I Can Run But I Cannot Hide

It’s awfully quiet here, Lord

In this holy homey place

Just you and me or so it seems

This room do you in some way grace?

The cold outside

It freezes right down to the bone

The orphan and immigrant there abide

Are the seeds of faith there sown?

Here in this house our home

It seems we have it all

Food to eat and clothes to wear

How prepared are we for heaven’s roll call?

The world needs you

We all would surely agree

Love the Lord your God, is that possible

Amidst hatred, racism, and all their debris?

Just one life to live

Is this how this thing works

To leave the world a better place

Blot out meanness which violently lurks?

For is it truly in those stories

That we discover that truth is told

The Man from Nazareth speaks His mind

Love my neighbor as myself isn’t that pretty bold?

On A Frigid Day in Covington, Kentucky

There is no doubt that you and I both have been caught up in the drama in Washington, DC of late. No, not with the president* or the government shut down, but with the one with the Native American gentleman beating his drum and singing while the young man with the MAGA hat stood amidst his own peers, many of whom were also wearing the red hat. We all know how these things roll.  A perspective is built, images are shown, videos are shown, and the truth, if we can ever completely attain it, rolls before us day after day after day.

For those of us who do systems oriented therapy, we know about this thing called "punctuation," or exactly how an interaction begins, what is next prompted, and what is next prompted, and so on. We punctuate relational matters in a similar way that we punctuate sentences. 

There was a lot of craziness going on that day with adults and kids. 

A few days later, a group of folks protested in Covington, Kentucky, and a friend of mine was there to chronicle it via her photography. I also asked her to describe what she saw and experienced. Here are the words and photography of Heather Hicks. I am grateful for her and her heart, and for her willingness to tell that story here. 

It was frigid but that didn’t stop a group of us from driving to Covington, Kentucky to stand along side Native Americans who were deeply hurt and alarmed by the way one of their honored elders, Nathan Phillips, was disgracefully treated and mocked recently in DC.  Some drove from States away.  It was a protest, one ordered by Native American leaders to be peaceful.  The protest was an outcry to end racism. It was also to demand that Covington Catholic change some things in their school culture to foster young men who would value diversity and have a better knowledge of Native American culture and history.  They required that Covington Catholic offer classes that teach what racism is and how to respect and value diversity.

The ratio of news reporters and journalists just about matched the number of peaceful protesters.  Several Native American speakers spoke, sharing their inspiring thoughts and concerns with us.  They spoke of wanting to build bridges across the cultural and economic divides.  One man shared how they were saddened that Covington Catholic felt the need to close the school on the day of protest for fear of violence.  He said if you knew and understood Native American people you would know that we are a people of peace.

While we were listening to the speakers, cars would drive by blaring their horns to disrupt the speakers. One car stopped in front of the crowd and kept blaring their horn until a police officer finally made them move on.  A van drove by with “Fake News Enemy of the People” written on it.  Another car drove by and someone shouted from it, “That school breeds white supremacists!”  There were ANTIFA members present. They were not there to create chaos but for protection.  They even brought a medic with them.  I wonder if they were peaceful to respect the wishes of the Native American leaders?

The history of the sacred peace prayer that elder Philips sang was shared with us.  How for hundreds of years Native American leaders have been inserting themselves between waring groups with the singing of the prayer to promote peace and to deescalate volatile situations. They led the song as we began our short trek to the Catholic basilica of Covington to call for a meeting with the Covington Catholic Diocese.  The Native American leaders wanted this to be the first of many meetings to talk about building peace and respect for each other.  As we came around the corner we saw a man standing at the top of the steps, in front of the basilica doors praying with a rosary in his hands.  The Native American leaders stopped at the bottom of the steps and finished the prayer song.  LaFramboise, one of the leaders asked the man if he could pray with and for him.  The man was reluctant at first but then he agreed.  LaFramboise held his hand as he prayed for him.  I wish I had recorded that prayer.  It was a very touching moment. A non Native American woman next to me had tears rolling down her cheeks.  I gave her a hug and then a journalist asked her what caused her tears.  I wish I heard what she responded. I do know that I saw her give a hug to almost every Native American there. 

           

A few school boys from Covington Catholic showed up but they stayed across the street from us.  They were quiet but wanted their presence to be known.  A few counter protesters stood with them, some of them dressed like the stereotypical alt-right people. 

A man, who was in support of the Covington boys came to talk to some of we protesters, trying to stir up some trouble.  I was impressed with how some of the ANTIFA members handled him.  Instead of getting all defensive with him like I wanted to, they had a conversation with him and respectfully shared how entrenched racism is in our country and how even they personally have to work on changing their own racist views.  At one point the man trying to stir up trouble said, “You know, we just need to all get along.  We would all get a long so much better if you didn’t use the words racist or racism.”

Sadly, the Covington Catholic Diocese refused to meet with the Native American leaders.  The leaders promised to keep coming back to the Diocese until the they were able to have the talks they longed for. ---- Heather Malaika Hicks

Women, Sewing, and Re-Creating Shalom

I have watched these women for over two years now. My beloved is one of them. They do their work in a corner of a building affectionately called "The Ark" in two rooms they teasingly refer to as the "sweat shop" in part because it is always warm in there and it is in use much of the time.

These women, Linda, Aline, Charla, Judith, Betty, Nancy, Cynthia, Janet, and Doris are coming as close to re-creating shalom as any group of people I know. And, they are doing it quietly and profoundly, often with a few people and God watching, and perhaps their husbands, but those watching are growing exponentially.

We all know the garden story, pristine place, one man, one woman, one tempter, and then comes expulsion and curses to her and to him and resoundingly to all of us. Peace was broken, shalom was shattered. We moved into the space of "this was not the way it was planned." But this was the way it was and this is the way it shall be until the Lord returns and creates the new heaven and new earth.

Until then, we are charged with re-creating shalom. When we march for justice, that is what we are doing. When we encourage young parents to nurture their children, that is what we are doing. When we work to change laws that advantage the racial majority and disenfranchise the minority, that is what we are doing.  When we tell stories in the public sphere about injustices done to black farmers that reach all the way back beyond reconstruction to the shores of Africa, that is what we are doing.  When we bind the wounds of the broken and connect with the lonely, that is what we are doing.

Re-creating shalom is a big deal. A seriously big deal.

Discrimination and racism are violations of shalom. Poverty is a violation of shalom. Illness in all of its manifestations is a violation of shalom. Children who are cold in the bitter winds of the winter, that is a violation of shalom. Old age and Alzheimer's and dementia and eating alone at the dinner table and dropping food all over are violations of shalom. Children's diseases are a break of shalom. Any type of injustice is a break of shalom. Any break of shalom compels us to figure out how to recreate it, imperfectly though our efforts will be.

And so it is that my beloved and her friends are bringing shalom into the world of these circumstances and many others. They have a righteous cause that is bringing righteousness into the world. Where there are cracks in shalom, they re-institute righteousness. Where people are cold and feeble and frail and diseased, they re-institute righteousness and shalom.

And so, they do more than sew. They are reclaiming shalom and righteousness. Sewing is a beautiful means of bringing about shalom and righteousness.

They sew and sew and sew. Days for Girls (menstrual kits so girls can stay in school), hospital pillows, hospital totes, marble mazes, surgical caps, port pillows, nursing home bibs, baby items, treat bags, scarves and hats for cold kids in Alaska, and blankets for the police to take on their calls for kids who are cold. There is no way of knowing exactly how many pieces their fingers have touched.  A rough estimate is around 3,000 in some way or other since 2015.

My beloved is working on a blanket for the police to have available as we speak. A friend and I were joking at our home group last night as to how often he hears the whirring of the sewing machine at his house. "All the time" was his response.

They would deny that it's a big deal. I think they are wrong. I think this is a big deal, a very, very big deal.

As I commented in class yesterday morning as we wrapped up a class on James chapter one where he made the point that true religion is taking care of the widows and the orphans, "We cannot do everything, but we can do something. We cannot do everything, but we can do something."

Shalom and justice break through the efforts of these sewing warriors with every cap made for a cold kid in Alaska, when every blanket is given to a child or adult by the police on a house call, when a girl can go to school without shame during her monthly menstrual cycle, an elderly person can eat dinner with a bib on, a kid who struggles to pay attention can fiddle with the maze she has, a chemo patient or any other patient who needs a port pillow to protect the port from the weight of the seat belt, and when a kid going into surgery has a cool, playful cap to wear.

So, here on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, I salute these justice warriors and their noble efforts.

Black Farming and Worriation

This encounter lingers still. It is like a mist that never goes away, or a haze that stays longer than necessary. It was an odd meeting. It revealed less than most interviews but it has had a profound influence on me.

It was the fall of 2005. I was in the area of southeast Georgia to interview black farmers who had been engaged in fighting the USDA because of a wide range of acts of discrimination including delayed loans, lack of expert consulting in the field, loans arriving too little and too late, lack of notification of disaster relief funds at low interest rates after drought or torrential rain events, and the list could go on and on.

Mr. Mays was my point of contact. Dr. Muhammad had handed me off to him, so to speak. Mr. Mays had gotten me in touch with several more farmers. It was a rich week for interviews.

There we sat in the public library, Mr. Mays, Mr. Williams, Mrs. Williams, and me.  Mr. Williams was a man of few words.  Mrs. Williams frequently covered for him with explanations or details. He was thin, frail, looking older than his years. He had cancer and his health was hanging in the balance.

We talked in a variety of ways about the price of farming while black. They outlined the ways in which white farmers were treated better by the USDA and at the cotton gin by the local family that owned the gin and the feed store where they purchased their seeds. Sounded like tenant farming revisited to me.

He had cancer. His opinion is that farming and using pesticides had given him cancer. We didn’t go into the details of what kind of cancer and what kind of treatment, and those fancy notions of diagnosis and prognosis and where he went for treatment. My sense was that it was not going to end well.

He used another word that explained the cost of farming while black. I had never heard it before but I generally knew what he was talking about. When the USDA may seize your house and your property. When you don’t get good support or assistance from the local USDA office, when the note is coming due soon and the bank account is low because the crop didn’t produce because you could not afford better seeds or more land or more help. And you got too little too late to put insecticides on the field and the weeds are more plentiful that the cotton crop. Then you fret, you worry, you stay up late at night. You obsess and ponder. It never goes away.

Then, there is the word. The big word. WORRIATION. The USDA brought upon him “worriation.” You can google about and find it. One source has it like this:  “an exceedinly amount of worries that are now worsened because you are in a situation that is only getting worse than it originally was because you failed to let a grudge of some kind go. ‘i began to understand how important the now is for me to get it right this time around so i wouldn’t have that burden or worriation on my shoulders if something were to happen to my mom’.”

He was worn out. His wife was taking care of him. He had given his life for the cause, a cause bigger than him. His body was declining. Everyone knew it. Cancer was having its way with him.

And worriation was gnawing at his soul 

An interview I shall never forget. I'll never forget Dawson, Georgia and that afternoon in the library. This farmer couple. This word. Farming while black. Worriation. 

Hope Is

Hope is like a house

See those windows, doors, and roof.

Lets in all that sun

Shields from the wind, the rain, but not foolproof.

Hope is like a home

See those peoples’ dreams and prayers

Lets in all those unspoken wishes

Shields from the drain and pain of our deepest cares.

Hope is like the wind

It goes wherever it wills

Carries all of our aspirations

Reminds us of tomorrows unlived.

Hope is like the sun that rises and sets

The hopeful rays of a newborn day

Sweet shadows in the early evening

Protects from our relentless fears we pray.

Hope is like a house and

Hope is like a home.

Hope is like the wind and

Hope is like the sun.