In this poem by Maya Angelou, there is power and hope.
With poetry and the arts, Maya Angelou showed people a way of strength and power.
When do the work of seeing and nurturing the God who lives in us, When we do the work of speaking with our own voices, When we do the work of seeing and nurturing God who lives in the stranger, the alien, and the one who looks and acts differently from us, When we love God, love ourselves and love our neighbors, the world will be transformed.
“Robin DiAngelo, the author of “White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism,” doesn’t mince words. “I actually don’t think that most white people care about racial injustice. I really don’t,” she says.”
Listen to this interview between Jonathan Capehart and Robin DiAngelo. Jonathan Capehart is an African American journalist and opinion writer for the Washington Post. In this interview, Robin DiAngelo, who is identified as white speaks of her work on racial justice with white people. She is both funny and profound. At the end of the interview you will hear the impact her words, the words of a white woman, directed to Jonathan Capehart, a black man. She demonstrates how we can make a difference, one conversation at a time.
Below are two links to the same podcast: one that takes you to the Washington Post and the other to Apple podcasts.
If the links don’t work for the way you access podcasts, you may need to search for the Podcast, CapeUp with Jonathan Capehart and look for the interview with Robin DiAngelo published on June 2, 2020. You can listen to this over any computer.
I’ll be curious to hear your reactions.
Holy One, Reveal to me the fear and racism that lives in me. Help me to see truths that are painful and to live with love and compassion toward myself and those around me. Amen.
As we celebrate Juneteenth, I wonder how we ground ourselves in the work that we need to do to build the realm of God where all people are loved as God loves each of us. I wonder how those of us who are identified as white would have responded to the news that slavery was no longer the law of the land and that life as we knew it would shift dramatically. Would we have rolled up our sleeves and gotten to work to build a new south where the talents of former slaves and former slave owners would be used to rebuild a community racked by war and economic devastation? Would we have stepped into the unknown with love, curiosity, and hope? Or would we have found ways to return to what we knew and worked to end reconstruction?
Howard Thurman, the grandson of slaves, a scholar, a mystic, a liberation theologian, and in many ways the architect of the theology of the non-violent civil rights movement remains relevant today.
Below is a link to an hour long PBS documentary about Thurman’s life and influence. I love Thurman’s commitment to creation, silence, arts, prayer, and justice. It features many leaders in the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s as well as Rev Otis Moss, whose work I shared a few weeks ago. May this video challenge, nurture and inspire you.
Dear God, Open our eyes and our hearts to the injustice we do and live without even realizing it. Open our eyes and hearts to the deep hurts within ourselves and between ourselves and our neighbors. Help us to accept your love for us, for others of all races and faiths, and for all of creation. May we be your loving and faithful people. Amen.
I am grateful for the way in which Resmaa Menakem links issue of race to trauma in our bodies, trauma that goes back generations. He speaks of white body supremacy.
Join me at 11 am tomorrow, Tuesday, June 16 from 11am–11:45 to reflect on this interview. Questions to consider.
Menakem suggests that the situation in Dark Ages and Middle Ages in Europe impacts us today. What do you think?
Menakem speaks of the importance of symbols and story to young people. What stories are we telling 13 year old white boys? What stories should we be sharing? Menakem says:
“White tears, white women’s tears, can move a nation. They will move people to mobilize. An Indigenous woman’s tears ain’t gonna move nothing. A black woman’s tears ain’t gonna move nothing. And so the piece that I say about that is that this idea of being able to land this race question in a way where white people are comfortable is a fallacy.”
Menakem says to Krista Tippett, “Your niceness is inadequate to deal with the level of brutality that has occurred.” What supports or practices do we (white folk at Broad Bay) need to begin to deal with the brutality that has occurred?
What else should we talk about?
If you want to join the conversation, email me at broadbayucc@gmail.com and I’ll send you a Skype link or arrange to give you a call.
I posted here yesterday and shared a video from Our Lady of Grace. I thought I was smart as I figured out how to embed the video on the web page with the whole picture visible. I was quite pleased with myself. I previewed it. I double checked the link and I tried playing the video myself. “Looks pretty good,” I thought.
But when the post came through on the email, the link to the video vanished. I suspect that those who persevered to the web page, saw it, while those who read the email did not. Today, the concept of humility, is part of my sermon; today I try again.
The Sisters of Our Lady of Grace Monastery have reflected God’s love and have nurtured my soul by their faithfulness to prayer and hospitality.
The video below, a gift from the Sisters of Our Lady of Grace, slowed me down, warmed my heart and touched my weary soul, reminding me that prayer and hospitality are powerful gifts in and off themselves. We don’t need to do everything and solve every problem. Perhaps it is enough to open our hearts to God in prayer and then take the next step with love. God is with us, inviting us to rest and work, play and pray in the love and shelter of God.
While the weather is stunning and the beauty of creation touches me deeply, my heart still aches.
While opportunities for new ministries, new learnings, and new gifts of God’s love and wonder are all around me, I am still drained.
The Sisters of Our Lady of Grace Monastery have reflected God’s love and have nurtured my soul by their faithfulness to prayer and hospitality. They have prayed with me and for me. I had long been looking forward to a now cancelled clergy retreat there in July.
The video below, a gift from the Sisters of Our Lady of Grace, slowed me down, warmed my heart and touched my weary soul. It reminds me that prayer and hospitality are powerful gifts in and off themselves. We don’t need to do everything and solve every problem. Perhaps it is enough to open our hearts to God in prayer and then take the next step with love. God is with us, inviting us to rest and work, play and pray in the love and shelter of God.
From Our Lady of Grace Monastery, Beech Grove, Indiana
Please join me in praying with and for the Sisters of Our Lady of Grace.
“We cannot try to hurry up and put the screams and the tears and the hurt back in the bottle, just to get back to some normal that was abnormal in the first place. Hear the screams. Feel the tears. The very people rejected over and over again are the ones who have shown us the possibility of a more perfect nation. They are telling us these wounds are too much. This death is too much.
“If we listen to America, if we listen, then now is the time for us not to stop mourning, but to mourn and refuse to be comforted, to unite our collective moral power and demand transformative change right now.”
Rev. William Barbour
Today we mourn the death of George Floyd. Today we mourn all the deaths of men and women killed or lynched because of the color of their skin.
Today I acknowledge the evil of racism embedded in our national story and all too often upheld by those who misquote the words of Jesus. I acknowledge the myriad of ways in which black and brown bodies have built this nation with their sweat, their minds, their hearts, and their music.
Jesus was a dark skinned Palestinian jew killed/lynched by the political powers in front of an angry mob.
Jesus taught us to love the Samaritan, the child, the marginalized.
Jesus calls us to weep, pray, and to tirelessly reach out our hands in love.
Jesus said, “love oneanother.”
I share links to two sermons/films by the Rev. Otis Moss III, Pastor Trinity United Church of Christ, Chicago. Take the time to watch and weep.
Holy God, help us to open our eyes and our hearts and our ears to listen, learn, and act.
The earth is the Lord’s, and the fulness thereof; the world, and they that dwell therein. For he hath founded it upon the seas, and established it upon the floods. Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? or who shall stand in his holy place? He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart; who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity, nor sworn deceitfully. He shall receive the blessing from the Lord, and righteousness from the God of his salvation.
Psalm 24:1-5
Praise God, we have been given a big task, we are the gardeners of this beautiful earth!
Through kindness, self-discipline, hard work and praise
we must rally together and appreciate your grace.
Sunshine sparkling on the ocean, mountains, and, trees,
snowflakes, flowers, and colorful leaves.
God’s love, family and our neighbors wherever we are on this glorious earth.
Beauty surrounds in so many ways, for this, we sing God’s praise!
In a world where material things are cherished so,
use self-discipline, inner beauty and the bible to watch God’s love grow.
Life is all about relationships.
God, Earth and people
be careful to notice all the little things that mean the most.
Support with love to help things grow.
Plant kindness, love and faith for God’s love to bloom all around.
The word earth is used 902 times in the KJV, it’s time to celebrate God’s creation.
What a wonderful celebration as we are reducing our carbon footprint and building our connections with voice and phone and internet. God is still speaking.
Here is the music video from Josie and Sophie Davis.
Deidre Murree shared Edna St. Vincent’s poem. Read it aloud and slowly.
All I could see from where I stood Was three long mountains and a wood; I turned and looked another way, And saw three islands in a bay. So with my eyes I traced the line Of the horizon, thin and fine, Straight around till I was come Back to where I’d started from; And all I saw from where I stood Was three long mountains and a wood.
Over these things I could not see; These were the things that bounded me; And I could touch them with my hand, Almost, I thought, from where I stand. And all at once things seemed so small My breath came short, and scarce at all.
But, sure, the sky is big, I said; Miles and miles above my head; So here upon my back I’ll lie And look my fill into the sky. And so I looked, and, after all, The sky was not so very tall. The sky, I said, must somewhere stop, And—sure enough!—I see the top! The sky, I thought, is not so grand; I ‘most could touch it with my hand! And reaching up my hand to try, I screamed to feel it touch the sky.
I screamed, and—lo!—Infinity Came down and settled over me; Forced back my scream into my chest, Bent back my arm upon my breast, And, pressing of the Undefined The definition on my mind, Held up before my eyes a glass Through which my shrinking sight did pass Until it seemed I must behold Immensity made manifold; Whispered to me a word whose sound Deafened the air for worlds around, And brought unmuffled to my ears The gossiping of friendly spheres, The creaking of the tented sky, The ticking of Eternity.
I saw and heard, and knew at last The How and Why of all things, past, And present, and forevermore. The Universe, cleft to the core, Lay open to my probing sense That, sick’ning, I would fain pluck thence But could not,—nay! But needs must suck At the great wound, and could not pluck My lips away till I had drawn All venom out.—Ah, fearful pawn! For my omniscience paid I toll In infinite remorse of soul.
All sin was of my sinning, all Atoning mine, and mine the gall Of all regret. Mine was the weight Of every brooded wrong, the hate That stood behind each envious thrust, Mine every greed, mine every lust.
And all the while for every grief, Each suffering, I craved relief With individual desire,— Craved all in vain! And felt fierce fire About a thousand people crawl; Perished with each,—then mourned for all!
A man was starving in Capri; He moved his eyes and looked at me; I felt his gaze, I heard his moan, And knew his hunger as my own. I saw at sea a great fog bank Between two ships that struck and sank; A thousand screams the heavens smote; And every scream tore through my throat.
No hurt I did not feel, no death That was not mine; mine each last breath That, crying, met an answering cry From the compassion that was I. All suffering mine, and mine its rod; Mine, pity like the pity of God.
Ah, awful weight! Infinity Pressed down upon the finite Me! My anguished spirit, like a bird, Beating against my lips I heard; Yet lay the weight so close about There was no room for it without. And so beneath the weight lay I And suffered death, but could not die.
Long had I lain thus, craving death, When quietly the earth beneath Gave way, and inch by inch, so great At last had grown the crushing weight, Into the earth I sank till I Full six feet under ground did lie, And sank no more,—there is no weight Can follow here, however great. From off my breast I felt it roll, And as it went my tortured soul Burst forth and fled in such a gust That all about me swirled the dust.
Deep in the earth I rested now; Cool is its hand upon the brow And soft its breast beneath the head Of one who is so gladly dead. And all at once, and over all The pitying rain began to fall; I lay and heard each pattering hoof Upon my lowly, thatched roof, And seemed to love the sound far more Than ever I had done before. For rain it hath a friendly sound To one who’s six feet underground; And scarce the friendly voice or face: A grave is such a quiet place.
The rain, I said, is kind to come And speak to me in my new home. I would I were alive again To kiss the fingers of the rain, To drink into my eyes the shine Of every slanting silver line, To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze From drenched and dripping apple-trees. For soon the shower will be done, And then the broad face of the sun Will laugh above the rain-soaked earth Until the world with answering mirth Shakes joyously, and each round drop Rolls, twinkling, from its grass-blade top.
How can I bear it; buried here, While overhead the sky grows clear And blue again after the storm? O, multi-colored, multiform, Beloved beauty over me, That I shall never, never see Again! Spring-silver, autumn-gold, That I shall never more behold! Sleeping your myriad magics through, Close-sepulchred away from you! O God, I cried, give me new birth, And put me back upon the earth! Upset each cloud’s gigantic gourd And let the heavy rain, down-poured In one big torrent, set me free, Washing my grave away from me!
I ceased; and through the breathless hush That answered me, the far-off rush Of herald wings came whispering Like music down the vibrant string Of my ascending prayer, and—crash! Before the wild wind’s whistling lash The startled storm-clouds reared on high And plunged in terror down the sky, And the big rain in one black wave Fell from the sky and struck my grave.
I know not how such things can be; I only know there came to me A fragrance such as never clings To aught save happy living things; A sound as of some joyous elf Singing sweet songs to please himself, And, through and over everything, A sense of glad awakening. The grass, a-tiptoe at my ear, Whispering to me I could hear; I felt the rain’s cool finger-tips Brushed tenderly across my lips, Laid gently on my sealed sight, And all at once the heavy night Fell from my eyes and I could see,— A drenched and dripping apple-tree, A last long line of silver rain, A sky grown clear and blue again. And as I looked a quickening gust Of wind blew up to me and thrust Into my face a miracle Of orchard-breath, and with the smell,— I know not how such things can be!— I breathed my soul back into me.
Ah! Up then from the ground sprang I And hailed the earth with such a cry As is not heard save from a man Who has been dead, and lives again. About the trees my arms I wound;
Like one gone mad I hugged the ground; I raised my quivering arms on high; I laughed and laughed into the sky, Till at my throat a strangling sob Caught fiercely, and a great heart-throb Sent instant tears into my eyes; O God, I cried, no dark disguise Can e’er hereafter hide from me Thy radiant identity!
Thou canst not move across the grass But my quick eyes will see Thee pass, Nor speak, however silently, But my hushed voice will answer Thee. I know the path that tells Thy way Through the cool eve of every day; God, I can push the grass apart And lay my finger on Thy heart!
The world stands out on either side No wider than the heart is wide; Above the world is stretched the sky,— No higher than the soul is high. The heart can push the sea and land Farther away on either hand; The soul can split the sky in two, And let the face of God shine through. But East and West will pinch the heart That can not keep them pushed apart; And he whose soul is flat—the sky Will cave in on him by and by.
revnancyduncan 