You can listen to this sermon here.
Scripture
Amos 7:7-17
Good morning, church.
You know, at first I thought Pastor Budd
asked me to preach just to get out of this week’s lectionary. That would be a wise decision on his part... Because, really, who would want to preach on
this scripture? It’s pretty terrible. But then I thought - maybe there was some
divine wisdom in his actions. Because Budd
knows I’m drawn to the prophetic in scripture, and the prophetic tradition in
our shared history. When you look deeper
at this scripture, you realize the connecting theme is resistance to prophets.
You see, Mark here is foreshadowing the
experience of Pilate and his powerlessness against the system he’s required to
uphold when confronting Jesus. Herod was
a Jewish leader, a part of the Jewish elite that was chosen by Rome to rule
over the Jewish sect of people in Roman times.
He was awarded his power by a system, owed his allegiance to that
system, and wore his privilege as abundance.
He threw lavish parties, extravagantly rebuilt two Galilean towns, and
rubbed elbows with the Imperial family. Herod
Antipas was a ruler for the history books.
But the promises Herod made to the
system came back to haunt him.
Herod had a fascination with John the
Baptist. Even though John condemned him
for his marriage to his brother Phillips’ wife, scripture tells us Herod liked
to listen to John’s proclamations. He
jailed him in order to contain him – to appease his wife and to appear as if he
was taking action – but there’s no indication that Herod intended to harm John
the Baptist. Like Pilate, who cried, “he’s innocent, why should I put him to
death?”, Herod found John harmless. Until his wife got the best of him by
taking advantage of his extravagances with power.
Reluctantly, Herod fulfilled her wishes
and brought her John’s head. Like
Pilate, he felt powerless when the system demanded his allegiance.
How often, as beneficiaries of a system,
do we find ourselves victims of the system?
Herod and Pilate were bound by the rules they endorsed, rules that
worked for them, even when it meant hurting themselves.
There’s a saying – God comforts the
afflicted and afflicts the comfortable.
God does this through prophets. Amos,
in our first scripture, was a reluctant prophet plucked from his life as a
shepherd to deliver a message to Israel: repent.
When Israel’s leaders responded with
outrage, Amos defends himself. ‘I didn’t
ask for this job. I’m not part of your prophetic line. I’m not some legacy
prophet. God called me from my life with
my sheep to deliver this message to you.’
Does Israel heed the message? No, they exile Amos and, consequently, fall
into the trap God fears.
Prophets speak uncomfortable truths, and
in the Bible we see they are often met with resistance. We are always most upset with prophets when they
seem to be questioning our way of life, rather than those with whom we
disagree.
It is especially uncomfortable when we
might be part of the system itself.
Friends, today I’m not here to bring a
comfortable message. Today I’m going to
ask you to listen to an uncomfortable message, soak it in, hold it in your
hearts, and reflect on where you hear God’s voice.
I had the privilege of attending part of
General Synod, along with Pastor Dave and 5000 other UCC delegates from across
the country. As a national church, we worshipped, prayed, listened and learned
from each other. The church as a whole
issued prophetic resolutions of solidarity with Native Americans to change the name of theWashington Redskins, with Palestinians to divest from the Israeli Settlements,
and engaged in the uncomfortable conversation around how important race, gender
and sexual orientation is in the nomination of our new, white male heterosexual
General Minister John C. Dorhauer. But most
importantly, we respectfully loved each other through the whole of that public
conversation.
At General Synod, I attended a workshop
called “The Power of Story: Countering Narratives and Risk in the Age
of Trayvon Martin” presented by Dr. Leah Gunning Francis, who is faculty
at Eden Theological Seminary in St. Louis and who has been active in the
turmoil in Ferguson. Dr. Gunning Francis is
writing a book on changing the narrative about young black males by seeing them
through the hopes and concerns of their mothers. Attendees were invited to listen
to the shared experiences and uncomfortable conversations of mothers raising
young African American sons, with the intended goal of showing churches how to construct
a new, affirming narrative for black boys.
You see, all parents dread “the talk”.
But in African American households, there are two versions. One is the awkward, teenage, birds-and-the-bees
conversation. The other is about how to
behave around authority figures – specifically police – and has been the same
lesson young black men have been taught for generations. It goes something like this;
This
is one of the realities that we just don’t see as white people. For me, the police are there to help. We met
him as ‘officer friendly’ in grade school.
We were told we could ask them for directions, or let them know when we
thought people needed help. We smile and
nod when we see them on the sidewalk, at festivals, or out in public. And more
often than not, we get a smile in return.
But
as the #BlackLivesMatter campaign
has made clear, this is just not the same reality for black people. Week after
week, a new African American name, too often dead, enters the national discussion
through social media. The system rushes to justify it’s actions, the media uses
the word ‘thug’ or criminal history’ and we are, once again, haunted with the suspicion
that the system is just not fair.
During
this workshop, the term 'white fragility' came up. Has anyone heard this term? It was coined to describe the discomfort of white people in talking about
race, which triggers a range of defensive moves and emotions, and results in argument,
silence or leaving the conversation.
I stumbled upon a blog this week that unpacks
this concept of ‘white fragility’ with such clarity that I just want to share
it with you directly.
An African American writer named John Metta delivered this reflection to Bethel Congregational UCC in Washington State
last week. Metta points out that black
people think in terms of black people -
a collective “we”, seeing every innocent death as personal because “we know viscerally that it could
be our child, our parent, or us, that is shot.” In contrast,
“White people do not think in terms of we. White people have the privilege to interact with the social and political structures of our society as individuals. You are “you,” [while] I [John Metta] am “one of them.” Whites are often not directly affected by racial oppression even in their own community, so what does not affect them locally has little chance of affecting them regionally or nationally. They have no need, nor often any real desire, to think in terms of a group. They are supported by the system, and so are mostly unaffected by it.
[he continues,] “What they are affected by are attacks on their own character. To my [white] aunt, the suggestion that “people in The North are racist” is an attack on her as a racist. She is unable to differentiate her participation within a racist system (upwardly mobile, not racially profiled, able to move to White suburbs, etc.) from an accusation that she, individually, is a racist. Without being able to make that differentiation, White people in general decide to vigorously defend their own personal non-racism, or point out that it doesn’t exist because they don’t see it.”
It is an uncomfortable truth, my
friends, to acknowledge you benefit from a system that you don’t always
endorse. It is downright difficult to
recognize that the system has winners and losers – and you find yourself on the
winning side, and therefore complicit –
even when you didn’t choose to be. Especially when you don’t know how to change
that system. But engaging the issue without resistance is a start.
I offer to you that changing the
system requires us to “Be The Church.”
Being the church means radical
hospitality and radical compassion. Being the church means to love one another
first, regardless of color, clothing, outward appearance, history or
circumstance. Being the church requires
us to get out of our comfort zones, to acknowledge injustice or an unjust
system, and to raise our voices. Being
the church requires solidarity with those in pain. Being the church is to live
with God’s love streaming from your hearts – and your hands. But not only that –being the church
requires us to see with God’s eyes and hear with God’s ears. Can we see God in each and every person we
meet in the world? Can we open our
hearts to what we hear – to listen quietly, to fight the white fragility and
the urge to be defensive… can we hold these stories in our hearts and then
reflect to find where God’s voice is speaking?
A few summers ago I was here at FCC
with my parents, during the Summer Sing-along (which is a great tradition, by
the way!)
Now, having grown up here, most of
the songs I know come from years of singing with Eva and the choir and
congregation. But there was one requested song that I found familiar and was
singing full-throated…while getting lots of strange looks from my mother. It’s slightly musically complicated, and as
the melody twisted and pivoted, I somehow knew it and she did not. Later, after a little digging, we figured out
the song was “Lift Every Voice and Sing”, considered the Black National Anthem,
and one I sing regularly at Chicago Theological Seminary in worship. The words of Lift Every Voice beautifully
articulate centuries of struggle and solidarity that is rooted in black church
life.
I bring this up because this week
has been launched as a “Week of Righteous Resistance” by a group associated
with #WhoIsBurningBlackChurches. If you haven’t heard already, 8 historicallyblack churches across the South have had fires in the last few weeks, and 5
have been confirmed as arson.
Why are so many black churches
burning?
In his eulogy for Reverend ClementaPinckney, the State Senator and leader in the #BlackLivesMatter movement who was killed in the basement of his
own Mother Emmanuel AME Church in Charleston, President Obama explained this
better than I can. He said:
“Over the course of centuries, black churches served as “hush harbors” where slaves could worship in safety; praise houses where their free descendants could gather and shout hallelujah -- rest stops for the weary along the Underground Railroad; bunkers for the foot soldiers of the Civil Rights Movement. They have been, and continue to be, community centers where we organize for jobs and justice; places of scholarship and network; places where children are loved and fed and kept out of harm’s way, and told that they are beautiful and smart -- and taught that they matter. That’s what the black church means. Our beating heart. The place where our dignity as a people is inviolate….That’s what the church meant to black folk.”
Can we Be
The Church in the same way? How can we take the love and fellowship we feel
here and extend it to those who don’t live far away, but whose lives are far
different from our own?
A week
after Synod, the UCC joined in the effort to provide financial assistance to
rebuild these churches through the Disaster Ministries Emergency Fund. Nationwide – not just through the UCC - morethan $160,000 has been raised to help these congregations rebuild – and an
additional $67,000 has been pledged from Muslims during Ramadan.
This is an
amazing show of solidarity and love, and I am proud of our national church for
stepping up.
Church, the world needs you to Be
The Church, now more than ever. God
needs us to be the church, to be the prophets rather than resist the message. I
pray that we will go forward with courage into the uncomfortable places in our
communities, in our families, and in our hearts.
Amen.
