For Quvenzhane': A response to the Onion

Hello.
I cannot rightly speak to the depths of my anger concerning your now-removed tweet concerning Quvenzhané Wallis. However, let me say that calling a 9 year old girl a "c*nt" is beyond disgusting. This will go down in history as a bad choice of words, perhaps, but I want to point out the long and tortured history of women, particularly women of color, and more specifically African-American women with the subset of children. And, this time-- a baby.

Quvenzhané Wallis is her beautiful name. Say it, and don't stutter. She is nobody's c*nt, and if folk were thinking it, they wisely swallowed it name-calling for righteousness sake.

I recently talked with a woman whose grandmother shared with her a story from chattel enslavement in this country. She told me very matter-of-factly how White, male owners of the enslaved would often send word to for the enslaved women to "clean up" mere babies, aged 7, 8, and 9 years old, requesting for those innocent babies to be sent to have sex with these men. Babies.

It may appear that it was just simple name-calling; however, oppressed people learned a long time ago that the "sticks and stones" myth is a lie! C*nt and other words have deeply racialized and misogynistic meaning, and the author of that tweet entered into a cosmic and historic struggle trying to get a chuckle.

Ignorance is not bliss! Get it together. Until your writers get some good anti-racism and anti-oppression training, I would stay away from some stories--satire or not. When this person called her a c*nt, the person called many women one. You called my mama one. You called me one, then called my daughter one, and if I were I fighting woman, I'd take my earrings off and roll up my sleeves right now.

Yep, it's personal--but rampant individualism doesn't understand collective community and connection.

Parenthetically, I am available to provide such training and can direct you immediately to some great resources.

Very soberly, and with much intention,
Kelle
The Rev. Kelle J. Brown

Longing...

A quick listen to what I am feeling, and you may think I am sad, depressed, dejected about my own singleness.  

Eh. Maybe.  

However, those who sit for a while with me and listen discover it is more than a personal concern.  Beyond and including my own needs, I am concerned with a subject that so many people call, and text, and email, and inbox me--loneliness and longing for relationship.  

It's deep.  And while some might be tempted to offer the usual quick pat phrases, I resist that urge.  Telling people that their longing and desire for relationship means they are not trusting God, or that their singleness is their own fault, is about shaming and blaming, and I don't deal in that kind of language. When people are hurting, it's a sad shame that they get blamed for their pain.  

Really, I think the prophets BeeGee told us.  Nobody gets too much love anymore.

I wonder all the time why I have so many gorgeous women friends who are single and desire to be in relationship.  They are dating, praying, waiting on the Lord, trying not to focus on relationship because they have been told a million times that love comes when we aren't looking.  They are journaling, getting advanced degrees, reading self help books from authors who need help themselves in their own relationships.  

And many days, I think about the many men and women I know who act "foolishly".  They are labeled a variety of not-so-nice things, when really they are simply lonely, and often act out of a longing to be accepted, appreciated, and loved.  Sure, there are other factors that affect unhealthy behaviors, but I really believe that the loss of authentic community and the promotion of individualism is destroying many of us.  It is destroying me.

However, there is hope.

If I am sad, am not sad for just myself. More rightly, I am sad because we are so close to the cure for that which ails us.  I believe we are but a few kisses away from the end to violent warfare; a few hugs away from transforming folks so desperate for love, their standards dissolve to nothing; a few hands held during hard times away from heaven.

Time is of the essence.  Let us admit that it is less about the way of the world, less about things are as they are meant to be, and more about the choices some of us habitually make to selfishly disregard the call to love.  

Every healthy relationship benefits all of us.  Really.  Choose love!

 Too Much Heaven


Nobody gets too much heaven no more
It's much harder to come by
I'm waiting in line
Nobody gets too much love anymore
It's as high as a mountain
And harder to climb
Oh you and me girl
Got a lot of love in store
And it flows through you
And it flows through me
And I love you so much more
Then my life..I can see beyond forever
Ev'rything we are will never die
Loving's such a beautiful thing
Oh you make my world a summer day
Are you just a dream to fade away
Nobody gets too much heaven no more
It's much harder to come by
I'm waiting in line
Nobody gets too much love anymore
It's as high as a mountain
And harder to climb
You and me girl got a highway to the sky
We can turn away from the night and day
And the tears you had to cry
You're my life..
I can see a new tomorrow
Ev'rything we are will never die
Loving's such a beautiful thing
When you are to me, the light above
Made for all to see our precious love
Nobody gets too much heaven no more
It's much harder to come by
I'm waiting in line
Nobody gets too much love anymore
It's as high as a mountain
And harder to climb
Love is such a beautiful thing
You make my world a summer day
Are you just a dream to fade away
Nobody gets too much heaven no more
It's much harder to come by
I'm waiting in line
Nobody gets too much love anymore
It's as high as a mountain
And harder to climb
Nobody gets too much love anymore
It's as wide as a river and harder to cross
Nobody gets too much heaven no more
It's much harder to come by
I'm waiting in line
Nobody gets too much love anymore
It's as high as a mountain
And harder to climb...
-The BeeGees

A Call to Pray

Have you ever been awakened by prayers?  I don't mean that I set my clock because I pray every day at a certain time, which I do.  I mean I was awakened by the hands and fingers of those prayers, shaken as if by a mighty force. These  were not my own, necessarily. They seemed more like a blended symphony of voices.  Though I was still in a daze, and my heart raced as it does from the 2 a.m. phone calls I fear are emergencies, I attended to the words I hear as I would my own child--lovingly and with honor.

This morning, the tears and sorrow flooded my awareness, even while I slept.  I felt a sadness that wasn't my own; I wanted to cry, though I have no reason for tears.  Deep frustration overcame me.  It was as if each worry was a sharp and heavy stone and they were heaped on my back.  I felt the urge to beat my chest for justice's sake, to turn someone's mourning into dancing, to kiss away the tears.  

That's a lot to deal with upon waking.

I knew I would be praying in worship later, but I had to get the words out!  I went on Facebook and wrote this prayer to release a bit of healing energy to the world, hoping those who needed it would pray with me. 

O God, welcome our souls to sink into the vastness of your gracious ocean. Let us find peace in speaking our heart's desire for healing. Let us pray for all people who are lonely, anxious, depressed, and full of longing. Let us pray for those hearts that are broken, for those who mourn, for those who smile to keep from crying, for people who have been hurt so long they become viciously cruel to anyone who might approach them. Let us pray for those full of joy, that they might appreciate their cheerful season, and let us pray that challenging circumstances do not destroy that joy. Let us hope for the best, and dare to focus on others with compassionate eyes. O God of the weary, God of the strong, this we pray. Amen. 

Light.  Love. Healing for us all. Blessings.

Shade

Someone's sitting in the shade today because someone planted a tree a long time ago. ~ Warren Buffett

I wrote this in September, but it seems just as timely.  Enjoy.

 

 I've just returned from paradise. There is something particularly healing and awakening that comes from traveling to somewhere so old.  I had the pleasure of going to the El Yunque Rainforest.  After driving past a very small sign, and ending up in a village where several men passes phrases between each other to get my daughter and I back on track, we entered the rainforest to see very old trees and ferns. We saw bamboo so old, the trunks looked like the strong and beautiful thighs of healthy women lifting up the leafy canopy to the sky.  

 Those trees speak to those who would listen.  They tell stories of many generations of free people and oppressed ones.  I was enjoying shade from trees that I didn't plant.  Instead of simply taking pictures of flowers and tall structures that seemed built instead of grown, I honored them.  I honored what the trees have seen, what storms they have endured, and that they give to us even though we, the tourists, did absolutely nothing to grow them.  Many of us would do little if we heard cutting was scheduled.  Still, we were blessed with amazing beauty, and protected from the heat of a Puerto Rican sunny day.

In that forest, I was reminded of our time in Old San Juan.  When asked about navigating the area, the tour guide at the hotel was quick to say, "Stay away from THIS neighborhood," he said, stabbing the map with his finger.  "The people are poor, and the place is dangerous, but they won't bother the tourists because they know that tourism is the life of this island."  

So, my daughter and I walked around the Old San Juan in virtual peace. It was almost hauntingly peaceful.  We could see the neighborhood.  We could see the colorful houses and the roofs that looked as if a strong wind would blow them away.  The barrio looked like it was a fragile prize to coming storms, for it was on the rocks under the strong walls of the fortress built long ago.  From the Castillo walls, we could see how someone, or some bureaucracy attempted to push and limit this problematic neighborhood from the shade, even though no one alive today planted the metaphorical tree.  

Heartbreaking, and a sign of humanity's limited vision.

I was stepping into a situation I knew I couldn't impact even slightly.   Yet, I was delighted when an older man, who wasn't so well dressed, came to my car and said he would watch it for me while I toured around. "I be right here, protecting your car, for one... or two, or three dollars," he said.  I gave him the money hoping he would get a good meal, and knowing my car was already safe and secure without his watchful eye.  He just wanted a bit of shade.  I was happy to oblige.

 Warren Buffet's words have never been more true.  There is not a person alive who isn't benefiting from trees planted by another.  Not one.  Some of us live in the shade of their parents, who made sure their education was in place so that they could have a fighting chance.  Others of us live in the shade of someone else's missed opportunity.  Some of us share the shade of a tree planted by the enslaved, humans who could never enjoy produce of that tree, or its shelter.  Many of us are too short-minded to think outside of our own experiences, and the light of some egos help them forget the coolness of the shade in which they stand.

The myth of "discovery" is a sick thing; it is ego-maniacal to believe that any of us discovered anything.  We displace.  We ignore and dismiss, then overthrow. We colonize.  We don't discover. 

The same is true of what we own.  If we pulled ourselves us by our bootstraps, someone else made the boots.  If we climbed our own ladder of success, a tree someone else planted was cut to created the pieces of that ladder.  

I invite you to become reconciled to the idea that no matter how much we worship individualism, we are connected to each other, and we are privileged to sit in the shade of others.  Let us plant trees for others.  There is more than enough shade for us all.

 

The Truth

For those of us that feel anxiety that some can look at a fact and never concede that it is true, consider this. The people of this country dunked women in water and called them witches if they survived, and innocent only if they drowned. Eugenics sought to measure the brains of Black folk, and classify and institutionalize the poor, women, homosexuals, and others in order to justify segregation and "sanitation".

 

Additionally, there is a huge movement to remove and reduce information of chattel slavery from the text books that our young people use, to redeem and sanitize American history. Another movement seeks to dispel the idea that slavery was violent, torturous, or evil, and that slave owners were compassionate folk who simply took advantage of a free market. Across the world there are groups in existence simply to disprove the Jewish Holocaust, and every historical genocide has a group of privileged folk who will deny that mass murder was genocide, or that the numbers of those killed are significantly over-reported in the data. 

 

There are others who simply do not have the mental constitution or the strength of soul to accept the truth from other perspectives, period. For this reason, I intentionally tune my ear for the voices on the bottom, the bottom meaning those who are most oppressed, those who do not get the podium, or whose voice is being muffled. For this reason, it behooves us all to be confident in what we know to be true, and to not let the loud, lying screams of mistruth deter what you know you must do.

 

Reconciling Act:  Look back through history with courage and for clarity.  Dare to learn the lessons that so clearly lay on the path behind us.   Quiet your fear that you will lose your place in the world, because lies are the fruit of weak and dying trees.  Be a truth-teller, not one who continuously scrambles to manipulate the truth for personal convenience, to "save face", to "win" or appear heroic in the midst of one's villainy.  Love the Truth, and welcome Wisdom. If you are confident in your beliefs, they need no life-support.  The truth has a life of its own.

Sacred voting

It is an abuse of power for anyone to use a pulpit to convince you that you are immoral if you vote.  The immoral thing is for a pastor of any gender, ethnicity, or class to use the power vested in him or her by God to sway people to not vote due to their personal engagement with Scripture or tradition.  When I preach, I know that I have done my job when someone challenges my interpretation, or tells me that they will have to go home and study the Scripture presented for themselves.  This is what we are called to be as faithful people;  we are called to understand that faithfulness does not mean giving over your intelligence or ability to think for yourselves to be "saved".  

Vote!  Our foreparents didn't have the luxury of choosing "between two evils", if that is your perception of this election.  While they were asked to count the bubbles in a bar of soap, or guess the number of beans in a jar, or charged poll taxes, they simply wanted to vote.  Their choices, the representatives, may not have even cared that they existed; still they knew it was a right that they must seek to exercise.  

In this day and time, as Representative John Lewis stated, voting is sacred.  It is a holy thing.  I think we are in a dangerous place if we will throw everything away because you may disagree.  Going to a church that asks for everyone to do as the leader asks is simply a social club, and has lost the gift of power, voice on behalf of the oppressed, and the diversity in which God relishes.  

*This is not a partisan request; simply my stance against some pastors who I believe are misusing their pulpits in asking their congregations not to vote this election cycle. 

The Blood of Jesus

On the way to church, I noticed a man who had fallen on the sidewalk.  He appeared to be a homeless man, but I admit, he could have just been a pedestrian on his way somewhere.  I didn't stop, though I usually do, because someone had already stopped to help him.  I prayed for him and made it to church on time.

After church, I realized I was starving.  Dinner was sparse (on purpose) last night, and not having breakfast had created a serious growling in my stomach.  Just before pulling into the restaurant, my daughter and I noticed a man lying on the asphalt in a pool of blood.  It was the gentleman from earlier.  This time, he was in the middle of an intersection between the restaurant and a gas station.

I jumped out of the car, and ran to the man.  There was a crowd, but everyone was standing around him, looking at him as he struggled to breathe through the thick blood coming out of his nose.  I yelled for my daughter to get a clean towel out of the car, and noticed that he was bleeding out of his ear and a large cut on the back of his head.  A witness said that he had a bike and a group of folk stole it from him, hitting him with something before he fell to the street.

Here begins my rant.  I ran to the man because I want someone to run to me.  I ran to the man because my Christianity remembers that Jesus went about doing good, and not for the sake of my own ego, but so that we all can help those most in need.  I struggled to lift the man's head by myself so I could put the towel on it and apply pressure.  I wanted to turn him, because he was gurgling in his blood and I didn't want him to drown.  I turned him gently on his side.

Mind you, the people standing around were the members of the little church behind the gas station.  Some of the members had seen what happened and came out to watch as the man began to convulse on the ground.  The pastor, a bishop of some sort, stood over the man and watched me as I attempted to clumsily help the man.

He yelled to his congregation, "Stay back!!!  Don't touch him.  Just pray where you are.  We plead the blood of Jesus!!!!!!  He needs prayer!  Jesus will heal him.  Don't get near him.  Everyone, start praying."

I came out of myself, friends.  May God forgive me, but I am tired of folk.  I continued to apply pressure while coagulating blood continued to drip out of his ear and nose.  I blasted the bishop.  I was livid.

"What?  Stand back?  This man needs prayer, but while we are praying somebody with some medical experience needs to put some feet on their prayer and help!  We cannot be so afraid to help him that he dies here in the streets while good Christians do nothing.  Somebody help!"

What in the world?  The bishop looked at me and appeared ashamed of himself.  He did not, however, approach the man, or touch him because at that point, thick blood was all over the man, on the white arrow on the ground, on my hands and pantsuit, and running down the street into the gutter.  It was the thickest blood I had ever seen, and looked more like extra thick, bright red ketchup than something that could keep a human alive. 

Thankfully, the ambulance was there within minutes.  I had a chance to calm down and look at the pastor and the folk pouring out of the church.  

He was sharp.  He had on a tan suit with a fuschia pin-striped shirt and a beautiful fuschia and orange thick tie.  The bishop was handsome, about my age, and had a deep resonant voice.  His members were working folk.  Some were dressed in their best, but I noticed their best was not necessarily expensive.  I wondered why they hung on his every word, why someone wouldn't break out to help me care for the man.

The bishop was still standing back a safe distance from the dying man.  Still sharp as a tack.

The man went to the hospital alive.  I am not sure if he made it there, however, because he was having a hard time breathing.  I gathered the man's things, gave them to a police officer and watched as the little church went back to their building before leaving to go home.

The bishop of this 30 member church got into his Hummer and drove over the bloody spot where the man had been to go on to his next destination.

Now my issue is not with these few people.  My issue is with the church as a whole.  What is the hesitance about?  When did safety become a Christian virtue?  If we are going to be the church, risk is involved.  We are called to help!  To step outside of ourselves and do as Jesus would.

I heard someone in the crowd say, "We don't know what he may have, so I ain't touching him."  Well, 'tis true.  However, I can tell you that no one out there knew what any of us had.  There is a risk in being community, and in being the church.  I don't have to judge, because on this, the record is clear.   

Matthew 25 says, "For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat; I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink; I was a stranger and you invited me in; I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me; I was in prison and you came to visit me...  Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you? The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me..."


That man was a part of Jesus, and some folk missed an opportunity to meet him today.  They watched the blood of Jesus drip down the drain.