Lessons at the Gate

When I was at Spelman College, the back gate was one of the most important things for me.  Why, you might ask? Because the back gate was the place where we Spelman women were picked up for our dates.  It was where the action was.  There, you might see cars of all sorts zooming by to gaze upon the dynamic beauty gathered at the gate. Often, groups walked up and glided away with their special one, while a few seemed to just stand, hoping someone would approach them.  Like hunters, they waited to perhaps pick off the weak ones for an impromptu date.

One evening, I stood there at the back gate waiting for my date.  I had met this young man and he was intriguing!  All week, we talked to each other by phone, for hours on end.  He was smart.  He was talented.  He was handsome.  He said he liked me very much. And maybe, just maybe, we could be in a relationship. This seemed like a miracle to me, because long-term relationship was elusive for me during college, though I tried with all my might to make it so.

I had it planned out. This date would be magical.

A group of us went down to the gate at about 7 p.m.  We were high-fiving each other, laughing and hopeful.  By 7:05, most of my friends were gone. I waved them away with a smile on my face, so glad my friends were happy. By 7:30, I was the only one left standing.

I stood there at 8:30, standing there in the cold. My smile had faded into a grimace.  I wanted to continue looking pleasant, just in case he came. My lips mouthed practiced phrases like, "That's ok..." for when he arrived. 

My naivete was enormous, and my hope was really more brutal stupidity.  I wondered if he had been in an accident.  Or if he had some emergency that called him away. I imagined that a UFO had taken him away.  All the possibilities were plausible because I wanted them to be.

It was 40 degrees, but I stood there, like a good soldier.  Forty degrees. Arctic fingers crept steadily up my thighs until I felt like I had pneumonia all over my body.  My hands, feet and legs were numb.  And so was I.

My moist eyes saw couples caught in the glow of romance which was held in lingering kisses.  I observed a few folk who had drunk too many beers in a spade tournament or a night on the town.

I also saw the young man with whom I had previously been madly in love picking up a friend of mine in his car, going to do what grown folk do.  

The night waned on, and I danced to keep from freezing.  I returned to my room only after I saw a car that held one of my friends from the early march to the gate return to campus.  At first I hid in the shadows, and then I walked into the light, pretending that I too had just returned from a fantastic date.

I spun a story of how sweet he had been, how he never touched me and was such a gentleman.  I didn't really lie.

I never received a message or an apology.  In fact, I never heard from him again.

The back gate is a metaphor for my life. Too many times, I have stood at gates hoping folk will show up and keep their promises. My gate experience has been in every part of my life, from my parents to significant others (or the lack thereof) to friends to employers.  I am grateful that now, my wait is exponentially shorter before I leave the gate for self-care and dignity's sake.  I keep my promise to never dance in the cold again.

I invite those who have been disappointed too many times to do the same.

An Invitation to Believe

For those of us that feel anxiety or defeat that some can look at a fact, data, a video, or a testimony, 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 for the sake of proving they we not human, and classified and institutionalized the poor, the mentally ill and disabled, women, homosexuals, and others in order to justify segregation and sanitation. There is a huge movement to remove and reduce information of chattel slavery from the text books that our young people use, in an attempt to redeem and sanitize American history because of the apparent fragility of the privileged.

This movement seeks to dispel the idea that slavery was legal, institutionalized terror, and violent, torturous, or evil, and that slave owners were benevolent, compassionate folk who simply took advantage of a free-market opportunity. 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. The Japanese internment was simply a necessary evil, an extended vacation, if you will, with propagandized pictures to prove how productive and happy the banished American citizens of Japanese descent were.  

There are others who simply do not have the mental constitution or the strength of soul to accept the truth from other perspectives, period. Fear and lazy ignorance prevents these ones from growing and gaining relationships and the invitation to participate in the universe whole.  

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 voices are being muffled. For this reason, it behooves us all to be confident in what we know to be true, to make a habit of believing and believing in the other, and to not let the loud, lying screams of fearful doubt deter what you know you must do.

ReConciling Act:  Seeing is not believing.  Choosing to believe is believing. It is revolutionary.

The McKinney Condition

Some don't see the need for some things they learned in high school. I understand that. I won't ever need to use my physical education on archery.  However, I am so grateful I can make connections based on things I didn't think I'd need, yet do.

When I saw the video of the young people, and particularly the young woman, who were violently engaged by McKinney, Texas officers, my mind retreated past trauma and sadness to an old lesson on classical conditioning. As I watched officer Eric Casebolt chasing children as if he was on a laser tag field, grabbing Dajerria Becton's hair and twisting her arm, and pushing her to the ground, I was reminded of my lesson from a science class.  When I watched him kneeling his full weight upon her, like some sort of inanimate and useless prayer bench in a church basement, or more rightly, like a young, scared girl coerced into torture porn, I was reminded of Pavlov and his dogs.

Remember Pavlov?  In his research, Pavlov named the phenomenon he discovered when he paired meat powder with the sound of a bell as stimuli. This combination made the dogs salivate.  Over time, he found he could ring the bell without presenting the meat powder, and surprisingly, the dogs would salivate anyhow. And this, friends, is classical conditioning. 

In the context of the McKinney event, the bell is Black skin, and this bell has been ringing for centuries for folk who believe it their duty to behave like aggressive dogs.

I am baffled by the responses to what happened.  Some act as if policing and racism haven't gone hand-in-hand in this country, as if Back people have nothing better to do than make up sobs stories even while the videos prove our horror. Black people assembled is the equivalence of a mob, and the police assume the only way to react is with violence.

Many claim no knowledge of Jim Crow laws, or admit that the residue hasn't evolved into something just as dangerous and terrorizing for Black people.  Many forget that racism was legislated, and forget that the police were legally complicit in many lynchings, in violently encroaching on nonviolent protestors, and in many activities deemed righteous to maintain the social hierarchy for those of the dominant culture.  The conditioning has been thorough and consistent.

The sight of Black skin is enough to cause some police officers to forget professionalism, extensive training, and the fact that someone is recording them in plain sight.  The sight of black skin turns some officers into aggressive, salivating dogs who will swear their fear is more important than the safety of Black children.  Black skin gives them permission to pull a gun on young people trying to save the young woman under attack.  Once the bell is rung, there is no need for respectful language, for listening when they tried to express themselves, for even attempting to appear as if .  As the bell resonates, Black children don't deserve the benefit of the doubt, and the officers don't even have to pretend that they aren't targeting Black children. It is obvious and ugly and loud.  Passers-by will even help the police to carry out their deeds, becoming instant deputies, and claim children saying, "Call my mama," is dangerous and aggressive.

Officer Casebolt heard the bell more than likely before he arrived, and acted accordingly.  He seemed to be salivating on arrival, behaved like a hungry, conditioned dog who was only concerned with his primitive need to tackle his perceived duty. Of course, this is not to say he isn't fully responsible for his actions and shouldn't be held accountable.  He absolutely had the choice to be helpful and disperse the crowd in a more effective way.  However, I contend that with each chapter of this endless, tortuous book of police brutality toward Black people in this country-- for us who cannot rely on safety at a pool party, who are treated as if we can hide weapons of mass destruction in a bikini--we know for whom the bell tolls. 

It tolls for us.

No Simple Simple Thing

The world keeps asking me to scream,
To yell out for love in plain and simple terms.
Yet, I keep whispering, and planting my love for you in elaborate poetry embedded in rose thickets.
I want you to experience the dynamic fragrance,
To savor my essence and let the chemistry begin.
When you taste love, it should have a depth of flavor you've never experienced,
Deliciously unrecognizable... yet so familiar.

I don't want to dance to the obvious beats,
To tell you which steps to follow.
No two-steps, please, unless that is what happens naturally.
I want you to hear all the different levels of the poly-rhythms of my beautiful heart.
And, I say this knowing you are used to top 40 hits.
It's easier to turn on the radio and listen to what someone else said is hot.
You are used to drive-through dining, and you order the number 5.
I dine in pitch-black restaurants and enjoy the surprise meal created by the chef just for me.
He knows what I like, and cooks the opposite to stretch my imagination.

Something tells me you are tired of the usual.
You know that you have been dancing around a flag pole while the stars are waiting for you.

Still-- I will sing for the one who understands the cryptic language of love,
Who will lightly hold my heart in his hand with gentle tenderness
While he sings a song of his own.
There is a difference between some gold given and the gold mined.
Dig a bit deeper, and I will show you a whole vein of treasure.
I promise.
Mine deeply for me, please.
Claim me.
Love is no simple thing,
Yet it is so simply accessed.
When I come to your door,
Meet me with a kiss and invite me home.
It's as simple as that.

You didn't call me...

Because humans have often lost the ability to detect 
      what is sacred, magical and special,
You have missed one simple fact --you didn't call me.
I was sent.
I was sent to laugh at your jokes,
To remind you that you are loved and very loveable.
I was sent to call your name with a voice that is not afraid,
To speak to you in quiet tones and whispers 
      that only my confidant can hear.
I was sent to give you a reason to miss that meeting,
To create sweet sanctuary in the middle of your life's war zone.
I was sent to dance with you late into the night, 
      and to feed you frosting with my pinky finger.
I was sent to rush you to the hospital, to have the extra key, 
       to massage you until your crushing migraine 
               is a welcome memory.
You didn't call me!!!
I simply hoped that you understood that every kiss was a gift 
      and not a mere biological response;
That every look was because 
      I hoped you were the center of my compass. 
I was willing to follow you anywhere.
And my heart...
Oh, this wounded heart of mine beat madly for you.
You didn't call me, though you did reach out the first time.
But I had a conversation with God well before you did.  
I got dressed and was ready for your phone call.
I didn't know where I was going.  
I just knew that I was sent.
I was sent to and for you.
Some people wonder why miracles don't happen anymore.  
They do. 
Many people just don't recognize them and put them into the trash 
      with the other things they don't understand.   
I am the one God made for you.
Sent.
Ready and able,
But, I have no choice but to move on because I know the quality 
      that is planted in me.
I must move on, slowly, because my heart is heavy,
      but move on I shall.
You didn't call me.
I was sent.
I just hoped that you and God were in on the grand invitation...

Blessed...

Blessed are the spiritual refugees who long to be a part of a church, but find no room in the inn, for they shall see God. Blessed are they who will avoid church this morning, because their hearts have been broken by their unfaithful faith leader. Blessed are they who will flip through television stations to hear the good news because they have been dis-invited from the church with dirty looks or no word of welcome. Blessed are the pastors and faith leaders who lead with integrity, and speak the prophetic word of God, instead of the word that will maintain their employment. Blessed are the ones who will pray for forgiveness to God, and not experience it in their families or churches. Blessed are they that mourn from abuse, violence, oppression and mistreatment, and are told to "get over it". Blessed are the ones who never said a mumbling word, and are caught up in a swirl of malicious gossip. Blessed are those who are told to stay with abusive partners. Blessed are the beautiful ones who wear what they have to church, and are judged for it. Blessed are the souls who are told that who they are is a sin, often by those who, in action and deed, are their kin. Blessed are all those pushed out of the church by people, when God is continually welcoming everyone in, for theirs is the Kin-dom of God.

Two Are Better Than One

I am a capable, beautiful, talented woman.  There are many things I like about myself, and I found them despite the fact that I have often had critical people around me who felt it was their employment to point out all of my failures and aspects to improve.  So, it's a minor miracle that I can look in the mirror with any seriousness, and like what I see.  

And I'm single.

Lately, though I have been swimming in the waters of confidence and gratitude, I have been feeling some kind of way about my singleness.  First, I resist the labels of being "hungry" or desperate.  I am not sure what happened in our society to make expressing our desires a negative thing.  I want a relationship, and hopefully a long-term one that will lead to marriage.  There is absolutely everything right about knowing what I want, and saying it without shrinking and lying that I don't want what I really do.

Why?  Because--

"Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor:  If either of them falls down, one can help the other up.  But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.  Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm.  But how can one keep warm alone?  Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves.  A cord of three strands is not quickly broken."  (Ecclesiastes 4: 9-12)

It's not rocket science.  Though I crave romance and the emotional bond, I am practical and realistic, too. I know of perfectly eligible men who are simply choosing to remain single because they are waiting...I pause, because the reports are varied.  

Some tell me that they are waiting for the woman who will be the baddest woman in the room in which she walks.  They want other men to see her, and to praise him because she is so fine.  Others say that no woman wants a man with bad credit, bad histories, and so like the reluctance to go to church until one stops "sinning", they wait until their credit, financial prowess--whatever improves... yeah.

I have no patience for those who are available for partnership discussing how difficult it is to pay their bills and maintain, or that they are simply waiting until the Beyonce/Michelle Obama hybrid drops onto their lap.  Did you ever consider that perhaps you are in the position you are in because you are resisting relationship, and waiting?  

While you wait, two households are being maintained instead of one.  While you wait, you are going it alone, and so am I.  While you wait, you and I are calling locksmiths to get back into the house to which you or I would have a key.  While you wait, I swallow tears at couples embracing and marrying, dancing and enjoying each other...both of our lips are without the moisture of a kiss.  

I try to throw out bitterness and resentment regularly, but your absence is so glaring!! It is not your fault, but our every action or inaction affects the other.

It is almost like I am a person in need of an ambulance.  While bleeding and in need of transport to the hospital, I watch you drive by over and over again. However, you are simply driving your personal ambulance--with the lights on--on the way to the market to make yourself dinner.  You think the siren is cool, and you like the power of folk getting out of your way as you drive.

Yep, I am saying that some choiceful singleness is selfishness.  Yep, I am saying that relationship is emotional, spiritual and practical.  Yep, I am saying that your unavailability directly affects so many of us, and then you have the audacity to talk about community-building and connection to others. How about you build your own community?  

I think that freedom has been misused and misinterpreted as being able to do whatever you want with no accountability.  Every freedom has connection and responsibility to the other. Being in partnership is about sharing your time, your energy, your resources, and your heart.  Some folk never learned to share, and have such skewed egos that they may never find the person they believe is "worthy".  Huh. 

I have chosen to be fine with whatever circumstance comes my way.  One day, I might find a relationship that is wonderful.  I am gaining more strength and skills in being alone, new treasures to make it on my own.  However, we all have trials and tribulations, and while you are waiting for the dime piece to walk into your highlights, you may find yourself alone when your lights are off. Remember that you chose this existence.  But I can tell you there is nothing like knowing someone has your back for real.

Planting Seeds

 As I watch the news concerning yesterday's tragic events at the Boston Marathon, I am, of course, very sad. Loss of any life in such a fashion simply leaves us feeling raped.  Peace is stolen, and we are left wondering where and when the next strike will come.

My heart goes out to every person hurt, maimed, killed and affected by yesterday's act of terror--to include those in Iraq.

A story, written by someone we don't know, informs as to how we might respond.  There is no way we as a country can experience true peace while simultaneous waging war.  

Let us plant and desire the seeds of peace for everyone.  Let us refuse to parse our tears, shedding 22 for American loss, and none for those dead across the world.  I pray that there is no other event in this country of this kind again, and I pray the same for every other square inch in the world.

When we understand our connectedness, we will find the answer to how to experience true peace.

"There once was a farmer who grew award-winning corn. Each year he entered his corn in the state fair where it won a blue ribbon.

One year, a newspaper reporter interviewed him and learned something interesting about how he grew it. The reporter discovered that the farmer shared his seed corn with his neighbors.

'How can you afford to share your best seed corn with your neighbors when they are entering corn in competition with yours each year?' the reporter asked.

'Why sir,' said the farmer, 'didn't you know? The wind picks up pollen from the ripening corn and swirls it from field to field. If my neighbors grow inferior corn, cross-pollination will steadily degrade the quality of my corn. If I am to grow good corn, I must help my neighbors grow good corn.'

He is very much aware of the connectedness of life. His corn cannot improve unless his neighbor's corn also improves.

So it is with our lives. Those who choose to live in peace must help their neighbors to live in peace. Those who choose to live well must help others to live well, for the value of a life is measured by the lives it touches. And those who choose to be happy must help others to find happiness, for the welfare of each is bound up with the welfare of all.

The lesson for each of us is this: if we are to grow good corn, we must help our neighbors grow good corn."                                                                                                    -Author Unknown

Proverbs 11:24-25
Some give freely, yet grow all the richer;
   others withhold what is due, and only suffer want.
A generous person will be enriched,
   and one who gives water will get water. 

A Sacred Lamentation

1:1  I am the woman who has seen affliction
    in the silence of singleness.
² I stand at windows waiting for dates that will never come,
    and congratulate the good fortune of newly-engaged 
    friends through invisible tears.
³ Indeed, the old adage, "don't actively look, just wait on the Lord," 
   rings in my ears again and again, 
   limply hanging in the air all day long.  

⁴ Can we simply admit that there is no map to relationship, 

   no compass to follow,    

    just acts of grace or sheer luck?
⁵ Why must I be called bitter because I long for deep kisses
    from lips that refuse to tell lies? 
⁶ Shall I be the 17th wheel
    at every party forever?

⁷ I want so desperately to celebrate a 42nd wedding anniversary,
    to have the extra set of keys to the car, to be the brightness 

    in one's heart.
⁸ For now, I process difficult days by myself, 

    figure out how bills will be paid alone.
    I pray prayers for others' relationships 

    because I am sure my own prayers are unheard.
⁹ Cold sheets--they mock me!
    Big, dark, short-haired girls deserve what they get.

¹⁰ This kind of loneliness becomes the status of saints,
      like a lone, green leaf in the middle of the hot desert.
¹¹ The power of kisses from long ago
      have left me with only a faint memory.
¹² I look at old poetry, with lines laden with broken-promises
      and try to imagine if those words came 

      from committed people. 

¹³ I love love.
   My heart is still of flesh.
¹⁴ Still, this fleshy heart can't watch romantic movies 

    without weeping;
    each scene mocks me in my solitude.
¹⁵ I cannot sleep.
    Sweet drinks taste bland and useless.

¹⁶ I know it is because I was created to feel deeply,
    And now, I must imagine the faintest phantom touch, for sanity's sake.
¹⁷ I will remember the joy of laced fingers, and soft-spoken conversations,
    And I will never forget that God is always creating possibilities.
¹⁸ Even still, my heart is downcast.  

     Out of billions of people, Creator, I only seek one.

¹⁹  I only seek one, and
       and therefore, I have hope.

The Light

 For Danny--

Imagine you find a light just glowing in the air in a field. You happen upon it and are struck by its beauty.  All you can do is gaze at it, but the light is too brilliant to really figure out its dimensions, its source, or even its power. Just being near it heals you, excites you, makes you cry. It moves you and changes something within.

You can't imagine not sharing the light, so you tell people, and they come. One look, and they express that feel the same way about the light. More and more people come, and eventually some person--who has told themselves that they know everything about lights and their sources--tells the group who simply came because they were drawn by the light, "Pretty soon, you all will not be able to see the light. More and more people will come and you will have to wait to see it, or perhaps not see it at all." Everyone becomes afraid, and fear abruptly enters into the happy feelings the group once felt.  

What if they couldn't see the light whenever they wanted?  What if it was no longer "their" light?  What if the light went away because too many had access to its glow?

A group of folk make a plan for the sake of "order".  They decide people would wait in line, and design how people would wait.  Then, the group decides those other than the ones originally invited to see the light should only come once a week. Soon, they fear that they would leave something out in their planning, or miss some detail, so they assign roles. 

Some are chosen to "protect" the light, and they build a glass container for the light. The group votes for walls to be erected around the light, and the arbitrary group that concocted the plans becomes the "leaders." They decide eventually who deserves the light and who doesn't, and even produce scholars and artisans to write, philosophize, and create great works about the light and its attributes. 

Two thousand years later, the light is all anyone can talk about.  No one alive has seen the light.  In all honesty, no one cares if the light is there or not because everyone is too busy continuing to care for the field, assigning days for people to visit the light, and tending to the roles they made for themselves. The leaders are consumed with painting pictures about the light, and erecting statues for you, the one who simply happened upon the light.  In the flurry of activity, they assumed the light remained, but their protection of it masked that it was long gone.  

The light had moved long ago to the people who needed it most.  It had moved and been seen by those who gazed on its like and felt transformed, and left the people who needed order and safety.  It left the arrogant ones who felt it was there place to exclude and marginalize to satisfy their puny needs. 

This is what happened to Christianity. Limited minds made so many rules and walls that folk never realized the light was just supposed to shine, and those who wished to appreciate it would, and those who didn't wouldn't. The people who are carrying on in the name of the light haven't a clue how to bring about freedom, but the folk who need the Light surely do! 

Eventually, those of us who are outside of the circle will thank God that we are.  There is bondage in trying to capture and control something that can never be.

May the pain of you left out because of how God created you turn to dancing when you discover that God is on your side. To every person in the LGBTQ community who weeps and wails with longing for inclusion, may it be so, and may you know that the Light dances about you. Amen.

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.