Fear, Love, and Revolution

Some words I’ve been thinking on lately:

For many years I’ve been trying to figure out why revolutionary movements almost always fail to materially and permanently help the poor. …
Perhaps it has to do with the incapacity to attend to our own feelings omnipresent in a severely traumatized people. Perhaps our marvelous capacity to adapt to even the most atrocious situations is the major reason revolutions fail. We’re so good at getting along that we do so at the expense of actions that would in a meaningful sense bring change in those original circumstances that cause our suffering. …
Then I had another thought: perhaps the problem is that those of us striving for egalitarianism, or just trying to make a fine, noble, and happy life, tire of this struggle more quickly than those whose wounds for whatever reason give them a superhuman stamina in their indomitable quest to control and destroy. Perhaps revolutions fail because those in power feel more fear than we feel love. Or perhaps because we ourselves feel more fear than love. I don’t like to think this, but evidence suggests it may be at least partly true. …
If we wish to do away with bosses, we need to do away with the primacy of production. We need to learn from egalitarian religious and especially extant indigenous groups that the emphasis of our society must be on process: not on the creation of things and the accumulation of monetary or political power, but on the acknowledgement and maintenance of relationships, on both personal and grand scales. (Derrick Jensen, A Language Older Than Words, pp. 257-262)

Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love. God’s love was revealed among us in this way: God sent his only Son into the world so that we might live through him. In this is love, not that we loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be an atoning sacrifice for out sins. Beloved, since God loved us so much, we also ought to love one another. No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God lives in us, and his love is perfected in us. … There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear, for fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not reached perfection in love. (1 John 4:7-12, 18)

Paul wrote to the Corinthians that they should wage a different kind of war, one with divine weapons against spiritual strongholds. He encouraged the Romans not to conform to the world but to be transformed and renewed mentally. The battle, according to Paul, is fought within.

And then there’s Jesus, in John 15, who offers the command to abide in love, to be willing to sacrifice for others, as one of the highest commands we can uphold. Then he promptly follows that statement with the sobering reality that this kind of behavior is bound to be met with hatred from the world.

If you do this, he warns, if you bear the fruit of God — radical life-giving love — you will be hated as I have been. You do not belong to the world. You belong to God.

I find I cannot be reminded of this enough.

What about you? How do you think followers of Jesus can bear this mark of difference today: how can we continue to bear the fruit of love in a world that fears and hates? How does the battle between fear and love play out on a more personal level, in your own life and heart? How do you think we can create meaningful change in our communities that will emphasize relationship over production?

Considering the Occupation

This morning as I walked to work, I stepped over a chalk drawing on the sidewalk of Oakland’s Chinatown district. “Currency causes chaos.” it said. “Tax the rich!”

And I was reminded that Wall Street is currently being occupied. By… someone. Of course, anyone who has ever been to Oakland knows it is a long way from Wall Street. But this chalk drawing is here because the occupation is spreading.

Someone is occupying Oakland, California, too. Along with almost every other moderately sized city across the country.

“Is this lawful,” we are asking, “for us to pay these taxes?”

“Is it fair?”

—

And the lectionary text from a few weeks ago is scathingly relevant, and I spend my lunch break sitting on that same chalked (and apparently occupied) sidewalk reading about the pharisees coming to Jesus to ask that very same question: “Should we pay these taxes?”

They think they have created for Jesus a catch 22 which will at last reveal his mortal weakness of inconsistency.

“Is this fair?”

The pharisees asked Jesus. I wonder, to whom are we asking these questions? What answer are we hoping to hear? What trap are we laying with our language and our anger and our action?

—

And I hear Jesus’ answer as though it is spoken straight to me: “Show me the coin used for the tax.”

What should I bring? My most recently filed 1040 form? A $5 bill? The daily stock market report? A plastic Visa card? A series of digitized 1s and 0s?

More than ever, his request highlights the nonsense of it all. What is this thing money that exists enough to cause a man to set himself on fire for the injustice of it, yet it exists not enough to be presented in its true physical form?

Fair, indeed.

I can see his look of disappointment… That I have chosen to trap him with this – with symbols and images, with the myth of power.

“Whose image is this?” He asks. And all I can think is: “Not yours.”

Why am I giving power to an image that is not my Lord’s? Why am I worshipping it? Saving it? Holding it? Desiring it? Protecting it? Believing in it?

—

“Give to Cesar what is Cesar’s, and give to God what is God’s,” says Jesus.

Let the empire occupy itself.

I think of Joshua saying Chose for yourselves who you serve. As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord. We will give to God what is God’s.

I sit on this sidewalk and begin listing those things in my life that belong to God: my self, my time, my life, my energy, my thanks, my praise, my love, my hope, my commitment.

And I realize there is little left for Cesar.

—

I get up and vacate the sidewalk. Someone else will come along soon to occupy this space. And they can choose for themselves who they serve. But as for me…

—

My friends, here is what I’m taking away from this Gospel story:

Religion is not for systematizing.
Religion is for meaning-making, for understanding, for relationship.
It is not for production, or profit, or protocol.
It is for transformation, for undoing, for rebuilding.
Religion is not a weapon but a salve
to heal the wounds of confusion and greed.
Give to the empire what is of the empire,
but as for those of us who serve the King,
we are otherwise occupied.

Rejoicing our way to peace

Don’t Worry; Be Happy!

The lectionary for this week brings us Philippians 4:4-7:

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say: Rejoice!
Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near.
Do not worry about anything, but in everything
by prayer and supplication let your requests be made known to God.
And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding,
will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.

There is so much richness in this passage! Paul’s three exhortations here stand out to me:

1. Rejoice always
2. Be noticeably gentle
3. Do not worry

And all three of these things are tied to one specific cause: God’s presence. The Lord is near, Paul writes, always. He is so vigilantly present that he can guard our minds and hearts with peace.

Peace in the Presence of God

I’ve been thinking about this connection between God’s presence and peaceful joy. In my journal I have written words from Psalm 89:

Happy are the people who know the festal shout,
who walk, O Lord, in the light of your countenance;
they exult in your name all day long, and extol your righteousness.
(Psalm 89:15-16)

When I read these verses, I find myself asking: Am I one of those people?

Do I know the festal shout? Do I proclaim with rejoicing the glory of God? Am I walking in the light of God’s countenance, God’s presence? Is God’s name joyfully on my lips all day long?

Would those who encounter me during the day say I am one of those people? What if you asked the people I work with? Or my boyfriend? Or my family? Or the people I don’t get along with?

How to End a Fight

And the rubber meets the road here: Paul is offering these exhortations (to rejoice, to be gentle, and to be worry-free) to two particular Philippian women who are having a disagreement. These are women who have “struggled beside Paul in the work of the gospel” (Phil. 4:3); they are members of this close Christian community.

Paul doesn’t mention what their dispute involves, but he offers these three suggestions as a solution for them to “be of the same mind in the Lord.”

He doesn’t tell them to talk it out or to compromise or to seek outside mediation. He tells them to relax, be happy, and live in the joy of God.

They need to remember the festal shout — and declare it with joy!

They need to be walking in the countenance of God daily, bringing God’s name continually to their lips. They need to practice gratitude. They need to stop worrying and let God’s inexplicable peace seep into their hearts.

Then their fight will be over.

Taking Paul’s Advice

What if the next time I have a disagreement, I take Paul’s advice?

Or, even better, what if I wake up tomorrow morning and take his advice even before a fight breaks out? What if I make a point to let my gentleness be obvious to everyone I encounter? When concern or anxiety rises in my heart, what if I make it known to God, then I let it go?

Paul tells us that the peace of God that comes as a result of this continual rejoicing is beyond our understanding. I don’t know about you, but I sure need that kind of peace – the kind that seeps up from the deepest parts of my heart and permeates throughout my life; the kind of peace that is easy to feel but difficult to explain; the kind of peace that guards my mind against fear and worry.

—

In closing, I want to share one of the first Rumi poems I learned to love:

I saw Sorrow
holding a cup of pain.
I said, hey sorrow,
sorry to see you this way.
What’s troubling you?
What’s with the cup?
Sorrow said,
what else can I do?
All this Joy that you have brought to the world
has killed my business completely.

Friends, which of Paul’s three exhortations is the hardest for you to live out right now? Who in your life can see your gentleness and joy? Who cannot see it? What concerns, desires, hurts, or fears do you need to lay before God? When have you experienced the transformative, healing peace of God’s presence?

Momentum

“We’re not going to be the only white people there, are we?” I ask as we get out of the car. I’m only half joking.

“Of course not.” I answer myself. “Jeremiah Wright is speaking. The place will be packed.”

“I just hope we can get a seat,” Tom says.

—

We arrive at Beebe Memorial Cathedral in the Temescal neighborhood of Oakland about 5 minutes before the service starts.

The place is packed. And we are the only white people there. We sit in the balcony, which is empty for the first few minutes of the service but gradually fills in.

The congregation looks fantastic. The lively choir up front is all dressed in purple, and the minister is decked a perfectly tailored suit and shined shoes. It seems like every woman in the place is wearing heels, and every man is wearing a tie; the two of us being notable exceptions. If our skin color didn’t make us stand out, our casual outfits would have.

And I feel a little bit embarrassed, even though people hold my hands and touch my shoulder when they greet me.

The worship, all two hours of it, is moving and powerful. It’s loud, and the bass thumps up from the altar, through the soles of my feet, into my body. I don’t know the songs, but I loosen up my shoulders and let my arms and hands move with the sound anyway. And a young man gets up and performs spoken word about the influence of spiritual leaders. And it is no secret that hip-hop culture rises like steam from the streets of Oakland.

—

And when Rev. Dr. Jeremiah Wright gets up to preach, the energy in the place is high. Whenever he says something that resonates, congregants clap or yell or just stand up and move their bodies forward a bit to show their agreement. The whole service feels like choreographed dance. We are like seaweed, swaying together in the waves of emotion.

And this man, whose life and ministry have been torn apart by racial violence and zealous media, preaches about failure. He tells us over and over that Jesus shows up, just when you think you have failed at your marriage, your career, your ministry. In those moments, Jesus shows up.

I read the names of his grandchildren printed in the bulletin. And he doesn’t hold anything back. He talks about the gun violence among young black men in Oakland, the corruption of wealthy preachers in America, the injustice of the execution of Troy Davis, the ugly history of US foreign policy.

And people are on their feet, moving their bodies forward — yes, yes we hear you. This is a story that makes sense to them, a story they also are living.

He tells about a young woman who was able to make it through medical school because her pastor believed in her potential, and I think about the kids I play with on playgrounds across Oakland every day. I think about how fragile and precious is their potential, and how close it is to being buried under the weight of gang violence and drug use. He tells about that same woman writing a letter to that same pastor, that letter arrives at the very moment when the pastor feels he has failed, and I think about cycles of love replacing cycles of injustice.

And we are still seaweed, rocking to the rhythm of the current. I wonder: could we together change the direction of that momentum? Could we reverse the flow of the tide? If we thank each other, and love each other, and forgive each other enough, could we stop every bullet that’s fired before it finds its target? Could we stop the bullet that killed Oscar Grant, or the one that killed a three-year old in her stroller two blocks from a school, or the one that killed an off-duty police officer protecting a homeless man from a beating?

I think of the tiny hands of the children in Oakland’s public schools, with whom I play four-square and jump rope during the week, and I remember that they find needles and dead bodies and weapons on the playgrounds of those same schools. And I feel tears on my cheeks.

The moment of failure is when we most need to open our eyes to Jesus’ presence.

—

Rev. Wright breaks into song, and the congregation joins in, all of us on our feet. “In the next 60 seconds,” he says, “give God your best worship, right here, right now.” And we do.

Overcome, he is unable to finish his sermon; without a word, he returns to his seat and kneels, his head bowed before God. And we all — as one — hold the space for a moment before moving on with the service, before continuing the dance.

And I realize, at that moment, that I have forgotten to be embarrassed about the color of my skin.

—

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