Motherless Daughter, Motherless Mother

I am a motherless daughter and I am also a motherless mother, so Mother’s Day Sunday always has a sharp edge to it.  Not only am I missing my own mother figures, but I am striving to raise my daughter without the benefit of my mother and grandmother’s wisdom.  As a parent, I have felt overwhelmed by the task of raising a healthy and whole child; I have doubted my ability to instill the right values and beliefs into my daughter.  I have wanted to pick up the phone to call my mother, to place all my trust in any parenting advice she may have given.  In those overwhelming parenting moments, I have desired to leave my child in the care of my mother, knowing that I could walk away in complete confidence and gather my thoughts.  Mostly, I have longed for my own daughter to know the love and care of a grandmother, the way in which I knew the unconditional and incomparable love of  my own grandmother.

I celebrate Mother’s Day because being a mother is an incredible gift.  But during this day of celebration, I want to reflect on loss and grief, because all of our lives are shaped by it. We find it difficult to talk about, even though it is a common denominator that binds us across race, creed, color, gender, class, political affiliation, and sexual orientation.  Grief and loss mold us in ways seen and unseen. On Mother’s Day each year, I mourn even as I celebrate.

Let us celebrate the biological ties of motherhood, but let us also celebrate the power of love and nurturing from all the women in our lives, even those women with whom we share no blood ties: grandmothers and aunties; "play" mothers and godmothers; church mothers and neighborhood mothers.

  Celebrate all the women who were not allowed to be mothers to their children. Celebrate all the women who cannot or will not ever be mothers. Celebrate the women who made the courageous decision to give their children to families who could care for them. Celebrate the women who, when left and abandoned, made a way out of no way for their children. Celebrate all the complications of motherhood...even loss. And while you celebrate, say a prayer for those who so deeply feel the pain of being a motherless child, including those of us who are motherless mothers.

© Yolanda Pierce

Ancestral Memory

People who take their faith seriously must struggle with reconciling contradictory impulses within their belief systems.  In fact, I think that this is an important aspect of a faith walk: how we respond when beliefs, doctrines, and creeds don't seem to "fit" our intuitive and instinctual notions of the divine.  How do we make sense of who God is to us, in the inner recesses of our beings, versus the "official" theology of our respective churches, temples, synagogues, mosques, and other houses of worship?

I've been struggling with this recently, as I'm trying to articulate  the power of ancestral memory and ancestral veneration for me, as a Christian.  While I love the concept of a "great cloud of witnesses" affirmed by my faith, there is something deeper and stronger for me about the notion of ancestors in my faith.  I feel tied to ancestors, known and unknown, and the faith that sustained their lives.  I feel comforted in the knowledge that there are ancestors, not even related to me by blood, who have walked the path I am now walking.  I believe that my name is on an ancestor's lips; that even now, someone who has gone before, is praying for me and on my behalf.  These beliefs bring me comfort and joy.

This isn't about worship, although it is about veneration: a deep and profound respect for the ancestors.  But mainly this is about ancestral memory, how I am tied and connected to a web of humanity that doesn't end even when our bodies have returned to dust.  I know that even my choice of an academic career has been an attempt to excavate these ancestral memories, to listen as voices speak to my heart across time and distance.  And when I preach or lecture, I feel the presence of these ancestors encouraging me to speak truth in places and spaces where they were never allowed to enter.

My great cloud of ancestral witnesses is not about genealogy and it extends far beyond the faithful witnesses quoted in the Christian "hall of fame" mentioned in Hebrews 11.  My ancestors may include a mother who hundreds of years ago, also cradled her daughter in her arms and wondered if her love would be enough to raise such a precious gift.  My ancestors may have included a woman daring to speak, even when the cost of breaking the silence meant her life.  My ancestors may have included those exiled by slavery, war, and genocide, forever seeking but never finding a place that feels like home.  My ancestors may have worshipped the sun, the moon, or the very earth itself, pouring out libations in praise and awe of creation's beauty.

Whoever they may have been, I am linked to them, I want to remember them, and I want to honor them.  And whether the official doctrine of my own church affirms it, I am comforted and encouraged by an ancestral essence, the experiences of all who have already passed this way.  My prayer is to find more ways, more boldness, more spaces to honor ancestral memories in our worship practices. How would our worship look and how would our worship be transformed if we took seriously the ancestral memories encoded even within the very fabric of our DNA?

© Yolanda Pierce

A Different Dream Narrative

I've listened to many inspirational graduation, commencement, and end of the school year speeches, and most of them have a common theme: "don't give up on your dreams."  I hear more about "dreams" in the months of May and June than I do any other time of the year, as prominent individuals seek to encourage graduates who are entering into the hostile territory of the "real world."  And so, we are taught to pursue our dreams; never give up on our dreams; follow our dreams wherever they lead; and work as hard as we can to make our dreams come true.

I think I know why I'm rarely asked to give commencement and graduations speeches; I simply could not use any of those expressions as words of encouragement and inspiration.  I would have to be truthful and reveal one of my deepest secrets: I've had to give up on far too many dreams. Most of my dreams have not come true. And no matter how hard I have worked, many of my dreams will remain out of my reach.  I have sat and I am still sitting with dreams deferred.

What do we do when dreams do not come true?  What do we do with a different dream narrative, one in which you have dreamed big dreams, but are left with the reality of dashed hopes or nightmares?  Our culture encourages us to dig deep into our moral failings as a cause for these dreams deferred: we did not work hard enough; we did not dream big enough; we weren't worthy enough; we failed to pursue our dreams until the ends of the earth.

But what if deferred and abandoned dreams are not about moral failings at all, but simply about the reality of life, with its blessings and its sorrows?  There are dreams that do not come true because of a lack of resources, no matter how hard one tries.  There are dreams that are abandoned because of the physical or emotional cost of those dreams to yourself and to others.  There are dreams that are dashed when you are hit with the reality that they are never coming true.  Miracles can happen, but sometimes they do not; there are dreams that can come true, but there are some that will not.

It is my inclination to always provide "good news," when dealing with words that may not be encouraging, but are brutally honest.  So even as I admit that I have had to give up on cherished dreams, and even as I admit to far too many dreams deferred, I can also stand with assurance that some dreams must die so that other dreams can be born.  I am giving up on some dreams with a hope and prayer that there will be room, time, and desire for new dreams.  I've said goodbye to some failed dreams that I have pursued to the ends of the earth. But I am making space to welcome other dreams that may greet me at my front door.

© Yolanda Pierce

Lenten Journey - Palm Sunday

Palm Sunday is a joyous occasion on the Christian liturgical calendar, marking the triumphal entry of Jesus into Jerusalem.  But Palm Sunday is also the beginning of an ending.  It immediately precedes the most sorrowful occasion of the Christian calendar; the betrayal and death of Christ.  Palm Sunday always reminds me of this contradiction: there were some who shouted "Hosanna in the Highest" on one day, who a few scant days later would also shout "Crucify Him."  There were some who greeted Christ as the promised king on one day, who would later mock him and brand him a traitor a few days later.  How quickly public opinion shifts...

These past few months, I've listened to the public shout "more money for mental illness" when mass murderers from seemingly stable, middle and upper-middle class homes have committed unspeakable acts.  But I've also heard the lynch mob cry "kill him" when violence erupts among the urban poor, and among black and brown people.  Apparently, killers from the suburbs are worthy of diagnosis, treatment, and perhaps even rehabilitation.  And yet, killers from the inner city are animals and thugs, who should be locked in jail and the key thrown away.  How quickly public opinion shifts...

I suppose it's easy to condemn gay people to hell, until it is your son who courageously leaves the closet and wants to spend his life with the partner of his choice.  It's even easier, I suppose, to deny women control of their bodies and their reproductive choices when you're focused on the "promiscuous" and the "slut" and not when the bodies under discussion are those of your daughters, wives, and sisters who will always financially have access to health care.  Or how much easier is it for a six year old to be handcuffed and put in a patrol car, another passenger on the cradle-to-prison pipeline, because there is just no controlling "those people."  But when a six old somewhere else displays exactly the same behavioral issues, the school chalks it up to his being just a "spirited" youngster and that "boys will be boys."  How quickly public opinion shifts...

To truly understand Palm Sunday, you have to acknowledge the rest of the story that occurs later; the upcoming betrayal by a friend; a mockery of a trial; and a criminal execution by the state.  To truly understand Palm Sunday is to know something about the people who exist on the underside and underbelly of history; the outcast, the downtrodden, and the untouchable who were singled out and loved by someone not afraid to walk with the "least of these."  To truly understand Palm Sunday is to see the shift in public opinion, to recognize how quickly we can move from praise and affirmation to bloodthirstiness and calls for execution.

During these final Lenten days, my prayer is that we pause; that we recognize that public opinion can condemn some to death and can speak life to others. May our cries this season be of affirmation for our mutual humanity, our mutual brokenness, and our mutual need for salvation.

© Yolanda Pierce

Lenten Journey - Great Laughter

Theologian Frederick Buechner writes that his spiritual conversion took place when a minister preached a sermon with "confession, and tears, and great laughter."  It made me wonder how many of us cannot feel the power of God in our lives because while we have confession and tears, our lives are often devoid of great laughter.

I recently sat down and had lunch with three dynamic women.  It was an impromptu meal.  I desperately needed to head back home, where ungraded papers, unanswered emails, and unmet needs waited for me in abundance.  In my mind, I argued, I did not have time for what would surely be a leisurely lunch, in light of all that I had left undone.  With the two hours I would spend at lunch, I could finish a lecture or pay some bills or try to get more than one step ahead of my busy schedule.

But the prompting of the Holy Spirit led me to a small table, at an even smaller restaurant, where laughter was the main dish.  The food was excellent and the company was even better.  But the great laughter was a balm for my soul.  I love to laugh and I consider myself as someone who has a great sense of humor, which I generously employ in my lectures and in my sermons.  But until I was on my way back home, with memories of this lunch still feeding my spirit, I hadn't realized how much I needed laughter; how much I needed that deep-bellied experience of laughing out loud at the absurd, at the funny, and even at myself.

On a regular basis, we need to laugh until we cry.  We need to experience the fullness of God's grace, with great laughter and mirth.  I recently shared with a new mother my favorite memory of my daughter as an infant: her still-too-big head on her tiny body causing her to very slowly lean to the side, and then finally fall over, like a slow-motion turtle.  This simple memory made me laugh so hard, I had tears in my eyes.  I could picture it in my mind as clearly as if I were watching it on video.  In that moment I truly understood the power of laughter: to remind us that the joy of the Lord can be found if we are open to the beauty of even the simplest gifts.  And we can remember and experience that joy, again and again, when we laugh out loud.

I pray during this Lenten journey that we experience God's grace through the precious gift of great laughter.  May we all find a welcoming table where we can dine and laugh.

© Yolanda Pierce

Lenten Journey - Singing a New Song

I've been singing songs that are not my own.  Some are songs that are in other languages; some are songs from other cultures and nations. I've been stumbling over words and music to tunes with which I am unfamiliar. I've been fumbling with sheet music of hymns and psalms that are not a part of my mother language.  I've been singing a new song.

The music of my tradition is like the air I breathe. The songs that I have been raised with are such a part of my heart and soul that I don't even recognize them as "music" and instead consider them a part of the language and vocabulary of my everyday speech. I came from a tradition in which we rarely sang out of a hymn book, even when we sang hymns. The songs were a part of the congregational DNA; sung so many times over that no one needed to refresh themselves with the lyrics. I can still sing all the stanzas to "What A Friend We Have in Jesus" or "Precious Lord."  Precious space in my brain, which I probably need for other stuff, is occupied by the songs, praises, hymns, chants, and worship music of my life.

So the new songs I have been singing recently break me out of my comfort zone. I don't know which words are coming next and I need to rely on the sheet in my hands. I don't know exactly how the tune goes, so I have to listen attentively to those around me.  I don't know if the song is sung in 2-part harmony or in unison, so I've got to listen and watch for clues.  When singing these new songs, I am completely out of my comfort zone.  And it is exactly in that place of discomfort where God speaks to me.

"Sing unto the Lord a new song."  There are times we must break away from the comforts of home, our mother tongue, and the dear and familiar.  We must wrap our minds and our voices around a new song and a new praise. We must feel uncomfortable and out of sorts - so we never forget that we are surrounded by people who in our world, in our nation, in our communities - always feel out of sorts, unwelcome, and foreign.

"Sing unto the Lord a new song."  And something new may be revealed about the sacred and the holy.  Recently, someone shared with me a worship song from a Nigerian Pentecostal tradition.  While singing this song, I learned a new name for God and I sang of the divine in a new way.  This "new song" has been feeding me spiritually, even as I am singing it alongside my the songs of my own tradition.  In a language that is not my own, and a culture that is not my own, I am connecting with a God that transcends human categories, as well as a God that celebrates human distinctiveness.

This Lenten season, I pray that we sing new songs; songs that will stretch us and grow us. May we sing songs that remind us of God's unfailing love for all of God's creation.

© Yolanda Pierce

Lenten Journey - Leading the Lost

On at least three different occasions recently, I've heard people lament the loss of "strong leadership."  In various conversations, people have asked:  "where are our leaders" or "where are our role models?"  I've heard people bemoan the lack of strong leadership for our nation, our churches, even our local neighborhoods.  For every problem presented, people have offered the need for strong leadership as an answer.

I am frustrated by this type of discourse on many levels.  It is as if there is one definition of leadership and when that model cannot be seen, there's an assumption that leadership somehow isn't present.  We grieve the lack of leadership in black neighborhoods, by which we mean "race men." These men, in their suits and ties, with strong voices and political connections, are the "leaders" needed to rescue us from moral and political morass, like a Dr. King.  We grieve the lack of national and ecclesiastical leadership, by which we, once again, assume an educated, largely male and white, elite.  In the dialogue around the need for a "strong" Pope, we take for granted that a man will be called who will hear directly from God and can be a leader for over a billion people, despite not one woman being part of the process.  A pastor, a president, a pope are certainly all leaders...but the conversation about leadership cannot begin and end with these models.

What about the grandmothers creating urban gardens in abandoned lots? What about the teenagers volunteering at the local after school program?  What about the faithful choir member who spends hours cleaning the windows at church? What about the underpaid teacher who feeds hungry children lunch with money from her own pocket? Are they not leaders?  When we create narrow gendered and racial dynamics of leadership, we forget that the most important quality of a leader is his or her ability to serve.  Instead of constantly lamenting the dearth of leadership, we can look all around and see examples of public service; those who serve because they love.  And without service and love, there is no leadership.

I cannot create policies that deny people basic civil rights, if I truly love them and want to serve them.   I cannot deny women fundamental control over their health and bodies, if I love them and want to serve them.   I cannot create obstacles to people voting and participating in the democratic project of a nation, if I love them and want to serve them.  I cannot imprison and incarcerate with no consideration of rehabilitation, if I love and want to serve people.

As we continue this Lenten journey, I pray that God will raise up servants instead of leaders; people who serve their country, neighbors, friends, and even their enemies because they want to love more than they want to lead.


© Yolanda Pierce