This past Sunday, was Reconciliation Sunday within the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ). I used the following video to introduce the topic, to visually remind us why we needed to continue to do the hard work of reconciliation, and to engage the text in a new way. Several folks have requested a copy of the sermon (thus, the post here)....but my guess is, it wasn't the sermon that moved them, but the Word of God, the video that brought to light our collective perceptions, and the Holy Spirit.
It was a powerful day of worship...and I give thanks, that I could be part of it, in some small way.
The video:
The scripture that was used:
Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love. God’s love was revealed among us in this way: God sent his only Son into the world so that we might live through him. Beloved, since God loved us so much, we also ought to love one another. No one has ever seen God; but when we love one another, God lives in us, and his love is perfected in us. God is love, and those who abide in love abide in God, and God abides in them. Love has been perfected among us in this: that we may have boldness on the day of judgment, because as he is, so are we in this world. There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear; for fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not reached perfection in love. We love because he first loved us. Those who say, “I love God,” and hate their brothers or sisters, are liars; for those who do not love a brother or sister whom they have seen, cannot love God whom they have not seen. The commandment we have from him is this: those who love God must love their brothers and sisters also.
And the sermon:
For a lot of folks, Reconciliation Sunday brings about a lot of eye rolling and questions as to whether or not talking about race relations is really necessary in this day and age. Most folks don’t mean that in a bad way…it’s just, especially for those who grew up in the 50s and 60s, there’s a sense that we’ve done the “race thing” and we’ve made our reparations. Everything’s equal and right. And even though we know the statistics aren’t perfect…it’s better than it was….and we wonder if maybe we should just let it go. Doesn’t talking about race, discrimination, and reconciliation, just bring up the bad stuff?
Well, yes. Yes to all of it. Yes, it’s better than it was. Yes, we’ve made strides in equality (praise be to God!). And yes, sometimes talking about race and acknowledging discrimination and praying for reconciliation does bring up the bad stuff. Yes. But when we quit talking about it…when we quit acknowledging the continued journey of equality and reconciliation…we rob the story of its fullness.
I shared a video in the Youth Sunday School class this morning, about a woman by the name of Chimamanda Adichie, an African storyteller and author from Nigeria. In the video, she tells of growing up as a child, reading British and American books. An early reader, she devoured these books about blond hair, blue eyed heroines who frolicked in the snow, while eating apples. When she began to write her own stories…at 7 or 8, in pencil, illustrated with crayon drawings…her heroines too, where blond hair, blue eyed, and talking about the weather while eating apples.
It didn’t occur to her, that a heroine in a book, could be anything other than that particular character, because that was the only character she had known…that is, until she was introduced to heroines written by African authors…who (and I quote), “had skin the color of chocolate and kinky, untamable hair that struggled to get into a ponytail…who ate mango, and frolicked in the sun.” It wasn’t until she was introduced to a new story, that she was able to have a fuller picture of who she was, of what literature could include, and how she might be part of that: a fuller, richer, more kingdom-like story.
But even more poignant for me, was her recount of another story. Chimamanda was raised in a typical, middle class family, and as is the norm in middle-class Nigeria, they had a house servant. The only thing her mother ever told her about their “house boy” was that he was poor. So poor, that her mother would send him home on holidays with yams and rice, old clothes and blankets. And Chimamanda could only pity him. Because that’s where the story ended. With abject poverty.
But one day, her family went to deliver some goods to the house boys family and when they were invited in, the house boys mother showed them a beautiful basket – one of the most beautiful she had ever seen – that he had woven. The poor house boy, was an artist. A creator. And she hadn’t known that, because those around her…those in power…and decided that his story ended -- not with creativity or hobbies or joy or even life outside of being a house boy -- but, with poverty.
That story struck me, because I do that, every day. I end people’s story. When someone comes into the church office, dressed in a suit and tie…I assume that person is here to sell me something. I start to form their story, before they even sit down. They’re pushy and fake and hard and I feel disdain rising up in me, as soon as their shiny shoes cross the threshold. And I end their story.
Or when one who is dressed in less than appealing clothes and a body odor that greets me at the door…I assume, before they even extend their hand out of formal obligation, that they need something from me. And as they tell their tragic story…for the part of their story that they share, it is always tragic, because at some point, we taught people that it had better be…when they tell their tragic story,I feel an odd mixture of pity, exasperation, and distrust. And I end their story.
Or when I struggle to communicate with someone who doesn’t speak English and that thought slips into my mind, “I wonder where they’re from,” because surely they aren’t from around here and must be from Mexico City or Mumbai or Bangkok and I wonder how they got here. And I begin to make assumptions…I assume they must be here illegally right (even though only about 20% of all first generation immigrants are undocumented), I begin to assume they must be on government assistance (because that’s what I’m told), and I assume they must be lonely or poor or tired or dangerous or lazy…
And just like the characters in our video…I end their story with flashes of what I’ve been taught by television shows and radio hosts and my grandparents and my friends and the always tragic news that I read in the newspaper. I end their story with assumptions of who a person is, before I even know their name. I end their story, even when I know there must be more.
And THAT is why we need to continue to talk about race and reconciliation.
Chimamanda continues to tell a story about going to university. Her roommate was an American…and she talks about their first encounter, and how her new roommate was shocked that she spoke English (despite that fact that English is the official language of Nigeria)…she talks about how her roommate assumed that she wouldn’t know how to use a stove…and when asked to hear some tribal music, her roommate was disappointed when she produced a recording of Mariah Carey.
And Chimamanda says this, “What struck me was, she had felt sorry for me, before she even met me. She had a default position toward me, as an African…a patronizing, well meaning pity. My roommate had a single story of Africa…a single story of catastrophe…there was no possibility of being similar to her, no possibility of feelings being more complex than pity, no possibility of us, as humans, being equals.”
Chimamanda continues, saying, that if she hadn’t grown up in Africa, she too, may have assumed that Africa was little more than a beautiful land with majestic animals and incomprehensible people, fighting wars, dying of aids, and waiting to be saved by a kind white foreigner. Because that is the single story of Africa…that is the end of the story. And it is the story that most of us, have known our whole lives.
People become a single story, when you show one image, over and over again. So that the single story of those from Costa Rica or Venezuela or Porta Rico is one of undocumentation and manual labor and government assistance and old women wrapped in blankets, praying the rosary.
The single story of those with chocolate brown and dark brown and black skin becomes one of gangs and guns and enemies and handouts and neighborhoods harboring criminals.
Or the single story becomes one of terrorism and subjugation of women or discount cigarette stores and taxi drivers. The single story becomes one of machismo and tourism, diabetes and alcoholism… need I go on? We know how the stories end.
We know how they end, because that’s the only ending we see on the news and when we watch "Law and Order" and from our politicians and in our history books and our blogs and twitter and facebook.
But what if I told you, that the single story that would be told about you, would be one of consumerism and indulgence and radical Christianity. What if the end of your story was your hatred for gays, lesbians, transgendered peoples and bisexuals. What if your story was only one of war and the authority to convict without just cause. Or to burn crosses in another’s yard. Or even white picket fences and stay at home moms who greet their husbands with a cocktail in hand. I suspect you would be aghast. Heartbroken. You would want others to hear the other side of your story. And maybe, if you heard that other, ended story enough…that story of consumerism and hatred and pleated dresses…you might begin to believe it yourselves. You might begin to believe that you were that story.
But what if my story and the story of Maria, who stopped by the office on Friday to wait for a cab, had more similarities than differences. What if, when we started talking…her in broken English and me trying so hard to remember my 9th grade Spanish…what if we found that we both loved dogs and ice cream and that Fall was our favorite time of year.
What if we both talked about how we’re not sure what we think about Syria, other than pain for life lost, when with wrinkled brows, we wonder if American intervention was the right thing. Or that it scares us when we hear about young people dying of heart attacks and we both smirk about the fact that maybe we shouldn’t love ice cream as much as we do, because talking about death, when it’s so close to you, is uncomfortable no matter what color your skin is.
I don’t even know Maria’s last name…but I know her story is more than what I’ve been told…it’s more than immigration or poverty or praying the rosary. And vice versa.
We’re told over and over again in the Bible, that love has the last word. We are commanded to love…even when it’s not easy. We’re told that love supersedes law and that love is Godly. We’re encouraged to love in ways that are radical…meaning, we’re to love in ways that expand the story…and we’re told that we’re to do this, because such love was offered first, to us. But I know that’s hard…
We hear this story…this story of Love, once, maybe twice a week…maybe even everyday for 15 minutes during our morning coffee or meditation time if we’re committed to that sort of thing...but we hear a different story…a story that seems to be the antithesis of love….a story that is shrouded with suspicion and anxiety and hatred and judgment and dishonesty…24 hours a day.
But we know that the story of love, matters. We know that the story of love writes new endings. Reconciles one to another. Brings about new change, new hope, new life. So we must. We must live as if we believe it. Live as those who love, first. Not because it’s a good idea. Or it might be helpful. Or maybe something in our world might change. Though all of those things would be true. But because Jesus Christ has demanded it of us. Because he believed in the inbreaking of the Spirit of Love. And if Jesus believed that love mattered…that hearing the end of the story, was as valuable as the beginning…then I think we ought to listen to that word, head that word, and live that word. Thanks be to God…
May peace and reconciliation be made known,
rt
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