4, was essentially a commune.

It’s hard to get people of an opposing viewpoint to listen to you, but it’s pretty impossible when all they feel from you is hatred. As my AmeriCorps supervisor always says, “People will never remember what you say, but they will always remember how you made them feel.” Let’s be the love of Christ to people in the world. That’s not a call to abandon our spiritual convictions or act against our personal theologies. It’s a call to hold fast to Truth while still practicing love–which is, in my opinion, the more difficult path.

When thinking of the state of the church as a whole, I used to have that same wistful, yearning feeling that the original Lorax movie left me with. A state of incompleteness, of wishing that something could be different. I’m seeing glimpses of what the church could be and it gives me hope, but I know we have a long way to go. My greatest desire is to see the church become the second version of this film–the one with reconciliation, with hope, with a feeling that this is how it’s supposed to be–a world where people in the church can express love to each other and to those outside of the church even while holding opposing views, a world where Christians–all Christians–can feel comfortable caring about God’s creation and His people without feeling like they are subscribing to any particular political ideology.

I know we can get there. I’ll keep praying. And hoping.

a glimpse of things to come

Sometimes I get these glimpses of eternity, these visions of glory, a sense of what heaven will be like. Last night I had the awesome opportunity of getting together with three amazing women and spending an evening eating good food, having good conversation, dancing, and making awesome music. I can’t remember the last time I felt so warm from just having fellowship with other believers. And I love worship. My heart comes alive. I haven’t realized how much I’ve missed worship since my church doesn’t do as much worship as I’d like. We had three guitars and our voices–and only one of us was really good at guitar but it didn’t matter. We learned chords and messed up and laughed and attempted crazy rhythms and failed and laughed some more, but we sang to the Lord with abandon and it was beautiful.

I love these moments, when I feel so alive and free and welcome–these moments when I can’t even feel the time passing. It makes me long for the eternity set before us, when these intimate moments will be every moment, and even more than what is possible to imagine now. It makes me savor these moments now, and anticipate the coming glory of His kingdom. And perhaps most significantly–it makes me long to create more space in my life for these moments.

Exodus 17-18

As I’m working through Exodus, I’m realizing that the theme of this book seems to be one of dependence–dependence upon God and dependence upon one another. Consider the following passages:

Exodus 17:11-12

Exodus 18:13-27

Amalek is only defeated when Moses’ hands are held high by his friends, and Jethro warns Moses of the dangers inherent in trying to take on everything alone.

In my journey, I’m reminded that not only am I called as a follower of Christ to accept the love, care, and help of people, but I’m also called to bestow that upon others.

A friend of mine called me this weekend and told me about a sermon Joyce Meyer preached, in which she cautions believers not to disregard the interruptions of life. In our society, when our normal routine is disrupted we tend to become annoyed. I know this is true of me. Often, if someone stops me while I’m walking to my destination, I’m busy thinking about the  minutes lost rather than what the person is trying to tell me. Or when someone I haven’t talked to in awhile calls me, I’ll answer out of a sense of obligation, but then my time on the phone with them is spent thinking about other things, or wishing I was off the phone so I could be reading or doing something else.

And then there are other interruptions. I’m at a strange season in life where relationships are constantly being interrupted. In 2009 I entered a one-year Bible college, where my faith was grown and challenged and I felt so alive for the first time, and was able to build friendships like I never had before. But when May came along and we all said goodbye, I felt like these friendships were ripped from me, and nothing would be the same. Since then I’ve entered an AmeriCorps program, in which terms of service last 10.5 months. I committed to two terms of service–but not everyone did. In July of last year I said goodbye to very close friends I had made over the year, and July of this year I’m sure I’ll do the same.

In a sermon that was preached this Sunday, the pastor was discussing how God interrupts our lives–and reminded us to look for the unexpected surprises and those uncomfortable moments when God is telling us to move in a direction we never thought we’d be asked to go. This guy is one of the big guys in charge at World Relief, in his 50s, and he left his job where he was making tons of money in order to enter the not-so-secure nonprofit work in social justice. And then he went to Rwanda and adopted a kid! Think of how God interrupted this guy’s life, and what his life would have been like had he told God “no.”

In this discussion of interruption, I’m also reminded that not only do I need to be willing to have my life interrupted, but I need to be willing to interrupt the lives of others. That sounds weird to say. But I’ve come to find that interruptions, though they can be painful and annoying when I’m the one being interrupted, often bring about the greatest outcomes. They create dependency–sometimes someone’s leaning on you, sometimes you’re leaning on them–or maybe we’re leaning on each other. But I need to be a part of people’s lives and not shy away, even though sometimes that concept makes me fearful. Sometimes, I need to be an interruption. Sometimes I need to be the one holding their hands up to help them get through the battle. And sometimes I need to trust that their words and actions will support me, too.

God, I know you have a plan in all of this. There must be some reason why you are putting this idea of dependence and interruptions in my thoughts. The concept of interruptions makes me nervous, but I know You are sufficient. It’s been rough–these constant interruptions in relationships and life. I feel so lonely sometimes. I know You are building something in me through all of this, something valuable that will shape and mold me into the image of your Son. I pray that as you continue to mold me through these interruptions, that I will be willing to be your clay, that I won’t be too discouraged. That you will help me. And I pray that you will help me not to be afraid to be the interruption in someone else’s life–to know that I can be Your instrument. Help me not to be afraid to go all in for people, even when I know they will not be here forever. Help me not to be afraid to take the first step. And please show me what You have for me Lord, show me what You would have me do, and how I can best serve You and love You by serving and loving the people You have created.