And Are We Yet Alive?

‘And are we yet alive?’ Those are the beginning words of a Methodist hymn whose relevance has not been as keen to many of us in the past as it has this past 2-year-span.

Even those of us who have the privilege of living in spaces where death is not a regular occurrence have been overwhelmed with death near and far in unavoidable ways. Physical death in the millions, and less tangible yet still significant deaths in the spiritual, emotional, and metaphysical realms.

We’ve seen and experienced the death of many of our bubbles of privilege around the experiences of Black, Indigenous and People of Color in the United States. The death of the strongholds of toxic Christianity married to Supremacy Culture. The death of the status quo and the idolization of systems that perpetuate harm to the masses. The death of childhood frameworks that diminish the power, sovereignty and beauty of the gifts we share. These are just to name a few.

These ‘things’ are still alive out there, of course, but they have died or have begun to die inside of many of us. The pain that comes along with any of these deaths has been exhausting in the midst of what I like to call the ‘trauma dumpster fire.’

In many spiritual texts ‘new life’ can only come after some form of death — as painful as the death and the birth might be. Often symbolic and less-so literal, these deaths offer the nutrients, the space and the opportunity for a new, different and more healed thing to be born. (To be clear, when I talk about these necessary forms of death I’m not talking about the unnecessary death that comes from preventable illness and violence — both of which we’ve seen too much of these years.)

The transformative forms of death often come along naturally with the experiences of life and struggle. Our recent history has prepared a ground ripe for this, however.

Another way of thinking about it is that the pandemic and all that has swirled around in its midst has had a way of grabbing us by the lapels and asking us the great Mary Oliver question: “What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” And what is hindering the opportunity for that life to be lived out in its fullness?

For me that came along at a time where death had already overwhelmed, and pain and trauma had worn things down. For those for whom that was the case, how could even our normally nimble selves escape the questions?

That has come with lots of things in my world: a leaning in to deep callings (yay for new meaningful jobs), a space for healing and remembering of the self (dismantling Supremacy Culture within and without, yo), an embracing of sovereignty (y’all, I bought a house), and a walking through a threshold into a new part of my journey led by a more loving adult-self (yay terms from therapy). All of these admittedly done in a life that is also marked by great privilege. All of these still very much actively being transitioned into and internalized.

And so I am yet alive — alive anew in ways, coming alive in others, and experiencing death still. And I am, like the rest of us, navigating an uncertain world. I am navigating anxiety and caring for my mental health. I am navigating the innate desire to make a better world in the midst of people’s pain, anger and hate all of which perpetuate pain, anger and hate. I am navigating loving myself in a world where that is counter-productive, and learning to love and be loved by others wholeheartedly. I am…

And so this is my way of saying this to you a few things more:

I am glad you’re still here. I am glad I’m still here.

Lean in.



Let it die.

Do the thing.

Listen to your body.

Trust your gut.

Say the things out loud.

You can do scary things.

Hope is a stubborn and persistent thing; wait for it.

Death is not the end of it all.

You are not alone.

You are always beloved — in life and in death.

The Things That Make For Peace

As [Jesus} came near and saw the city, he wept over it, saying, “If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes.  Indeed, the days will come upon you, when your enemies will set up ramparts around you and surround you, and hem you in on every side. They will crush you to the ground, you and your children within you, and they will not leave within you one stone upon another; because you did not recognize the time of your visitation from God.”because you did not recognize the time of God’s coming to you.”

Luke 19:41-44 NRSV

In the summer of 2016 I took a small retreat to a monastery I like to visit in the Atlanta area; that weekend I worshipped at the historic Ebenezer Baptist Church. That week ended up being the week that Alton Sterling and Philando Castile were murdered and then 5 Dallas police officers were also killed.  I remember the grief, pain and tension being palpable that week.

So that weekend I went to worship in that holy space. Worship in its lament and joy was a form of resistance. 

As we worship God we resist the things that we have been told to be true: violence, division, greed, corruption — and proclaim to be true the things of the kingdom of God: peace, reconciliation, joy, justice.

That Sunday one of the pastors said something that has remained with me. As she introduced a song that she was about to sing titled ‘Calvary’ she reflected on a question that was asked of a seminary professor of hers once in school: “Why did calvary happen?” She shared that the professor’s answer to the question was that Calvary happens because we don’t know what to do with God’s image in the world.

The depth of that statement still shakes me.  Years later, it begs me to ask the question where I’m missing God’s image in the world still.

We find ourselves still in the midst of a world where if we turn on our computers or TVs we see that we continue to kill one another. We kill one another only with guns, but with laws, and words, and the actions that come from FEAR and an unwillingness to LISTEN to one another and to HEAR one another and to KNOW one another. It comes from our inability to know the things that make for peace.

When we continue to recognize each other’s pain, we continue to kill the image of God.  For we are told in Scripture that every human person, every human person is created in the IMAGE OF GOD.  And so every life we extinguish is killing God’s very image in our world

Because we don’t know what to do with God’s image in our world, we kill it — we kill him, we kill her. And we don’t even notice. And when we find no justice in that killing, the pain is deepened. Where there is no justice, there is no peace. Today we again find no justice and no peace, but we must say her name, as we continue to resist the things that make for war and fight for the things that make for peace. Breonna Taylor.

For George and many more

I remember still, my 8 year old self, recently arrived from Puerto Rico hearing about the U.S. Civil Rights movement, and even then, in my spirit knowing that God is a God of justice. Even then I remember being repulsed by the thought that some could hate others in such a way. Since then I’ve felt my God-created spirit moved by issues of injustice — particularly around racial and ethnic minorities — like almost nothing else.

Over the years, however my way of living into that stirring has changed during different seasons. Injustices have offered new lenses, people and experiences — personal and not — to me.  Sometimes I’ve been afraid to name them too loudly; too scarred from previous reproaches; too worried that I already have too much against me; too tired from my own fighting. Sometimes I’ve written, I’ve preached, I’ve marched, I’ve called, I’ve taught. And sometimes I’ve done not much else than grieve and groan inwardly.

Today I am again in a new place.

Once again, the trauma of unjust, dehumanizing systems that for generations have engrained themselves in the psyche, the thinking, the acting, the speaking of cultures, cannot be denied as it is projected on our very screens. White supremacy is alive and well, and it impacts daily the lives of black and brown persons in our country.

Calls and texts from my black clergy sisters and brothers, voices that are exhausted or angry, or numb, remind me of the words of Dr. King that the middle is no middle at all, but a choosing of the side of oppression.

And while my family is no stranger to injustice, mistreatment, and abuse on the rural country roads of Florida, I know and I see that I too carry privilege. That most days my skin is light enough and my diction and vocabulary impressive enough.

So what does one do with privilege? How does one not become the moderates that King spoke of? What are the ways we use the power we have been given for the work that God calls God’s people to? How does one use one’s voice, one’s typing fingers, one’s voting hand, one’s financial gifts, one’s children’s books, one’s podcast listening ears, one’s marching feet, one’s studying mind, one’s business running, one’s observing and speaking self?

They must all be used for the freedom of others — for our freedom is also found there.

So today I begin again.

I begin again with lament.

We must begin somewhere.

I begin with confession.

It comes much before reconciliation.

I begin with prayer
and tears
and song.

So, God,
Justice completer;

Hear our prayers:

For those whose blood has been spilt for centuries, with no record and no video to…
For those whose videos have been seen by millions and whose killers have still gone free…
For the women who are afraid when their husbands go out jogging…
For the dads who wonder if they will see their children grow…
For the clergy who while in a pandemic are afraid they’ll get shot because they’re wearing a mask while visiting a parishioner….
For those who are tokenized yet whose voices remain on the margins…
For those who are too tired to speak…
Fo those who are too scared to speak…
For those who with raw throats continue to speak…
For those who are trying to figure out how to love those who persecute them…
For those who internalize the inhumanity attributed to them…
For those whose grief leads them to violence…
For those for whom we forget to pray…
For those who can’t breathe…

Hear our prayers, also:

For those who ignore the voices that cry out in pain…
For those who claim that talks of justice are divisive and that we have already… progressed enough…
For those who expect the hurting to have the solution…
For those who claim to see no color and who thus refuse to acknowledge it’s beauty…
For those who can’t and won’t see beyond their experience into the realities of others…
For those who defend un-defendable rhetoric spoken from the highest offices…
For those who will not listen…
For the allies who in their wokeness leave collateral damage in their wake…
For those who know better and don’t do better…
For those who hold power and yet sit idly and comfortably by…
For those who are unbothered…
For those who can sleep at night…

And hear our prayers:
For those who long to listen and be changed…
For those who are willing to be uncomfortable…
For those who are willing to be proved wrong…
For those who are willing to love out loud…

Hear our prayers; heal our hearts; change our lives.


I’ve also been singing this song today — a spiritual I think of often, entitled: I Want Jesus To Walk With Me. I share it here after a quick recording on my phone:


Michael Brown/ Pamela Turner/ Laquan McDonald/ Walter Scott/ Freddie Gray/ Eric Garner/ Tamir Rice/ Sandra Bland/ Antonio Arce/ Philando Castile/ Atatiana Jefferson/ Breonna Taylor/ Sean Reed/ George Floyd/ and many more

Since words do matter…

Since words do matter.png

I won’t but I could. I absolutely could give you their names. I could give you their names because I remember those moments clearly. Not that there aren’t other similar moments, too numerous to count, that have also come to pass. But I specifically remember those that contained that phrase: “Go back to where you came from!”

When I was in third grade my family moved from Puerto Rico to a rural part of the Sunshine State. This move was one that held a great deal of sacrifice for my parents, something I have only thought about as an adult; but a move that I know was done with the desire to offer me (an only child at the time) a better life filled with greater opportunities.  Of the few things I remember about that moving process is taking a test to be allowed into the non-ESOL class— something that my parents advocated for. I remember being really worried during the stressful examination when I couldn’t remember the word trash can as well as when I discovered that the clock that you wear on your wrist is in fact called a watch. Despite these two hiccups I passed, likely given the fact that we had temporarily lived in Florida for a year in my kindergarten year, and my English had stuck.

This town, from which my sister and I eventually graduated high school and where my parents still live, is one that has had a deep impact on my understanding of race, ethnicity, culture and identity.

There I learned about rodeos, pick-up trucks and gained an appreciation for country music.

It was in this town that I had some of the best teachers (all Anglo, with the exception of a handful) I could have hoped for – ones who saw things in me that I didn’t see in myself, and who let me be my quirky, oft shy self.

There I also came to the realization that people treated others differently because of the color of their skin and the language that they spoke – a fact which coincided with my learning of and great love for MLK and other black poets and writers.

There I learned that though specifically as Puerto Ricans we were US Citizens, this fact often didn’t mean much, if anything, to those that my parents interviewed for, especially when they couldn’t hide their ‘foreignness’ given their accents.  I saw the tremendous gifts my parents possess and their admirable work ethic.

There I learned what it was like to be considered ‘other’ – and I learned about the solidarity that comes from that title, and in my case and context it came with the African American community.

There I intimately experienced other cultures whose primary language was also Spanish. At the time of my upbringing the Latino/a population was predominantly Mexican with many families who worked in the local agriculture and construction. It was here that I garnered a deep love for my Central and South American siblings.

Yes, it was there that I was told the phrase I’ve never forgotten: “Go back to where you came from!” Along with this taunt I remember being teased about whether I had come here on a raft, and called other derogative terms used for those who cross rivers.

I have traveled years and miles from this town.  I have had the privilege of incredible opportunities in my education, learning and personal formation. I have had the fortune of visiting different countries, and within this country working with diverse groups of people – diverse in geographical background, ethnicity, gender, age, etc.  Still, I have continued to learn afresh the truths I gleaned in this secondary hometown – the good, the bad, and the ugly.

As I shared at a church denominational gathering recently, it is only in the recent past that I have realized how I have come to internalize the spirit of these words on my life. Not only those in my 8thgrade Algebra class but those spoken in the halls of churches I have served. That even in my slight avoidance of publicly speaking personally on such topics there was the subconscious understanding that part of my identity as a Latina was a problem or obstacle to be overcome.

Still I’m regularly told: “Don’t speak of such things; they are divisive. The more you talk about them the more you bring up our differences.” “Don’t take it seriously, they don’t know any better; it’s just part of their upbringing.” “Don’t call yourself Latina; you’re talented and don’t have to play the race card.” “Don’t talk about being Latina or you’ll never be seen as anything but that.”

And then I hear and read this phrase reach national and international news: Go back to where you came from!

I have a love-hate relationship with writing. I haven’t written on here in years. Part of it is that in some ways these past few years I have felt as if I had come to the end of words. What could my words matter anyway? What could my grief matter? How does the impact of our national rhetoric on me make a difference? But part of what I have remembered upon hearing this childhood phrase again is that: Words do matter.

As I hope to have communicated, the racial tensions in this country have not been new to me. I say that aware of my particular privilege as a light-skinned Latina born with US citizenship, and one with a decent command of the English language. And still, the past several years have lived into what Lin-Manuel Miranda writes in his musical ‘In the Heights’: “Racism’s gone from latent to blatant!”

I think I also haven’t written for a while because I have been in some ways afraid. What I have known to be true for so many of my black siblings and other siblings of color is now public, and we haven’t handled it well. Speaking vulnerably on such things rarely goes well. In the past few years I have had some of the most painful conversations around the topic of race. The ones that have hurt the most have been with those I thought knew better and whose ignorance and unwillingness to dialogue have surprised me in the most painful of ways. I have also grown weary of those with the greatest of privileges who happily benefit from their public ‘wokeness.’

Yet I’m not a politician, I’m a pastor – and right or wrong, I’ve never felt compelled to even address a politician by name in a sermon, though I have certainly addressed the words and actions of such. I personally hope to have no political agenda other than the agenda of a transforming love that comes with my understanding of following Jesus.

Since words do matter…. here are mine.

I’m worried.

I’m worried for the little girls and boys who continue to hear those phrases said to them and of them. I worry about how they might internalize them. I worry about the boys and girls who hear those phrases shouted at others. I worry that their parents won’t help them understand how wrong and bad those words are. I worry that they will later say those things. I worry about those who have already internalized these – giving or receiving them – and how their souls are hindered from the freedom that is found in the understanding of God’s deep love for all people or all genders, ages, nations, races, cultures, orientations, abilities and beyond. I worry about a lot of things.

I worry because I am beginning to see that we have forgotten that words matter and that they in fact shape the reality that surrounds us. Words like the ones we regularly hear spoken from those in the highest office of power in our country give us permission to objectify other humans. Words like this allow us to leave children uncared for at our borders and in homes next to our own. Words like this allow us to treat women as objects. As the Rev. Dr. William Barber II has said, “We Are In a Crisis — a Moral Crisis,” and I believe a spiritual crisis. That politicians would sell their souls for personal gain does not likely surprise many, but part of our crisis is that the Church, which is supposed to be a counter-cultural hope of the world, has been so complicit in word and deed as well as in lack of words and deeds.

As a part of the Church I ask for forgiveness for the ways that I have been complicit in silence, inaction and even in speaking words of harm.  Under the conviction that words do matter — even my words — I commit to not taking words for granted.

Church-people especially, would you join me? I would love your company.

May we speak up when we hear those around us speak words that contribute to harm. May we speak truth to lies: that all are persons of dignity, that all are worthy of love, safety and care.  That we can disagree, and often should, but that we can do so from a foundation of the sacredness of all persons.

Derogatory language is wrong. Words matter.  Racism, prejudice, discrimination, or antagonism directed against someone of a different race based on the belief that one’s own race is superior is sinful and evil.  Christian allegiance is first and foremost to the work of Jesus in the world: the work of proclaiming good news to the poor, freedom for the prisoners, recovery of sight for the blind — a work that sets the oppressed free and proclaims that God calls us to be at work with God in all of these ways (C.f. Luke 4:17-21).

May our words reflect these truths. May they be typed, written, spoken, shared, lived.  May it be so.

A prayer for the new year: I Hold My Life Up to You Now

It’s been quite a year: big decisions, courage,  changes, growth, saying goodbye, leaving, arriving, meeting for the first time, stepping outside of comfort zones, struggle, travel, friendship, kindness, writing, wondering…

The year ahead seems full of potential, as the change in the calendar often facilitates. Yet, there is also in it, in the midst of the fog of uncertainty, a desire for more than holiday resolutions, or the promises of fluctuating emotions.

As is often the case, Ted Loder somehow writes words that resonate with my soul. Upon running across this prayer I’ve been reading it, over and over, praying with longing for a return to what is basic and in many ways simple. Perhaps it will speak to you as well, and we can pray it together.

I Hold My Life Up to You Now

Patient God,
the clock struck midnight
and I partied with a strange sadness in my heart,
confusion in my mind.

Now I ask you
to gather me,
for I realize
the storms of time have scattered me,
the furies of the past year have driven me,
many sorrows have scarred me,
many accomplishments have disappointed me,
much activity has wearied me,
and fear has spooked me
into a hundred hiding places,
one of which is pretended gaity.

I am sick of a string of “have-a-nice-day’s.”
What I want is passionate days,
wondrous days,
dangerous days,
blessed days,
surprising days.
What I want is you!

Patient God,
this day teeters on the edge of waiting
and things seem to slip away from me,
as though everything were only memory
and memory is capricious.

Help me not to let my life slip away from me
O God, I hold up my life to you now,
as much as I can,
as high as I can,
in this mysterious reach called prayer.

Come close, lest I wobble and fall short.
It is not days or years I seek from you,
not infinity and enormity,
but small things and moments and awareness,
awareness that you are in what I am
and in what I have been indiffferent to.

It is not new time,
but new eyes,
new heart I seek,
and you.

Patient God,
in this teetering time,
this time in the balance,
this time of waiting,
make me aware of moments,
moments of song,
moments of bread and friends,
moments of jokes
(some of them on me)
which, for a moment, deflate my pomposities;
moments of sleep and warm beds,
moments of children laughing and parents bending,
moments of sunsets and sparrows outspunking winter,
moments when broken things get mended
with glue or guts or mercy or imagination;
moments when splinters shine and rocks shrink,
moments when I know myself blest,
not because I am so awfully important,
but because you are so awesomely God,
no less of the year to come
as of all the years past;
no less of this moment
than of all my momnets;
no less of those who forget you
as of those who remember,
as I do now,
in this teetering time.

O Patient God,
make something new in me,
in this year,
for you.

by Ted Loder in Guerrillas of Grace: Prayers for the Battle (1984: Innisfree Press, Inc.)

A Song About God

I have an interesting relationship with music and singing. If I had to describe it on Facebook I’d say it’s complicated. I’m told that before I spoke I sang. My mother being a music teacher, my earliest memories involve music — be it singing solos in church, watching my mom direct a choir or band, singing as a family at gatherings, and others aspects throughout life. The truth is I love music and I love singing. My soul is healed through music in ways that nothing else can soothe. I’m inspired by musicals and artists who write and perform. As a child I daydreamed of performing in front of masses. Still today watching a good concert my mind will wander into the “I want to do that…”  If Adele, Kelly Clarkson, and Rhianna had a baby, I’d want to be that style of singer.

The it’s a complicated relationship piece of it is that I have noticed in different contexts in my life where I have felt as though a singing performance was all that was desired of me.  I am much more than than a singer, of course, I have other passions and other things to offer. So it bothers me when I sing and the focus is more on the performance than the words (this is specifically problematic to me when my singing is done during worship).  Plus, I don’t particularly like the attention.  I’m working through these issues; but I share all this to say that — whether wrong, right, or neither — I think throrougly through the decision to sing publicly.

For all of these complicated (and somewhat silly) feelings I was momentarily paralyzed while in South Africa when a woman who barely spoke English told asked me to sing.  We were on a whirlwind trip visiting different groups, organizations and churches around three cities in the country of South Africa. This particular day we had the absolute privilege to visit the Hillcrest AIDS Centre.

This organization which originally came out of a congregation/church is what I consider a vision of the active and visible kingdom of God on earth. Among the many things they do — they bring awareness and education about HIV/AIDS, encourage persons to become tested, know their status and receive and take medications when needed, empower persons to support themselves through trades, etc. — they also have a respite unit for the purpose of caring for and loving on persons with advanced stages of AIDS.  We were a privileged group who were able to spend time with persons being cared for in this respite, as well as with those who serve there.

After hearing about what the organization does from an absolutely inspiring woman, we were led and welcomed into the area where persons are live, recover, and a significant number die.

When we arrived, there were people in a porch/lanai area outside. I assumed these were persons who were able to get out of their bed and spend some time in the fresh air. I walked in and found the nearest chair by the nearest two women that I found; and I figured this would be relatively easy.  I was genuinely excited to be there; for a number reasons that I won’t go into here, for a long time I have felt drawn to the cause of persons with HIV/AIDS. I also regularly enjoy visiting persons, offering prayer, and encouragement.  But immediately I realized that there was somewhat of a language barrier.  Thus far, the majority of the persons that we had encountered in South Africa spoke English — or we at least had someone to translate for us. These two women were not fluent in English and we were kind of on our own. One of them, who seemed to be in a heightened level of pain and/or discomfort, understood more so than the other. So,this woman, who I discovered had been there for barely a month, translated for the other woman who seemed well on her way to recovery, and possibly  being discharged.  She didn’t always make the effort to translate, however, so it was slow, uncomfortable small talk.  Being an introvert there are few things I like less than small talk. But I found myself too tired or stubborn to leave and find another group, so I stuck it out. I was uncomfortable because I wanted to talk and offer my special presence (nothing like mission trip to make you realize how arrogant we Americans can be!), but they didn’t understand me nor did they seem all that interested in trying to communicate.

So I sat. I was silent for a bit and then attempted to speak again, and then I was silent again.  Then I heard a TV playing inside and there was some music playing from the TV. I had another topic for smalltalk. I asked them if they liked music. The lady who spoke more English looked at me with a grave expression and told me she did.  She then asked me if I sang. “Crap!” I thought in my head.  “Ummm… Yes, sort of…” Then she very clearly said, “Sing me a song… Sing me a song about God.”

Did I mention my relationship with singing in public is complicated? We were outside and it wasn’t just us three; there was a group of people on this porch. But a woman with AIDS who seemed to be in pain asked me to sing her a song while we sat in a respite unit in South Africa. What else could I do but sing a song? I told her that it would be in English because I didn’t know any songs in Zulu or Xhosa.  Then I asked her if she knew ‘Amazing Grace.’  I knelt by her side, in part because I wanted to sing only to her and not have everyone hear, and in part because I wanted to be close to her.  I started to sing and precisely what I would not have wanted to happen happened; everyone got quiet. But that only mattered for a second. For, whether everyone was listening or not, or ended up joining in or not, I was singing a song about God. I was singing a song that had taught me about God in a way that I had not experienced God for a lot of my life. A song about a God of grace. A song that I remember hearing one day as though I’d never heard it before, and it moved me to tears. It was a significant piece of my renewed understanding of who God is.

The woman looked intently into my eyes as I sang – my face 18 inches from hers. As I sang I would close my eyes and open them back again and see her staring at me. It was almost as if whether she knew the words or not she knew that the notes were about God. It was holy and sacred.

When I finished people cheered, then someone encouraged us all to sing other songs — songs in Zulu, English, Spanish and Creole.  It was great. Later on a couple from our group who remained in the respite area had the privilege of singing and dancing with the group of nurses, staff and some patients as they shared with us how consider themselves a people who live with great sorrow underneath, but simultaneously a people of great rejoicing and song. That time was also sacred and a gift.

I miss that place. I feel as though I left a piece of my heart there — a piece of my voice, maybe. Even now I think about their memorial wall and I’m filled with emotion. Now that we’re in Advent I’m especially reflective; and this woman’s words have been tumbling through my mind.  “Sing me a song about God.”  I’ve been thinking about another song about God — one that we recite during this time of year.  A song that may have also been reluctant in arriving at her singer’s mouth but one that overflowed from her lips — with joy, conviction, truth and hope —  once she found herself in the presence of another who encouraged it with her being and words.

Mary’s song  (in Luke 1:46-55; see vs 26-56 for the whole story) begins with praise – praise at the realization of her humble state –  which leads to being overwhelmed by God’s unreasonable Grace.  The song goes on to turn the world up…side…down.

“He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty…”

What a song about God!

As I sit and reflect on this song I’m encouraged to sing louder and more often — songs about God in the midst of uncertainty.  Songs like the one Mary sang, maybe not entirely knowing what she was saying, but inspired by who God is.  A song of a God of reversals, where the lowly are made high, the high are brought low, the hungry are filled with good things while the rich are sent away empty, the last become first, and the least become the greatest.  Songs that move us, that make us uncomfortable, that make us think, that fill us with emotion, and that tell us about grace.  And even when we’re not entirely sure what the words mean, we somehow recognize that the notes are about God — a God of great love and grace, who meets us in unexpected ways, places, and songs.  So as I reflect on this song of a God of great reversals I think of my South African companions, and I sing songs about God for them.

Victory is Ours
Goodness is stronger than evil;
Love is stronger than hate;
Light is stronger than darkness;
Life is stronger than death;
Victory is ours through Him who loves us.
-Desmond M. Tutu,
Archbishop Emeritus of Cape Town, South Africa

A 5-foot-tall wall of bricks that spans 20 yards and is painted with names of the patients who die here.

A wall of bricks that spans 20 yards and is painted with names of the patients who have died at HAC.

Grace will lead

I distinctly remember the time that the lyrics from the hymn ‘Amazing Grace’ made sense to me.  I was a teenager and had been suffering from anxiety and depression and had serious doubts as to God’s love for me. I carried a lot of guilt. I was beginning to learn about God’s grace and there it was:

Amazing grace how sweet the sound
that saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost but now am found,
was blind but now I see.

I felt like I suddenly saw and so much shame and guilt were lifted.  Grace is something that I still depend on and that I continue to discover its wonders; something that is at the center of my call.  It’s funny though because I had another ‘eureka’ moment related to this hymn a couple days ago.  I was meeting for the last time in the children’s chapel of an Episcopal church with a woman who’d been my spiritual director for a year and a half, as I will be moving soon.  We were reflecting on the many things that had happened in the period of time that we were together — the pain I’d experienced, the many tears I’d shed, the rediscovering of grace, the growth I had experienced, and so on.  Then she said that she was reminded of a line from Amazing Grace:

Through many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come;
‘Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far
and Grace will lead me home.

I’m usually the one who connects things through songs, but I’d missed this.  I had not really focused on or connected with the verses of this hymn beyond the first verse.  It makes sense now;  I see it!  I’m thankful for God’s presence in the midst of the most recent times where I didn’t know if God was in fact there.  I’m thankful that I can continue to trust that when dangers, toils, and snares come again, God will bring me safe once more.  I pray that God will continue to pour out that grace that I so desperately need (and that I may receive it — I have trouble with this receiving step!) so that I can also pour out grace unto others.

Transitions, even good and desired ones, are difficult, so I’m thankful for grace that will lead me home through whatever the future holds.

Let’s pray:

God, cover us in your grace.  May it overflow.  May it so overflow that we may be able to offer it to others — remembering that it is unmerited and a gift.  Thank you for your presence.  Continue to guide, to heal, to stretch us; fill us anew with your Spirit.  Lead us safely home.  Amen.

My view during my meetings with my spiritual director.

My view during my meetings with my spiritual director.

Condemned by the Righteous

Though Lent is often uncomfortable by its nature, I felt particularly uncomfortable this Lent. There’s been a lot going on for me as far as reading, travel, and processing discoveries. In the midst of all that, I’ve been preaching every other week at a midweek service, guided by the selected passages and main themes in Adam Hamilton’s 24 Hours that Changed the World. One of the weeks I got to preach the title was ‘Condemned by the Righteous,’ the passage was, in part Mark 14:53, 55-56, 61-65:

They took Jesus to the high priest; and all the chief priests, the elders, and the scribes were assembled. . . . Now the chief priests and the whole council were looking for testimony against Jesus to put him to death; but they found none.  For many gave false testimony against him, and their testimony did not agree . . . The high priest asked him, “Are you the Messiah, the Son of the Blessed One?” Jesus said, “I am; and ‘you will see the Son of Man seated at the right hand of the Power,’ and ‘coming with the clouds of heaven.’ ”Then the high priest tore his clothes and said, “Why do we still need witnesses? You have heard his blasphemy! What is your decision?” All of them condemned him as deserving death. Some began to spit on him, to blindfold him, and to strike him, saying to him, “Prophesy!” The guards also took him over and beat him.

All of the passages have been from Mark, which has been interesting because I took a class specifically on Mark in seminary. In Mark things happen fast and even abruptly, and now we’ve entered the passion narrative, a critical piece where Mark places much emphasis.  We began our look at Jesus’ final 24 hours beginning with the last supper, followed by his time of anguished prayer in the garden, and now he is betrayed with a kiss from one of his close friends, and abandoned by the rest of his disciples.  Jesus was arrested in secret and with no grounds, made to walk under arrest, placed in a dungeon-ous pit and accosted by the pillars of the community for hours.

“The God of the universe chose to walk in human flesh as an itinerant preacher, teacher, carpenter, healer and pauper. He came as one of us. He healed the sick, forgave sinners, showed compassion to the lost, and taught people what God was really like. We must not miss the irony here: It was not the “sinners” who arrested God when he walked among us. Those who took him into custody and tried him were the most pious and religious people on the face of the earth. The God they claimed to serve walked among them in the flesh, and they could not see him.  They were so blinded by their love of power and their fear of losing it that they missed him.” –Adam Hamilton in 24 Hours That Changed the World, p. 48.

How could this happen?  How could the most pious men in the community, the persons who everyone thought of as being the most dedicated to God do this?  Not only because it was God, God-self — but because even if they didn’t think he was the Messiah, why would they spit on, mock, abuse, and sentence to death an innocent man?  How does that happen?

This passage is not new to me and yet this year I’ve seen it anew.  It has convicted me.  It has brought up many questions for me. And though I often think of the church with the subtitle of ‘Adventures in Missing the Point;’ I don’t believe that is solely the case here.  To me, this is an example of what fear can do to people.

I finished reading the book ‘The New Jim Crow’ recently and I was beside myself upset over this book and its revelations of mass incarceration, the overwhelming high percentage of blacks who get put in jail. and the history behind discrimination regarding voting, and other things.  I had conversations around for-profit prisons and detention centers. What struck me the most is that some of the language in the book was the very same language that someone accused me of not too long ago while discussing immigration.  Things like “the breakdown of law and order…”  Fear!

“Fear performs its poisonous work within all of us. How often are we still motivated by it? In what ways does our fear lead us, individually and as a nation, to do what is wrong–what is at times unthinkable–while justifying our actions as necessary?” (p. 50). These righteous men feared Jesus because peple liked him and that put insecurity in them and their roles. They feared losing power or status. Who knows all that they feared. I must ask, would I be found among those who out of fear and insecurity sentenced an innocent man to death?  How would my decisions be different if I asked myself not “What is the thing that will make me feel most secure?” but “What is the most loving thing for me to do?” (p. 51) As much as I want to condemn these men, judge them, and proclaim that I would do no such thing, I can’t say that with certainty.  I can’t say that with certainty because we have… we have done the same.

What are some examples? Between 1885 and 1967, approximately 49,000 homosexual men were convicted of gross indecency under British law and many forced into chemical castration. In addition to current mass incarceration and existent systematic racism, the old Jim Crow laws in past are good examples. The Holocaust, apartheid in South Africa, and so on. All things that I think in part were flamed by fear.  Fear of the unfamiliar.  Fear of losing power.  There are many different kinds of fears.  But in addition to these examples that are on more massive scales, I wonder about the things in our lives specifically.

Soldiers, religious persons and mobs end up murdering God’s son. Whether under the guise of following orders, or good biblical values, or standing up for law and order, or all of the other excuses people give for doing nonsensical things, injustice is seemingly justified.  When have I let my fears cause me to behave unjustly – whether by action or inaction.   We are not told that any of the religious individuals involved in Jesus’ trials spoke up… not one.  When have I remained silent in the midst of injustice?  It doesn’t have to be something spectacular or newsworthy — injustice occurs in many times and places — be it in our jobs, our homes, schools, the places we shop for food (even the very food we buy) or other places we pass through.

These are the things that I have been pondering.  As we remember this day the injustice that was the cross, may we not only remember how we are complicit in it, but how we are complicit in other injustices even today.

Let’s pray:

Lord Jesus Christ, you became weak so that we might be strong; you poured yourself out so that we might be filled; your body was broken so that we might be fed; you died upon a cross so that we might live. And yet your ways are not our ways. Save us from our strengths. Place within us a hunger for righteousness and a thirst for justice. Remind us that in giving we receive. Keep us near the cross, a sign of judgment and hope, of forgiveness and new life. Amen. (Kenneth H. Carter,  Just in Time! Prayers and Liturgies of Confession and Assurance, Abingdon Press.)

Live, Love, and Lent

I always look forward to Lent. I think it’s because I like self-reflection — as uncomfortable as it can be.  Or maybe it’s because I’ve identified with Lewis Carroll’s quote for the longest time:  “I can’t go back to yesterday because I was a different person then.” I like to be able to see growth, and I have plenty of it left to do- and for me, Lent is a time where I am particularly mindful of my need to do so..

I, like many, didn’t grow up observing Ash Wednesday and Lent (here’s my post from last year, Ashy Memories, with more on that and more behind its meaning) but I am continually amazed at the power of this season.

This year I’ve decided I am going to journal during Lent.  I’ve NEVER journaled for nearly as long as a month, so it will take some discipline.  I may share some of those thoughts here from time to time.  Here are a few free resources that may be of interest during this time, as well.

Prayer of Confession

Our temptations, O Lord,
are the very tests that came to you—
to be relevant; to be powerful; to be spectacular.
We may not be asked to turn stones into bread
or to be in control of vast kingdoms
or to throw ourselves down from a tall spire,
and yet, your temptations are the very ones that we face.
Where we have listened to other voices,
forgive us.
Where we have sought the applause of others,
forgive us.
Where we have worshiped other gods,
forgive us.
Give us purity of heart and clarity of vision.
Help us hear your voice to seek your kingdom and its righteousness,
to worship you alone.
In the name of the One who was tested in every respect as we are, and yet knew no sin,
even Jesus Christ our Savior. Amen.


Words of Assurance

We thank you, O God, for the good news
that we may approach the throne of grace with boldness
so that we may receive mercy and find grace
to help in time of need. Amen.

Kenneth H. Carter (2010-04-01). Just in Time! Prayers and Liturgies of Confession and Assurance (Just in Time! (Abingdon Press)) (pp. 82-83). Abingdon Press. Kindle Edition.

God’s truth is marching on

My parents and I permanently moved to Florida from Puerto Rico the summer before my 3rd grade year of school.  I don’t have a particularly good recollection of that year or any early schooling, but there are certain moments in that year that stand out in my mind.  It’s funny the things we remember.  It must have been January/February, but at some point during the third grade we talked about the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I had never heard of him.  I don’t know if it’s because I wasn’t old enough, and this was something that was introduced to third graders and older, or who knows why. Whatever the reason, hearing about the civil rights movement and Dr. Martin Luther King was seared into my brain.  I remember being beside myself.  I could not believe that this had happened. That people treated other people poorly for any reason, but especially because of the color of their skin.  It was unheard of and I was appalled. It made no sense and caused a stirring in me. I simultaneously developed great admiration for Dr. King. I remember 8-year-old me going to the library to check out books on Martin Luther King, Jr. I had fallen in love with this man.  It wasn’t until recently that I’ve made the connection to these memories -that a strong sense of justice and fairness was woven into the fabric of who I am while I was formed.

Over the years I’ve experienced, witnessed and heard many things that show that Dr. King’s dream has not come fully true. I still know of towns (and have lived in some of them) throughout the South where races simply do not interact, where businesses and schools are essentially segregated, and all the less explicit racism – institutional and otherwise.

I’ve seen the film Selma twice already.  Regardless of whatever factual problems it may or many not have, I think it contains a truth that goes beyond facts. I highly recommend this movie. It is emotional and inspirational. There are so many things within it that could inspire numerous blog posts — much food for thought.  I think the biggest praise I have for this film is that it portrays its characters as humans – imperfect beings. Especially Dr. King is seen as someone who grew weary, who doubted, who had struggles in his own personal life and family.  This did not make me think any less of Dr. King, and anyone who’s studied King wouldn’t be surprised. For me it was comforting and encouraging.  It reminded me that God uses imperfect beings – people who don’t get everything right, but people who are willing to sacrifice. God uses people who are willing to be courageous and stand for truth, even when it’s hard; even when it would be personally easier to give up or remain quiet.

Another thing that resonated with me in a way that never had before was that Dr. King was in his late 20s when he began to lead the SCLC movement . Glory, the movie’s award winning song at one point says that “[to accomplish this] it takes the wisdom of the elders and young people’s energy.” All of us together, not competing with each other or devaluing the other. It made me think of the things that separate us that are not race related- barriers, no less. Dr. King speaks of this and so much more to me. A courageous, unexpected leader who believed in the unbelievable.

Whether it’s black, brown, gay, straight, male, female, young, old, or any ‘other’ that causes us to make distinctions of ‘us’ and ‘them,’ ‘they’ and ‘we,’ we must stop believing the lies that anyone or group is somehow superior or better to others; stop building walls.

Eight-year-old Esther is still in me, stirred up and longing for genuine equality. I dream Dr. King’s dream still, and am thankful that God can use even imperfect me in small and powerful ways. God can and does use imperfect you. Believe the unbelievable. Fight for what is right. Don’t allow yourself to be silenced. Take courage. Practice peace.

Dr. King is still one of my heroes. Would that we all live lives that are willing to sacrifice for what is right and true.