Reflections of an Afro-Christian Scholar

Every Morning I See a Nun

2012-01-27T11:19:00.024-05:00

I find comfort in the routines in life, especially when so much of life seems so uncertain and capricious. Every weekday morning I run the same route and encounter many of the same people and situations. I encounter the campus shuttle bus at almost the same location every day. The dog walkers are the most faithful of the group, as are the people who need their early morning caffeine fix. Like the movie Groundhog Day, an eerily identical scene and cast of characters are a part of my morning routine.

Almost every morning I see a nun. She is there to greet the children who attend the parochial school attached to our neighborhood Catholic church. In my line of work, I am accustomed to seeing nuns, monks, priests, bishops, rabbis, imans, and every variation of religious leader one can imagine. But I see this particular woman every day, and she always returns my friendly wave of greeting. Her care and her smile greeting tired, grumpy, and sleepy children always inspires me.

I have no romantic notions about the lives of women religious. "The Sound of Music" and "The Flying Nun" are Hollywood fantasies. Perhaps as an "insider," I know too much to think that these are ideal lives or callings, for but the very few. I know that I would chafe at the restrictions, the hierarchies, and the insistence on obedience, even as I would relish the routines and structures of a more contemplative life.

But every morning I see a nun and I am reminded of my own vocational calling. It is a vocational calling that is inextricably bound to my identity, whether I am in running shoes and yoga pants, or when I am in clerical garb in the pulpit. I am reminded that I have a calling, a purpose...that I have been set aside and marked by a religious vocation, even as much as the habit or the hijab or the collar marks the wearer.

It is not a vocation that I have always embraced. As a child of poverty, the idea of making a lot of money was important to me. I wanted the financial security in my adulthood that I never experienced in my childhood. My rational mind wanted "things," but my heart longed for God. And no matter how much I have emulated Jonah, and run from this life of service, God has lovingly called me back to myself. I am not called to the academy, although that is where I am located. I am not called to the ministry, although that is part of what I do. I am called simply to love God, love myself, and love my neighbors by serving them with my whole heart. The work is not the vocation - the love of God is the vocation. Perhaps Thomas Merton says it best:

"Vocation does not come from a voice out there calling me to be something I am not. It comes from a voice in here calling me to be the person I was born to be, to fulfill the original selfhood given me at birth by God.”

Justin Bieber's Tattoo

2012-01-19T10:26:00.025-05:00

In my parenting life, I am firmly ensconced in tween girl culture. It is a fascinating and frustrating experience watching the influence of music, clothing, peer choices, and media on my young daughter. Those tween years, when parental influence decreases and outside influence increases, have been a case study for me not just in parenting, but in the pernicious nature of white supremacy in our country.

My struggles as a parent are similar to any parent with a child of the same age. But my struggles to raise a healthy, whole, and confident child in this racist world are a challenge beyond the pale. Like any mother of a tween, I must combat the negative body images constantly foisted on little girls; but I also must challenge the "blackness is evil" and "whiteness is pure" dualism that infiltrate every aspect of our world.

It starts early in childhood. I still have a copy of the letter from a long ago kindergarten teacher expressing concern that my daughter's favorite color was black. Apparently, my happy and well-adjusted child was depressed because her choice of a favorite crayon indicated some pathology worth watching. She had been taught from birth about the beauty of blackness, and taught in school that the color black contains every color of the rainbow. But this teaching could not withstand the dominant culture's position that blackness, both literal and ontological, is always somehow suspect. As a black parent of a little black girl, I am constantly teaching, fighting, and rallying against the grain.

So I find myself in the curious position of having something to say about Justin Bieber's recent tattoo of Jesus, because this teen pop star is the subject of conversation, scrutiny, admiration, and adulation from the tween set. The news of this body art led to an important conversation in my house in which I simply posed the question: how does Justin Bieber know what Jesus looks like? Well-equipped for my Socratic musings, our family conversation covered already trodden ground: the historical and cultural context of where Jesus was born, raised, and nurtured and the dominant's culture inability to imagine a Savior that does not look like them.

I heard my words, in tween-speak, repeated back while playing chauffeur to three girls who have been the best of friends for many years. "Did you see Justin Bieber's new tattoo," asks one friend. "How do you know that's what Jesus really looked like," asks my daughter. Stunned silence in the car as I keep looking ahead, driving, knowing that all things are revealed to parents who keep quiet and let these conversations flow without adult interruption. "There are pictures of Jesus everywhere," contends the third participant, "you can just Google it." "But what if Jesus looks like Jay Z," my daughter challenges. And the final verdict from the first participant, which brings the conversation to an end: "that's the craziest thing I've ever heard." Laughter ensues, but I can see my daughter's disappointed face in the mirror. She has challenged and lost; and my heart was broken knowing that she will lose many similar battles.

Calling white supremacy and patriarchy to task is no easy job. Surrounded by images of Jesus as white, God, therefore, becomes white and Christianity the "legitimate" domain of white people, although people of color are graciously grafted into this racialized covenant. And when people dare to reject this premise, when they insist that Christianity be held accountable to its racist theology, they are demonized as unbelievers who don't know the "Word."

It scares me to raise a child in a country in which the myth of Ham is accepted as biblical truth, taught in churches, and believed as gospel by presidential candidates. It scares me to raise a child in a world in which a blond-haired, blue-eyed, 6 foot Jesus, sporting 6-pack abs, is uncritically accepted as the only correct image of Christ. Most of all, it scares me to raise a child in a faith that, in the year 2012, still refuses to critique the tangible and intangible effects of its racist structure. May I be a part of the change I want to see.

© Yolanda Pierce

Idolatry and Privilege

2011-11-11T12:33:00.014-05:00

I try not to write when I'm angry, but I plan to be angry for a long time. I've watched in horror as events at Penn State have unfolded this week. I've wept as I thought about children, known and unknown, who have been so brutally violated. And I've railed against all the many people, institutions, and structures that have failed to protect the most vulnerable of our society. My white hot angers centers around these few thoughts:

This is not a sex scandal. I curse up a blue streak every time I hear the tragedy and horror at Penn State referred to as a sex scandal. Politicians who cheat on their wives and get caught are involved in sex scandals. People who become D-list celebrities because of leaked sex tapes and 5 minute marriages are involved in sex scandals. The rape, molestation, and abuse of children is NOT a sex scandal: it is a horror, a tragedy, and a criminal offense.

Worshiping false gods and the golden calf of football is idolatry: I almost threw my shoe at the television listening to news commentators speculate about upcoming football games, whether certain people should be present on the sidelines, or the effect of negative publicity on a new class of recruits. I am sickened when I think about the fact that any sport, any form of entertainment is more important than the systematic house cleaning that needs to take place at Penn State. When we commit the sin of idolatry, worshipping a thing or a mortal person, we fall into a moral abyss. And that moral abyss is evidenced by the desire to protect the reputations of rapists and rape-apologists, over the desire to support victims of horrific abuse.

Privilege, combined with absolute power, corrupts. Just last week I read a report and subsequent comments on college sports leadership. Over 90% of leadership positions are held my white men. I've written before about paying attention to who is present and who is absent at the table (sacred or secular), as that determines the shape and scope of decisions made at that table. An "old boys club" at Penn State protected the absolute power of a few. As you read the news reports, ask yourself: where are the women in this legendary sports organization? Why were the mothers who went to the authorities not taken seriously? Criminals with power and privilege often prey on the most vulnerable for exploitation. This horror of power and privilege, and the abuse of vulnerable children, is nothing new in the history of sports. But how long will we repeat our past?

****
I watched footage of students hugging, kissing, and literally falling prostrate at the feet of a statue....is one flawed human being worthy of such adoration and praise? I watched footage of students rioting, breaking windows, overturning vans, and committing other acts of destruction...is football more important than protecting children from abuse? I listened as commentators urged us to focus on all the good that has been done before this, all the scholarships given and games won...but if you cover up child rape, what else will you cover up? I read an article with the awful title "The Struggle to Recover" at Penn State. But there can be no recovery without the full discovery of the scope, the horror, the culpability, and the punishment of all those involved.

© Yolanda Pierce

Día de los Muertos ~ All Saints Day

2011-11-01T11:53:00.005-04:00

There is an African proverb that states: "ancestors never die till there is no one to call their names." I love this bit of wisdom because it so clearly articulates why we need to continue to call our ancestors' names: if we fail to do so, their memory and their legacy die. So much of our history hasn't been recorded, or has only been recorded from the perspective of the victors, and not the oppressed. Part of telling a fuller, more truthful American narrative depends on our calling the names of those lost to the historical record books. As a descendant of slaves, it is imperative for me to call the names of my ancestors, both known and unknown.

And this notion of "ancestor" is larger than the people to whom you are related. Ralph Ellison tells us that "some people are your relatives but others are your ancestors, and you choose the ones you want to have as ancestors. You create yourself out of those values." So I've been thinking about my ancestors, those shoulders that I stand upon, the people from whom I have created my own value system.

My ancestors include a pantheon of writers and poets. When scripture has failed to comfort me and when God has been silent in my life, I have often turned to the wisdom in a novel or a short story. And while they rest among the dead, I call the names of: James Baldwin, Flannery O'Connor, Octavia Butler, Carolyn Rodgers, Margaret Walker, Henry Dumas and Zora Neale Hurston.

My ancestors include those men and women of faith who, despite evidence not seen, continued to place their hope in both a temporal and eternal salvation. They believed, in spite of the rope, whip, and bayonet. They persevered, in spite of the chains, rapes, and lynchings. And while they rest among the dead, I call the names of: courageous slave mothers faced with horrific choices; men and women who chose death rather than life in bondage; those who remained to birth generations; and those whose courage and conviction shook the world when they refused to return violence with violence.

My ancestors include members of my family, both nuclear and extended. I remember loving hands that held me at birth and worn hands that cleaned floors to send me to college. These sets of tender hands combed my hair, wiped my tears, prepared me for womanhood, and held me in prayer. Among my ancestors were teachers who guided and encouraged me, and teachers whose low expectations gave me something to prove. This extended family included neighbors and a church community, the village who raised me and whose wisdom and presence I sorely miss. And while they rest among the dead, I call the names of: my mother and grandmother, and all the saints of my childhood village who are gone, but never forgotten.

Which names do you call so that the stories of your ancestors never die?

© Yolanda Pierce

Songs of Freedom

2011-10-19T11:43:00.017-04:00

The pouring rain and wind forced me to run indoors on the treadmill. I was plugged into a music video channel when a song I haven't heard in years flashed across the screen. It was a love song from a first romance, and in those few minutes, I was transported back in time. I could remember where I was, what I was wearing, even what food I was eating when that song played at a New York City restaurant. The sights and sounds and smells of a day long, long ago were present for me until the video ended and a commercial took its place on the screen.

Music can do that. It has a power to transport and uplift, to make memories as tangible as any present reality. And this is why music has been such an important aspect of religious worship. A few notes of a song can transform your sorrow into joy. I grew up with the richest of spiritual music; my life has been infused with hymns, psalms, gospel, spirituals, and praise and worship music. Even on those days that God feels far away, music has opened my heart in ways that even the best sermons fail to do.

But there are some songs that I no longer sing even though they are songs that were staples in my childhood, and some are songs that still remain popular in worship services. I've stopped singing songs that petition God to wash me whiter than snow. And I've stopped singing songs that call on God to be "master" and me a "slave."

I understand completely the metaphorical and theological nature of these songs. That one can be washed in the blood of Jesus, and still be "whiter than snow," is a powerful symbol for the power of the atonement. As is the idea that slavery to God and calling on God as "master" is casting off the yoke of sin and carnality and willingly embracing a heavenly master. I get it, I really do...but I will no longer sing it.

Given where I am on my spiritual journey, these metaphors and symbols undercut the very essence of the faith in which I put my trust. The idea that whiteness represents purity and godliness, while blackness represents sinfulness, carnality, and impurity supports a dichotomy that has been one of the most destructive forces on earth. I do not need to be metaphorically or theologically stripped of my blackness in order to participate in the beloved community of God.

And every time we sing songs that affirm this, we are dehumanizing those whose "blackness" is an essential part of who they are. History bears witness to the cultural, political, and religious attempts to strip those who are black of their literal skin, as well as their citizenship, birthright, and place in God's family. For my own spiritual well-being, I've had to let go of those songs that ask me to don a mask of "whiteface," or participate in a kind of reverse minstrelsy in praise of God.

The same applies to all the master/slave songs, particularly the hymns written and popularized during the slave trade and era of slavery. I understand the intent of the hymn writers: identifying with the all encompassing, life and death nature of slavery, they sought to affirm God as a benevolent master, whose yoke of slavery was easy and light. The believer could be a "slave" to this kind, gentle, and perfect "master," who was completely contrary to sinful human slave owners.

Again, while I understand the metaphor, I reject it for my own spiritual walk. As a descendant of slaves, my generational memory won't allow me to so easily dismiss the utter depravity of slavery. I cannot and will not forget the chains of physical and psychological bondage, which rendered human beings as property and tore families asunder; chains that linger with us today. For those with no direct knowledge of slavery, terms like "master" and "slave" are merely words devoid of any particular historical context. But they are not words I can ever sing again or use to refer to my own relationship with God.

I believe in a faith that has liberated me, made me free and free, indeed. It is not a faith that requires me to be white as snow in order to be saved, because my black body is lovingly made in God's image. It is not a faith that requires me to embrace the yoke of slavery, because the captives have already been set free. The music of my heart is a song of liberation, a song in which I am loved and cherished. The music of my heart cannot perpetuate stereotypes and imagery that harm or denigrate God's people. My heart rejoices in the songs I've left behind, so that I am able to sing songs of freedom.

© Yolanda Pierce

Occupy and Transform

2011-10-06T10:12:00.036-04:00

The protesters in New York are well into their third week of occupying the Wall Street area. It is a movement that has birthed similar protests across the nation as large numbers of people speak out against underemployment, high rates of poverty, joblessness, lack of health care, and corporate greed. You can read the personal stories of some of the protesters; each single voice creating a cacophony directed against our legal, judicial, and financial systems which disproportionately favor and reward the wealthiest 1% of our nation.

It was a disconcerting moment for me as I rode the train to join Occupy Wall Street because many of my fellow passengers were also on their way to Wall Street - to their jobs in the financial industry. As we traveled, I read mainstream media coverage of the movement, where it has been consistently labeled as messy, disorganized, and incoherent. The movement may, in fact, be all those things. But the very process of democracy - true democracy - is messy and disorganized. We can dismiss this grassroots struggle because it doesn't look like what we imagine the democratic process to be: a perfectly articulated 10 point platform in legaleses vetted and notarized by an army of lawyers. Instead, it is a collective of ideas, thoughts, hopes, frustrations, anger, and ideas...and that may be the very essence of how occupation can lead to transformation.

Occupy and transform by asking a different set of questions: my hope is that a true grassroots movement can create new discursive possibilities in public, because as a nation, we are often asking a very limited set of questions. Instead of just asking "how big of a wall should we build to keep out illegal immigrants," we also need to ask "what does it mean when we fail to educate the most vulnerable members of our society." Or maybe, instead of asking "how can we cut additional funding for family planning," we should ask "are we committing heinous human rights violations when we shackle women in labor?"

A movement that is transformative shifts an entire discourse simply by asking questions. For instance: if an individual can steal $100 in clothing and face felony charges, can corporations steal $100 billion and not face criminal liability? Transformation through inquiry is best summarized by Bishop Helder Camara who remarked: "when I give food to the poor, they call me a saint. But when I ask why they are poor, they call me a Communist."

Occupy and transform by teaching, writing, and preaching about the nature of greed, both personal and corporate. I have, unfortunately, watched a false prosperity gospel transform the Christian church. It is a false teaching that draws heavily upon secular assumptions, namely: that wealth is a marker of God's favor; that the wealthy are rich solely because of their hard work and not because of the auspicious circumstances of their birth or inherited privilege; and every man is an island and he can pull himself up by the bootstraps. These false assumptions create a culture of greed, a growing chasm between the "have everything" and the "have nothing." Those who have nothing are cursed or lazy or not worthy; there's no need to discuss pesky details like generational poverty, inequality, lack of access to high quality education, disability, or the like...

We need to distinguish between capitalism and favoritism in this country. For far too long, both personal and corporate greed have benefited from favoritism: favorable tax laws, favorable kick-backs and contracts, favorable breaks and advantages. The welfare system that is so "abused" by those pesky mothers, children, and elderly who need food and affordable housing, cannot begin to compare to the welfare given to corporations. Year after year, we decry the mythic "welfare queen" who drives a Cadillac, wears a fur coat and diamonds, but collects government checks (although no one has managed to actually document this elusive person). But we are strangely silent in the face of corporate malfeasance, when in the face of unprecedented profits and astronomical executive bonuses, the hourly wage earners are considered too expensive to employ and insure. Truth is stranger than satire.

Maybe the Occupy Wall Street movement will be over tomorrow and everyone will pack up and go home. I hope that people of good courage and conviction will continue to ask questions and speak out against greed. Why is a national health insurance policy a "socialist" endeavor instead of a public good? It is ethical for banking institutions, bailed out by the federal government, to favor their wealthier customers by imposing fees only on those who cannot maintain a high balance? It won't be enough to occupy any particular space unless we are committed to transforming it. A first step: look past the messiness and disorganization of any movement, find the set of questions important to you, and work to change the same, tired set of answers.

© Yolanda Pierce

Midnight Hour

2011-10-03T12:48:00.025-04:00

For academics, long stretches of solitude are necessary in order to get work done. Despite being an extrovert, I desperately need hours each day, by myself, thinking and writing. This can be done in a coffee shop or in the quietness of my office, and it renews me and restores me for the classroom, or the next essay, or an upcoming meeting. This is a solitude I have chosen and enjoy, but there is a solitude and loneliness of a midnight hour that must also be faced, whether I am ready or not.

A midnight hour can be any time of day, but it is a moment in which all your doubts, fears, and anxieties converge, leaving you feeling lost and alone. A midnight hour is when you regret the path you have taken or the job you have chosen. A midnight hour is when despite having hundreds of names in your mobile contact list, there is no one who can understand the depth of your pain. A midnight hour is when God is silent or deaf or indifferent to your cries and pleas. A midnight hour is when you feel the weight of deep soul loneliness, whether there are people around or not.

I find that people are reluctant to talk about the midnight hours in their lives. Perhaps it's the vulnerability of actually admitting your pain or your fears or your regrets. We are invested in all the created façades of our lives, in which we are happy, joyful, productive, never lonely, never scared, never fearful. We want to convince ourselves and others that we have it all together. But every once in a while, a midnight hour comes along that reveals our pretense - our failure to admit that there are still nights we cry ourselves to sleep; that there are still confrontations we are too scared to have; that there are still intimidating bullies on the adult playground; that there is still hurt and shame from wounds long ago.

No, it is not easy to talk about your own midnight hour, though I feel called and compelled to do so. When sharing with a friend, she quickly reminded me of the scripture that promises joy in the morning. But sometimes we need to talk about the weeping we must endure for the night, and even more so, the grieving and the longing which accompany that weeping. The promise of joy is not that we won't shed tears. The promise of joy is not a guaranteed end to those midnight hours in the light of the morning.

Joy, real joy, begins with honesty. While we don't want our midnight hour to consume us, we only hurt ourselves by pretending it does not exist. We can minister to the hurting and broken and weary by first acknowledging our own pain, which we are so desperate to hide. For every psalm of celebration, there is a psalm of lament in which the psalmist makes plain his sorrows. May we do likewise, naming the doubts and hurts that plague us in the midnight hour, so that we can worship God in the fullness of truth.

© Yolanda Pierce

Chains & Corpses

2011-09-22T10:11:00.022-04:00

One might have hoped that, by this hour, the very sight of chains on black flesh, or the very sight of chains, would be so intolerable a sight for the American people, and so unbearable a memory, that they would themselves spontaneously rise up and strike off the manacles. But no, they appear to glory in their chains; now, more than ever, they appear to measure their safety in chains and corpses.
(James Baldwin, The Cross of Redemption)

I find myself at a loss for understanding the bloodlust so prevalent in this country. I am struggling with the lack of compassion and the culture of cruelty that greets me every morning when I read the news. We are a nation, as Baldwin suggests, that wants to measure our safety and our self-righteousness by the numbers of corpses and people in chains. This happens each and every time that we literally or metaphorically shout "KILL HIM" when confronted with the poor, the uninsured, the imprisoned, the least of these.

KILL HIM...is the shout for the hypothetical man without health insurance. Rather than work to create a national policy, we would rather parade the corpses of the working poor, the unemployed, the underemployed, and the many others for whom the cost of health insurance is prohibitive...those for whom a simple tooth infection means death.

KILL HIM...is the shout of the crowd cheering at the news of 234 human beings put to death by the state of Texas. Despite the overwhelming evidence that the death penalty neither reduces or deters crime, we crave to see more and more men, women, and children fettered in chains and then laid on the death gurney...even if that means we have DNA evidence exonerating someone put to death in 2009.

KILL HIM...is what a man in a red SUV called out to those peacefully protesting the execution of Troy Davis outside of a Jackson, Georgia prison. Because somehow the corpse of this man, whose guilty verdict raises far too much doubt, proves that our nation is tough on crime.

We build private prisons at breakneck speed, while elementary schools fall in disrepair all around us. We jail children and teens by the thousands, while we cut funding for afterschool programs and school lunches. We seek neither to prevent nor to rehabilitate those caught in the throes of our (in)justice system. We cry for our elected officials to chain these criminals and throw away the key or to chain them and then kill them....they are "other," they are "not us," they are "not fully human." Our bloodlust insists that if we chain them and kill them, then we will be safe.

We are living in a delusion. We will not be a safer nation because we allow state-sanctioned murders. We will not be a safer nation because of a multi-billion dollar prison industrial complex. We will not be a safer nation because we routinely stop and frisk black and brown people without just cause. What we have created is a nation that is more cruel, more prejudiced, and more unconscionable - all in our bloodlust for more chains and corpses. May God have mercy on us all.

© Yolanda Pierce

Our Dungeon Shook

2011-08-24T09:57:00.020-04:00

I've been in an earthquake in California, so I knew exactly what was happening when the 5.8 earthquake rocked the East Coast on Tuesday. As I watched the plants in my office sway, I decided that it was a divine sign for me to leave work for the day. And like many other folks, I spent the rest of the day glued to various news report of the quake. We know that the Californians are laughing at us, but for a few seconds the entire East Coast grappled with a potentially life-changing event.

The news coverage that brought tears to my eyes came out of Washington, DC and New York City. Many of the people interviewed were actually relieved to find out that the tremor was an earthquake; with the date so close to the anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks, an earthquake was a welcome surprise compared to the alternatives. But that did not prevent the emotion I felt watching skyscrapers in New York being evacuated, once again, and the looks of confusion, joy, and shock on people's faces as they checked in with family and friends.

So I was deeply disappointed when I picked up Wednesday's edition of the New York Times, expecting to see some of this emotional complexity, and instead was greeted with a tired racial stereotype: an African American man, handcuffed, being led out of court. Of all the images that could have been chosen for the print edition of this paper, an image frozen in time and meant to capture the reactions of New Yorkers to the earthquake, this is the image chosen? The online version of the New York Times contains a gallery of images - debris in the street; emptied buildings; even babies being evacuated from federal day care centers. But the paper version of the paper in the New York City area manages to play on a continuing racial myth: the fear of a black male criminal.

Why does this matter? What harm comes from these racial stereotypes? And this week has seen a plethora of racist images, including the Nivea advertisement for a black man to "re-civilize" himself and Italian Vogue's clueless and vague apology for their "slave earrings" advertisements. It would be easy to dismiss any or all of these images as well-intentioned, but regrettable mistakes. But I need to call these racist acts out for what they really are: a continuing assault on the humanity and dignity of people of African descent.

It matters...when the only images you see of black men are of their participation in some aspect of the penal system. If makes it that much easier, especially if you are a Pennsylvania judge, to send African American children to prison and accept cash from the private industrial prison complex for every child that you sentence. After all, the images on television and in print, seem to confirm the inherent criminality of black folks.

It matters...when companies want to use the history of slavery for their economic gain, with utter disrespect and disregard for the real men and women who were in bondage. Wanting to capitalize on being "politically incorrect," and post-racial, these companies are simply politically and historically ignorant.

It matters....when the president of your country is African American and he (and his family) are subject to vicious racist attacks, against which he cannot even defend himself, for fear of being labeled an "angry black man." So assaults against the hair, bodies, and clothing of two school-aged black girls become satire for an entire nation...and school yard taunts for less famous little black girls struggling to love their hair and their bodies.

In a letter to his nephew written in the 1960's, James Baldwin outlines our country's depressing racial history, but manages to offer a bit of hope: a promise that even in the sea of racist despair, there is hope. And yet this week, the dungeon of the entire Eastern seaboard shook, but our racist chains, once again, failed to fall off.

© Yolanda Pierce

Help My Unbelief

2011-08-20T14:25:00.000-04:00

We often resort to clichéd religious expressions when we cannot find the right words for an occasion. I see this most often at funerals, where when confronted with someone's deepest despair and grief, we murmur words of sympathy that don't bring comfort to either the speaker or the bereaved: "things will get better" or "your mother is in a better place." These well-meaning phrases are our feeble attempts to deal with our own discomfort about the certainty of death.

And while most of our clichéd expressions are well-meaning, some have become so embedded into our collective psyche, that it prevents us from having a more authentic relationship with our selves, our neighbors, and the Divine. In trying to comfort a grieving family in the middle of a senseless tragedy, I heard someone exclaim: "who are we to question God?" This person meant this remark as a comfort, wanting to affirm that bad things happen to good people, and pointing to the futility of trying to question one's fate.

But this phrase is contrary to everything I believe about an authentic faith walk. Who are we to question God? My response is that we must question, seek, demand, and ask...even as we believe and obey. When we echo the words of a disciple, "Lord, I believe, but help my unbelief," we dare to ask questions and we dare to acknowledge that doubt, real doubt, is actually an essential part of faith.

Our tough questions, usually birthed in pain and sorrow, do not diminish God. As rational beings, asking questions, looking for evidence, and demanding answers are all part of our humanity. In the Lukan gospel, Jesus calls little children to Himself and chastises those who would attempt to keep them away. Little children specialize in asking questions. They are hungry for answers, thirsty in their quest to know more and understand more. They begin their day with questions about the blue sky, and they go to bed at night with questions about the stars.

If we are to humble ourselves as little children, then asking questions - no matter how tough those questions may be - is an essential part of our relationship with God. I have cried unto God with my questions: where is God in the face of injustice? Why is God silent when I most need comfort and strength? I have walked in doubt, even as much as I have walked in faith. I can only imagine the questions that my slave ancestors have cried unto God. It wasn't blasphemy that led my ancestors to question, "How long, O God?" but it was belief that God would hear their faintest cries.

Like an "examined" life, it is an "examined faith" that asks questions and allows space for doubt and unbelief. When we move away from clichéd expressions, from thinking that it is heresy to ask God questions, we move into a place of a real relationship: where our hopes and dreams, as well as our fears and doubts, are laid bare. So who are we to question God? We are the children of God, made in God's own image, with a nexus of faith and doubt and questions coded into our DNA.

© Yolanda Pierce

Someone's Beloved Son

2011-07-29T10:34:00.022-04:00

College and university campuses are transformed to summer program camps for junior high and high school students when classes are not in session. You can't help but feel the excitement of these adolescents as they experience their first taste of college life, and I imagine for many, their first extended stays away from home.

A group of these teens invaded my writing space during lunch recently. I thought about moving when I heard their loud voices approaching, but I had the good chair, in the nice corner, with the perfect amount of light and sun. I decided to wait them out, since I had snagged the perfect spot and was reluctant to give it up. After all, how long could they stay and how loud could they be? Apparently, they had plenty of free time and they could get extremely loud! I heard and learned more about 14 and 15 year old life than I ever cared to know. I filed the information away for future reference, hoping it will come in handy when my own daughter is an adolescent.

There was a young African American man in the group, the only one of maybe a dozen kids. I had the motherly urge to tell him to fix his sagging pants, but I resisted. I watched and listened to him interact within the group; he was funny, and smart, and charming. He was also polite, and loud, and outgoing. A cell phone rang and everyone immediately moved to check their phones, myself included. This young man checked his caller ID, answered the phone, and moved away from the group to talk, ultimately sitting at the chair closest to me.

I could hear his side of the conversation. It consisted mainly of "yes, Mom." But it was said with a smile, and with tenderness, and with obvious love for the mother on the other side of this phone. This was someone's beloved son; some mother somewhere had sent her precious bundle away from home to enrich his life and open up doors of opportunities for him. I caught the quick "I love you, too" that ended the phone call, along with the look around to make sure that no one else saw him.

This young man returned to his group and after another raucous half hour of so, the whole lot of them departed my writing spot. I have no clue who this young man's parent/parents may be, but whoever they are, I want them to know that they are raising a wonderful child. I wish that the whole world could have been exposed to this brief vignette of adolescent life.

Contrary to what the world wants us to believe, most young black men are neither thugs nor criminals. Sagging pants or "urban" clothing tell you nothing about someone's intellect, or work ethic, or life potential. In a world in which the odds are so heavily stacked against you from birth, through school, and into adulthood, it is difficult to dispel negative stereotypes about who black men are and what they can and have accomplished despite some enormous odds.

For a brief time, I had a glimpse of a young man moving through the world and interacting with his peer group. Not a thug, or a potential criminal, or a threat - but a child, loved by God, made in God's own image, and someone's beloved son. And it is that image that endows a person, whether a president or a prisoner, with a full portion of his humanity, instead of a partial caricature of his identity.

© Yolanda Pierce

Poverty and Persecution

2011-07-20T14:59:00.017-04:00

I love to cook and was delighted when a friend requested a pan of my favorite dish. The local grocery store was out of my "secret ingredient," so I hopped over to two other stores in search of everything I needed for my recipe. I rode in the air-conditioned comfort of my car, focused on my task, without nary a thought to the luxury I have of several grocery stories in my vicinity, a car that can take me to those stores, and the disposable income to spend. And so the continuing story of Ms. Raquel Nelson deeply troubles my soul, reminding me that poverty in this country means a special brand of persecution.

Ms. Nelson was convicted of vehicular homicide in her own child's death, though she does not own a car. She will serve more time in jail than the person who actually hit and killed her 4 year old son. Ms. Nelson, who had taken two buses to Walmart to shop for groceries, attempted to cross the street with her three children at the bus stop, located on the opposite side of a highway from her home. The bus stop is on a busy Atlanta road, a five lane highway, with no marked crossings. The housing complex where she lived required crossing this dangerous intersection.

The driver of the vehicle, who admitted to being under the influence of alcohol and pain medication, and who is partially blind in one eye, pled guilty to a hit-and-run charge. He has already served his six month sentence, despite this being his third hit-and-run conviction. The mother, Ms. Nelson, whose son was killed at the tender age of 4, has been convicted of vehicular homicide for "crossing the street other than at a crosswalk" and "reckless conduct." She may serve up to 3 years in prison.

I keep trying to understand the conviction and what crime it is that the jury believe she committed - how is one guilty of vehicular manslaughter without a vehicle? Why does the grieving victim face a stiffer penalty than the convicted driver? Why are there no safe crossings in front of a residential complex? Why were the complaints about traffic from other tenants of these apartments ignored? Why not lower the speed limit in this residential neighborhood? Why design a city and a transportation system hostile to those who need it the most? Why persecute the poor for simply being poor?

Because I believe the jury convicted Ms. Nelson for the crime of being poor in this country - the crime of not being able to afford a vehicle; the crime of needing to take two buses to buy groceries; the crime of living in an apartment complex located on a busy highway; the crime of being reminded that while many of us live in relative luxury, others are risking their lives for basic necessities. This blog sums up the true scope of Ms. Nelson's crime:

Nelson, 30 and African-American, was convicted on the charge this week by six jurors who were not her peers: All were middle-class whites, and none had ever taken a bus in metro Atlanta. In other words, none had ever been in Nelson’s shoes:

They had never taken two buses to go grocery shopping at Wal-Mart with three kids in tow. They had never missed a transfer on the way home that caused them to wait a full hour-and-a-half with tired and hungry kids for the next bus. They had never been let off at a bus stop on a five-lane speedway, with their apartment in sight across the road, and been asked to drag those three little ones an additional half-mile-plus down the road to the nearest traffic signal and back in order to get home at last.

I take for granted my ability to run to the grocery store and pull my car up to my door without having to negotiate a 5 live highway with my small child; these are the luxuries of my current middle-class existence. But as a child who grew up in unrelenting poverty, I understand this story all too well. It is a story of trying to provide for a family, even when that means two bus rides for fresh groceries. It is a story of food deserts in urban areas, where the only food available is the unhealthiest food available. It is a story of a city that doesn't care enough about its poorest citizens having access to efficient means of travel. It is a story of human indifference to the true cost of poverty. It is a story repeated in cities all over this country. We continue - whether in planning our cities to privilege those who have vehicles or implementing an educational system based on property taxes - to disadvantage the poor. Ms. Nelson may have erred in attempting to cross the street at the bus stop, but the crime for which she was truly convicted was her poverty.

© Yolanda Pierce

Families and Freedom

2011-07-08T18:56:00.021-04:00

To say that the racist comments in “The Marriage Vow: A Declaration of Dependence upon Marriage and Family," are willfully ignorant and historically invalid is an understatement. Sponsored by the Christian conservative organization, The Family Leader, this anti-choice, anti-same sex marriage, anti-divorce, evangelical outfit offers these chilling words as part of their platform:

Slavery had a disastrous impact on African-American families, yet sadly a child born into slavery in 1860 was more likely to be raised by his mother and father in a two-parent household than was an African-American baby born after the election of the USA’s first African-American President.

I don't even know where to begin with the layers of ignorance that this statement represents. This nostalgia for the "olden days" of slavery ignores the reality that enslaved people were chattel, property to be treated as such. African American babies were sold like animals, some torn from their nursing mothers. Some African American babies were the product of rape, and because they retained the slave status of their mother, their white fathers would casually sell their own offspring to the highest bidder.

Enslaved men, women, and children were all subject to torture, separation, branding with the iron, lynching, rape, starvation, and cruelty beyond belief. Enslaved children were particularly vulnerable to cruelty and defenseless against torture because their parents were not allowed to act on their behalf. An enslaved mother or father could offer no complaint about the treatment of their children and watched silently as some were scalded with burning water, broken with the whip, and beaten with switches. And these so-called Christan conservatives need not take my word for it. They can peruse the 10,000 or so accounts of slavery, written, collected, and disseminated by both enslaved persons and slaveholders alike.

There is no redeeming feature of slavery which we should uplift, except the fact that African Americans survived systematic genocide. We certainly cannot uplift a past in which some African American children faced starvation, as their mothers were forced to serve as wet nurses for white families. Nor should we uplift a past in which these children and their parents had no protection under the law, as African Americans had no rights that whites were bound to respect. But, of course, perhaps this group is unfamiliar with the Dred Scott decision and its "disastrous impact" for black families.

To say that "slavery had a disastrous impact on African-American families" is to state the obvious. But what of the underlying issues in that statement? Why were African Americans enslaved? Who enslaved them? What were the conditions of their enslavement? Why was it so disastrous for families? What was the cost of chattel bondage? What are the continuing ramifications of slavery? Where are the reparations for this "disastrous" system? And where is the repentance, by the entire nation, for the 300 plus years of immorality and abomination?

A nostalgic longing for family life under slavery and conscription is a curious position from a group that pledges to reject "anti-human rights forms of totalitarian control." Some of us dare to believe that freedom and full humanity under the law is a better environment in which to raise our children, no matter the number of parents in the home.

© Yolanda Pierce

Compassion

2011-07-06T17:00:00.023-04:00

This is not the story about my adventure last week. And this is not the story about how the best planned adventures can go awry. Nor is it the story about how that same adventure left me with a black eye, bruised shoulder, and scarred knee. No, this is a story about compassion and how God is revealed in the kind words and gestures of a stranger.

The first day or two after this "adventure," my bruises had not appeared. I was moving a little slowly, but I looked normal. By the third day, I had a serious black eye, the kind that made me look like I went 10 rounds with a prize fighter and lost. But there were groceries to buy, life to be lived, and work to be done. So my black eye and I went about our usual business.

People stared, as I knew that they would. Some strangers asked what happened. I got to relive, in the most humorous way, my adventure involving a hike, a fall, and a boat. (But that is a story for another day). Some people looked at me and immediately looked away, equal parts pity and condescension. There were looks that made me feel ashamed and embarrassed for daring to appear in public with such visible bruises.

But standing on the long line at the grocery store, I encountered one woman who looked at me with a heartfelt compassion I could sense through my very being. She looked me straight in the eye and asked if I was okay. I assured her that I was, but I was grateful for her asking. She didn't say anything else, but lightly touched my shoulder and smiled. I saw her again, in the parking lot, when she walked up to me and slipped me a piece of paper with her name and number. If I needed help, she said, please call.

This gesture left me in tears in my car. Tears of gratitude that I was not a woman who had been battered by brutal hands, but merely a clumsy woman who had tripped and fallen. Tears of sorrow for this stranger, whose story I do not know, but who offered me such compassion seemingly borne out of experience. Tears of repentance, as I think of all the times I should have intervened, stopped, helped, pressed, when confronted with injury or pain or bruises - of both the physical and spiritual kind.

Compassion, real compassion, is a risk. You reveal something of yourself in a compassionate act, something of your own pain, something of your own life experience. To act with compassion is to risk being rejected, or being wrong, but willing to show care, concern, and love even toward a stranger. To act with compassion is to understand that one day you may be the Good Samaritan, but that the next day you may easily be the one left for dead on the side of the road. To act with compassion is to demonstrate God's grace in tangible form. May we all go and do likewise, even if its just an email, a phone call, or a note of concern pressed into someone's hand.

© Yolanda Pierce

When Sunday Comes

2011-06-13T13:26:00.014-04:00

I woke up early one Sunday morning with the task of getting ready for church on my mind. Before I was even out of the bed, I was running through my mental checklist of "Sunday" things; those logistics of getting a family dressed and ready to worship on time. It is a routine that I have inherited from generation of women in my family and one that brings me comfort and joy.

Growing up, dinner preparations for Sunday began on Saturday. Company after church was guaranteed, and a large and elaborate meal was customary. I was taught to feed the servants of God, and feed them well! The smells of baked chicken or roast beef or ribs were constant companions in my grandmother's kitchen on Saturday. Cakes were baked and iced tea was brewed in anticipation of a communal Sunday meal. It was torture to small children who wanted to sneak a piece of cake fresh out of the oven. We were put to work with furniture polish and dust cloths to keep our idle hands away from the food.

Saturday afternoons meant "hair time" and the inevitable gathering of a hot comb, brushes, and hair bows that were to match Sunday morning's dress. Shampoos in the kitchen sinks and hair braiding on Saturday were as much a part of our weekend routine as going to church. For most of my life, I thought that all little black girls everywhere were getting their hair washed and braided on Saturday evening in anticipation for when Sunday comes.

Sunday comes...and matching socks with lace at the top must be found to accompany patent leather shoes.

Sunday comes...and so do the hugs, cheek pinches, and demands by the church mothers for "some sugar."

Sunday comes...and the choir raises a traditional hymn, but also their version of the latest gospel jam.

Sunday comes...and the deacons at the front of the church seem a little taller and stand a little prouder.

Sunday comes...and so does a time of worship, a time of praise, a time of lament, and a time of thanksgiving.

Sunday comes...and you know that you can make it through another week. Sunday comes...and you know the great cloud of witnesses bear you up on every side. Sunday comes...and though hard pressed on every side, the burden seems a little bit lighter.

My Sundays have changed dramatically over the years. Church is no longer the all-day affair it was when I was a child. I am likely to be back home and in jeans and sneakers before noon, already done with worship and my church duties. But I miss the anticipation of a Sunday that I felt as a child. It was an anticipation that reflected an important spiritual truth: we must come prepared into the house of God.

How are we preparing for Sundays, in our hearts? How are we preparing for the Word and the sacraments? What process are we going through in anticipation of Sunday fellowship? What spiritual food are we cooking to bless others?

It was more than a routine in my grandmother's house, this preparing the dinner, this cleaning the house, this braiding little girls' hair. It was an act of preparation, anticipation of a most high calling to forsake not the assembling of ourselves together. When Sunday comes, what have we done in readiness, spiritually, in order to be a vessel in God's use?

© Yolanda Pierce

Were Not All Ten Cleansed?

2011-04-04T12:01:00.006-04:00

Ten people broken and ostracized. Ten people crying out for deliverance. Ten people cleansed by the power of the Great Physician. Ten people able to return to their homes and families. And only one returns to say "thank you."

I remember being taught this parable from Luke as a young girl in Sunday School. It was the lesson on being thankful when someone does something kind to you. But this passage is not about the "thank you" as much as it is about the returning and the remembering... In the story, only one of those healed returned back to Jesus. He doesn't just say "thank you," but instead he throws himself at the feet of Jesus and cries out in a loud voice. This isn't a polite "thank you" for a favor done; this is the cry of someone who has been restored to a healthy condition, a condition he thought unattainable.

Gratitude, real thankfulness, is a mental return to the moment of need - a physical or emotional need. You may have needed healing; you may have just needed a drink of water or a chair to sit on...but gratitude requires returning to that moment of need even after that need has been met. To be thankful for the water that quenched my thirst is to remember that very moment in which I felt parched. And when I remember, I cannot help but express gratitude to the one who thought it not robbery to attend to my need - however large or small.

I have been in all three positions articulated in the Lukan gospel. I have been the broken one in need of healing, who forgets to return and remember after I have been healed. Full of energy and new life, I have forgotten to acknowledge the source of my strength and say "thank you." I have forgotten to send that email or that card to let someone know how she has blessed me. I've taken a gift for granted and walked away without a spirit of gratitude for the Gift Giver.

I have also been the one who has returned, throwing myself at the feet of those who have so richly blessed me. I have at times heeded my grandmother's advice to give others "their flowers while they are still living." Whether real flowers or words of praise, I have remember to return in gratitude and remembrance to those teachers or neighbors or colleagues who have blessed my life - even if they did not know it.

But nothing has humbled me more than to be on the receiving end of someone's gratitude. After a long season of pouring out pieces of my heart and soul, thinking no one understands or appreciates my efforts, I may receive a card or note or a visit with words of thanks. Tears flood my eyes when this happen because at that moment, I truly understand the power of gratitude. The recipient has been blessed, and their expression of gratitude humbles and blesses the gift giver.

It is this space of mutuality - giving and receiving; thanking and being thanked; returning and remembering - that we can truly appreciate the Lukan account of the one who returns with words of thanks. He was not only cleansed, but in his expression of gratitude, we can locate his complete healing. The cleansing from the disease took place after only a few words from the Healer; but the healing of his mind and his body happens when he acknowledges his need, dependence, gratitude, and love for the Divine One. Ten were cleansed, but only one - through his remembrance and return - was made whole.

© Yolanda Pierce

Truth Is Stranger Than Fiction

2011-03-18T15:16:00.030-04:00

Concerning the creative process behind her fictional work, The Handmaid's Tale, Margaret Atwood insists that she "invented nothing" and she writes: "there is nothing in the book that hasn't already happened." I find her words prophetic, as I am literally watching real-life examples in the United States of America that parallel the fictional Republic of Gilead that Atwood creates in her novel.

There is a war on women that is being waged in the realms of health care, economics, education, and employment. The fictional world of Atwood's dystopian society in which women are handmaidens, are not in control of their own reproduction, are confined to certain sectors of employment, and are subject to a theological justification of their second-class condition, have far too many eerie similarities with women's status in this country. Writers like Atwood prove what many of us know to be true: fiction, while "not real," can usually reveal important truths.

And perhaps this is why it is a pleasure to return to favorite books, year after year. Something new is revealed each time you read the text. I have copies of works by James Baldwin, Henry Dumas, and Toni Morrison that are coming apart at the seams, from where I've written notes in the margins. But each reading produces new notes, new highlights of something I hadn't seen before. Or perhaps I've read that same passage again and again, but my frame of reference shifts and I see those same passages in a new light.

This is, of course, what we do when we read the sacred texts of our faiths. The words are ancient and yet the truths of those words of wisdom speak to us in new ways. They are new every morning. The same words, or scripture, or verses can encourage us in one instance, or convict us in a different instance. What we bring to the text - our hopes, dreams, worries, fears, doubts - influences what we take away from the text.

I read Atwood and I see a fictional world fractured and torn apart by a theology that wounds, separates, dominates, and crushes. Her novel portrays a religious system which reduces women to objects and "unwomen," and renders people of color invisible outcasts. I feel these same forces so keenly in the "real" world; theologies, sanctioned by governmental support, which infantilize women, as well as political posturing which dehumanizes people of color. Truth is indeed stranger than fiction. Maybe we need to take the prophetic musings of our fiction writers a little bit more seriously as we watch their worst nightmares unfold before our very eyes.

© Yolanda Pierce

Remember You Are Dust

2011-03-09T09:10:00.012-05:00

Ash Wednesday: A Calling to an Environmental Ethic

Along with Christian clergy throughout the world, I will offer the imposition of ashes today, the start of the Lenten season. The words recited on Ash Wednesday always strike a somber note: "remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." We are called to reflect on the frailties of life, the uncertain duration of our time on this earth, and the inevitability of our mortality. Death is the great equalizer, the enemy of the rich and the poor, the high and the low, the foolish and the wise.

But I want to focus my meditation today on this "dust" from which we emerge and to which we will return. The fact that we are created from the very raw material of this earth, and that we will one day return to that material, should compel us to treat the spaces upon which we tread with great care, love, and respect. Our existence is deeply intertwined with this earth on which we live, and move, and have our being. How we treat the soil matters. How we treat the air and water matter. How we treat our mountains and our rivers matter. We can be faithful caretakers and stewards of the very dust from which we emerge, or we can be destroyers of this environment which sustains our lives.

The somber notes of Ash Wednesday call our attention not just to death, but to life: how do we live, fully and with integrity, between our beginning and our certain end? How are we called to spend the time between the dust of birth and the dust of death? How will we treat all the components of a world entrusted to us? And what spiritual and material inheritance will we leave for our children and their children? Part of the answer to these questions must necessarily speak to personal and corporate responsibility for our environment. God so lovingly cared for this world, that God gave breath to human beings created from the dust of the ground (Genesis 2). May we, in our actions, prayers, thoughts, and giving, emulate this divine model by breathing life into dusty, neglected, abandoned, and abused spaces.

© Yolanda Pierce

Dangerous Places

2011-02-25T09:47:00.041-05:00

The New York City billboard came down as quickly as it went up, although this same racist propaganda continues unabated in several other states. But this moment calls for a reflection on the historical and contemporary dangerous places for African American people.

The most dangerous place for an African American was the slave auction block, the government-sanctioned site for the systematic decimation of families and community.

The most dangerous place for an African American was the idyllic wilderness of Southern trees bearing strange fruit, in which the lyncher's rope meted out racial violence and terror.

The most dangerous place for an African American was the doctor's office, where forced sterilizations and medical experimentation reduced human beings to objects.

The most dangerous place for an African American is in a country that will not provide health care for its most vulnerable citizens.

The most dangerous place for an African American is a public educational system whose racial biases stigmatize and track children while they are still toddlers.

The most dangerous place for an African American is a cradle to prison pipeline, which incarcerates at disproportionate rates, and spends three times as much money to imprison than to educate.

The most dangerous place for an African American is a country with food deserts, so that in the world's richest nation, some cannot access healthy, fresh, and affordable food.

The most dangerous place for an African American is a higher education system, which refuses to teach historical truth and disarms those who dare to challenge Western cultural supremacy.

The most dangerous place for an African American is a nation that refuses to see the connections between joblessness and economic instability and violence.

The most dangerous place for an African American is any place that allows systematic assaults against human dignity to operate under the guise of free speech.

The most dangerous place for an African American is a place where religion can be the "climax of all misnomers, the boldest of all frauds, and the grossest of all libels" when it seeks to shame, silence, and disparage.

© Yolanda Pierce

Under Assault

2011-02-10T09:31:00.049-05:00

Yes, I was one of those women who thought the Pepsi Superbowl ad reflected incredibly poor taste; this was the commercial in which a black woman throws a can at the head of a white woman, whom she perceives as a sexual threat, and then flees the scene of the crime. I have a great sense of humor and love to laugh at the new commercials unveiled during this game, but I don't find negative stereotypes funny. The advertisement depends on stereotypes for it to be the least bit humorous: the angry and nagging black woman; the black man enticed by white feminine beauty; and the inherently criminality of black people.

And while a commercial is a imaginary construct, imagery in the media has real life consequences for people. An international student in my classroom recently remarked on how kind and pleasant I was. He believed that all black women were "angry," despite never having encountered any African Americans until he arrived in this country in September. I pursued this, because I wanted to find out what influenced his viewpoint of a group of people he had never encountered; his response revealed the powerful influence of television, music, and other aspects of popular culture in constructing not only one's own identity, but the perception of the "other."

Lacking multiple voices and multiple points of view, one imaginary construct can be pervasive above all others. This student had many different data points when pointing to his construction of white identity in America, so was not surprised when he encountered varying personality types. But the overwhelming data he had, gleaned from the media, did not present black women with such diversity. All Black women were depicted as "angry," all of the time.

Stereotypes are dismantled by personal relationships; by attending to historical facts instead of gross caricaturization; and by the presence of sheer numbers that reveal how all people, of every hue, have different ways of being in the world. Likewise, stereotypes are reinforced when negative imagery is presented as fact and when one personality trait (like angry or smart) is the broad brush stroke used to describe every person in that group. These stereotypes, whether negative (all black women are angry) or "positive" (all Asian kids are smart) hurt because they strip that individual black woman or that individual Asian student of her humanity, suggesting a box in which she must fit and a box by which she must be judged.

Images matter and how those images are displayed, disseminated, and understood have tangible repercussions for the person or people depicted. A national campaign of racist anti-abortion posters targeting the African American community is particularly egregious in upholding the worst stereotypes about black women by suggesting: we are too ignorant to practice birth control or understand what abortion is; we are hypersexual and out of control; we are inherently criminals who systematically murder our own children; and we are responsible for the destruction of black family life. The real facts of the lives of African American women do not actually matter, because the facts are drowned out by such grossly racist stereotypes - stereotypes which are repeated again and again, and thus believed and upheld as truth.

These hateful images of black women influence policy makers who subsequently label black family life as pathological and create anti-family legislation based on this misinformation (see the Moynihan report). These hateful images of black women detract from issues of injustice and inequity, like how racism in health care creates a bifurcated system which allows some access to high quality care and denies it for others. And these hateful images of black women makes each black woman the subject of scrutiny, derision, and contempt by reducing our existence to either whores or mammies.

I work to dismantle these stereotypes on a daily basis, building relationship after relationship, and affirming my individuality and humanity. But I also am called to work to expose and dismantle the very forces that uphold these stereotypes, including those anti-choice voices that make it clear that they do not care about my life and existence.

© Yolanda Pierce

How We Consent to Injustice

2011-02-06T08:14:00.030-05:00

I have been angered by the second incident of racist posters found on the seminary campus where I work. Note the fact that this is a second incident, which means that there was a first incident that was not handled; but that will be the subject of a second post. While people's overt acts of racism no longer surprise me, I remain disappointed by silence in the face of injustice. When we refuse to speak when confronted with the evidence of racism, whether it is because we are afraid, or indifferent, or ignorant, we give consent to the worst forms of human behavior. As Audre Lorde so eloquently reminds us: "your silence will not protect you."

I asked a colleague about her silence after this incident and she indicated that she had not seen the inflammatory material, despite our literally standing in front of it in the campus center. I've come to understand that one aspect of white privilege is the ability to wear blinders, blocking out even the visual evidence of racism. Despite the multiple displays of images mocking the lynching of African American men and caricaturing the plight of black women on the slave auction block, she can choose to see the images for what they are or completely ignore them. I have no such privilege. I cannot pass by something making light of the darkest hours of American history and ignore it. And it not only because I am a descendant of those injured. It is because I am a Christian who believes that Christ has called us all to be in solidarity with those at the margins.

I got varying reactions when I asked my students about their silence at this latest incident. Many indicated that they did not want to get involved; some do not want to be perceived as trouble-makers. Others are afraid of confrontation; and many simply did not want to tackle an issue as volatile as racism. Listening to these reasons broke my heart; not out of sympathy but in anger because of the lack of courage and heart for justice demonstrated by people who are supposedly called to careers in ministry. If you are not willing to tackle the complex nature of racism, systematic injustice, and discrimination, you are not ready or courageous enough to speak life and healing to those wounded by these forces. If you cannot grapple with the reality of "bad news," you are not prepared to bring the message of "good news."

We consent to injustice when we don't work to cut injustice off at the root; it is not enough to react when confronted with racism, when we are called to eliminate the very structural sins that sustain it.

We consent to injustice when we are silent in the face of defamation; your white or Christian or heterosexual privilege should not blind you to the verbal, political, and psychological terror daily faced by those on the margins.

We consent to injustice when we are afraid to mete our consequences for those who spew their hate. If there are no consequences for hateful attacks, we consent to an environment where it is explicitly clear that people of color (and those who stand in solidarity with them) are not welcome.

© Yolanda Pierce

A Winter Love

2011-02-01T10:11:00.023-05:00

Each major snowstorm this season, and there have been several, has given me a wonderful story, a lesson learned, or a deep thought for further reflection. While each day requires shoveling, spreading ice, snow boots and down coats, there has also been something soothing and beautiful about the snow. It forces me to slow down and pay attention as winter tells its story.

This particular round of snow started at 7pm, so by midnight, there were several fresh inches on the ground. Duly warned, cars stayed off the road and one could not tell where the street began or where the sidewalk ended. And the street lights cast a rose glow on the unbroken stretch of snow. From my window, I could see a young couple walking, holding hands, as they strolled down the middle of the street. They walked slowly, not because the snow was deep, but because it was a perfect night to walk slowly, hand in hand. The snow had transformed a busy street into a lover's garden, marked by two sets of footprints on the lonely road.

I knew that the morning would bring plows and trucks and that the magic of a midnight snow would be over. But that brief glimpse outside of my window had given me something I needed to remember: love does not only bloom in the Spring. We idolize the Spring and the richness of new life. We create poetry for the blooming flowers and the fresh smell of new grass. Spring - youthful, lush and rich - is certainly the season for love. But there is a winter love: freshly-fallen snow; sledding on snowy hills; crystal clear icicles; the peace and quiet of empty streets; and the sounds of the fireplace. A winter love is a reminder that even when there is barrenness, there is also life; where there is bleakness, there is also beauty; and where there is loneliness, there is also hope.

© Yolanda Pierce

The Paradox of Faith

2011-01-19T08:05:00.021-05:00

Murphy's Law - anything that can go wrong, will go wrong - is absolutely true. I will spare you all the details, but this story involves a snowstorm; a blown transformer; a gas line; calls to 911; police and fire personnel; and fire hoses aimed at a 120 year old house. But the real story is the knock on the door at 3am telling you to prepare to evacuate. Given five minutes, how do you decide, out of all your worldly possessions, what to take with you as you prepare to step into an uncertain future?

It is amazing what the human mind is capable of in a few short moments. As I stood on the threshold of my house, thinking about what to take with me in case we needed to evacuate, a certain peace washed over me. As much as I loved my home, and every single object in it, it was easy to decide what to take with me and what to leave. There were no frantic movements as I searched the house from top to bottom; as a matter of fact, I did not even need the 5 minutes allotted to us. The subsequent knock of fire personnel revealed a family ready to face an uncertain future. My daughter, dressed for the snowy weather outside, clutching the one stuffed animal that was to be saved above all others...and there are literally dozens of others. Likewise, I had only one thing: a single bag containing keys, wallet, laptop, cell phone, and a few precious mementos. In that moment, we had so very little - but we also had absolutely everything.

The evacuation order was cancelled. In a few days, everything in our neighborhood returned to normal. And I can now laugh about the craziness of a snowy night. But emotionally, I am still sorting through the paradox of faith revealed to me that night. A lifetime of treasures, objects lovingly purchased and displayed, family heirlooms and antiques - they will all one day turn to dust or ash. The things I value and hold precious, kept on high shelves and away from rambunctious children and guests - they will all one day turn to dust or ash. But the certainty of unconditional love endures forever. It is the hand clasping your hand; the arm around your shoulder; the well-worn teddy bear that has soothed childhood fears; but most of all, love a firm belief that even in uncertain times, you are not alone.

My faith, any faith, is a paradox. We believe what we cannot see. We worship that which cannot be known. We trust in that which is intangible. Our faith requires us, each day, to face the uncertainties of life, with little more than a teddy bear or purse to accompany us. Our faith requires a nakedness, a vulnerability, and a stripping away of everything until we acknowledge the essence of who we are. Confronting an evacuation in two feet of snow, with little more than the clothes on your back, helps to distill your faith down to the bare bones: peace in an uncertain future because of trust in the One who calms the storm; those storms that rage on the outside and also from within.

© Yolanda Pierce

This Is An Advent Word (III)

2010-12-13T10:20:00.043-05:00

Our country is enmeshed in a nostalgia trap; a longing for a "traditional" era that never actually existed. We are nostalgic for a moment in history that reflects neither the reality of this own country, nor the reality of the world abroad. Contrary to conservative spin, for the past thousand years the vast majority of women have worked outside of the home - because the vast majority of women are poor and work to feed their families. Contrary to conservative spin, the vast majority of children have not been raised by a nuclear family, but in multi-generation households. It has always taken a village to raise a child. Family life has always been complicated, complex, and multi-faceted. An idyllic white picket fence of a nuclear family can conceal the worse of child abuse, just as the walls of single parent household in an inner-city housing project can reveal unconditional love and self-sacrifice.

There is no golden age of traditional family values, not in the biblical era, not in the 1800's, and certainly not in the 1950's. Instead of an obsessive focus on who the members of a family are - by virtue of their race, gender, or sexual orientation - we must be most mindful of the material, social, and spiritual conditions that exist which can either make or break a family. Any family. The "values" crisis we are facing has nothing to do with some mythical golden age when women supposedly stayed home and stayed silent. Any family without health care is in crisis; any family living in poverty is in crisis; any family without stable housing is in crisis. But lo and behold, when people have economic stability, a safe place to lay their heads, access to good schools and health care, they thrive! When we actually fulfill the command to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and provide for the sick, families of all types and sizes succeed. Imagine that...

This is an Advent word.

Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb.

Advent is the story of a pregnant, teenage, unwed mother. We move so quickly to the outcome of this birth story, that we fail to spend enough time on the material, social, and spiritual condition of this extraordinary girl. Chosen as the bearer of the One, Mary fears that she will be rejected by her family and that she will be a social outcast in her community. But Mary also experiences joy, as she revels in the expectation of a baby growing in her womb. She hurries to announce the good news of her pregnancy; she rejoices and glorifies in her condition, even though she knows she will face criticism and condemnation.

But it is in the words of the Magnificat that we see Mary concerned not with the "traditional" values of her day, values that would have led to her confinement and perhaps even to her death, but a Mary deeply invested in real and lasting values which sustain and provide all the people of God. She proclaims her faith in a God who brings unjust rulers down from their thrones; a God who lifts up the humble; a God who fills the hungry; and a God who extends mercy to all. Imagine that...a Creator who cares about the weightier matters of the law, like justice and mercy. Imagine that...a prophetic voice ushered into the world from the womb of an unwed mother, a woman who dared to rejoice and embrace a situation the larger world would rather condemn.

© Yolanda Pierce

This Is An Advent Word (II)

2010-12-06T09:34:00.025-05:00

This innocent country set you down in a ghetto in which, in fact, it intended that you should perish. (James Baldwin).

The haunting words of James Baldwin, in a letter to his nephew, reminds us of a startling reality as true in 2010, as it was in 1962 when Baldwin wrote these words: a world in which black and brown children are not intended to survive, let alone thrive. In our "cradle to prison" pipeline, we spend three times the amount of federal money per prisoner than per pupil in public school. Our economic priorities make it clear that prison, or a life as "dead men walking" is the path our nation will support for a child on the margin. We justify tax-payer welfare to some of the richest companies in the world, but when it comes to funding health care, equitable education, and prison reform, we plead "socialism" and "big government."

Our nation has "disposable children," those whose pictures do make the 6pm news when they disappear. The racial, social, and economic disparities in this country begins at the cradle, when we say to one set of children, "you are loved and desired," and when we say to another set of children, "too many people who look like you are being born in this country." Undernourishment in inner city food deserts; toxic waste sites in poor community; vastly unequal spending on education; disparate sentencing guidelines; and lack of affordable housing in strong school districts: all demonstrate how we issue a death decree for black and brown children. How many prophetic and messianic voices have been silenced by this cultural death decree?

This is an Advent Word.

When Herod realized that he had been outwitted by the Magi, he was furious, and he gave orders to kill all the boys in Bethlehem and its vicinity who were two years old and under, in accordance with the time he had learned from the Magi. (Matthew 2:16)

The story of Advent begins with the inevitability of the death, the "massacre of the innocents." The infant Jesus is born on the wrong side of imperial authority. The fact of his existence, and his entire community's existence, is unbearable to those in power. It was preferable for innocent children to be slaughtered than to accept that the Anointed One had been born among a marginalized people. As Christians, we often point to the triumph over the grave as the victorious work of the Crucified One. But as the Advent story reminds us, the triumph over death begins with this newborn baby and a family who had to flee a genocide, systematic killings issued and sustained by governmental authority.

This small bundle of humanity survives, in no small part, because of the blessings spoken over him: his name shall be called Emmanuel, God-With-Us; the Son of the Most High. Even while Jesus is in the womb, the also-pregnant Elizabeth speaks life over Mary's baby - blessed is the child you will bear. Knowing the challenging world these expectant mothers would face, a world in which their sons were disposable and undesirable, angels spoke words of life and blessings over them and the fruit of their wombs. How can we speak life to those who are under the yoke of a cultural death decree? How can we love and bless those left behind, those written off, those forgotten, and those left to perish? Who are the angels of today, willing to defy the cradle to prison pipeline, and proclaim that our children, most especially our brown and black children, are an essential part of a beloved community?

© Yolanda Pierce

This Is An Advent Word (I)

2010-12-03T09:19:00.018-05:00

As the Advent season begins, I have been thinking deeply about recent news describing planned "celebrations" for the 150th anniversary of the secession of the former Confederate states during the US Civil War. What does it mean for us, as a nation, when cities plan to mark the anniversary of this event without acknowledging the enslavement and brutalization of African Americans? Without acknowledging that the major reason - not the only, but the primary reason for secession was in order to continue the systematic practice of forced labor borne by enslaved men and women?

So my Advent season begins with thoughts of cultural amnesia: how we are willing to selectively forget those aspects of our history that we cannot, or will not, reconcile with our current culture. If we "celebrate" the secession by deliberating omitting references to slavery's existence, we can pretend that the continuing legacy of racism, oppression, and injustice does not even exist - because we have erased the very source of this national horror.

This is an Advent word.

As we begin this season of waiting, expecting, and remembering the birth of Jesus, we cannot do so with the lens of cultural or religious amnesia. This is not simply the season to celebrate the coming of Christ into the world. It is a season that must take into account the historical specificity of this moment, so that we can truly understand the depth and breadth of this event.

We must remember the Creator who radically set aside the oligarchy, for it was the sounds, smells, and sights of a stable which greeted the newborn babe and not the splendor of a palace. No longer would princely wealth be the only marker of authority, so that even a child born on the very margins and fringes of society could become God-With-Us.

We must remember the Creator who radically suspends the patriarchy, and allows a young girl to be the bearer of the Anointed One, the Theotokos. No longer are women unworthy to bear the Word, as it is a woman whose cries and labor pains deliver the first news of the Word Made Flesh, just as it is women who first bring the good news of the Risen Savior.

We must remember the Creator who radically breaks the bondage of racial and cultural hegemony, choosing a despised and peculiar people to receive the revelation of the Great-I-Am. No longer must the hierarchy reign, as the world is turned upside down and those people and cultures considered weak and foolish, are chosen to confound the mighty.

A mindset of cultural amnesia refuses to grapple with the complexity of the Advent story. For the Advent season, I am called to grapple with the deep historical, political, and theological meanings of this event: a unwed teenage mother; a family's flight from political authority; the threat of racial genocide; and the (im)possibilities of hope. The story I will share may not be pretty, because the history and politics of the time in which the Anointed One was born were not pretty. But the shining light of beauty, even an ugly world, is an Advent word.

© Yolanda Pierce

When It Happens to Me

2010-11-23T10:29:00.016-05:00

I am literally shaking my head over all the recent angst and complaining about the new T.S.A. security procedures at airports. People are crying "foul" at the aggressive pat-downs and invasive body searches they have to endure if they opt-out of the full body scan. People are crying that their civil rights are being violated by these measures, which can include touching of private body parts and searches underneath clothing. People are crying about their loss of dignity at the hands of authorities. And they are demanding that these procedures, which make them feel like criminals, be stopped immediately. Hmm....

I find it so fascinating that comfortable middle-class travelers are now experiencing what is a daily way of life and standard operating procedure for far too many people of color, especially black and brown men and boys. Routine frisks are the cost of "walking while black" in inner cities. The New York Times' investigation of over 52,000 police stops in ONE Brooklyn neighborhood, employing the "Stop, Question, Frisk" technique, reveal the degree to which authorities employ aggressive frisks on those they merely suspect may be guilty of something. After the stop and frisk, each person's name is logged into a database - even if he is not arrested or detained.

In other words, merely being a black man in this particular neighborhood renders you vulnerable to being frisked, without provocation, and having the details of the encounter and your personal information recorded within a database. In the year 2009, the number of these "Stop, Question, Frisk" encounters totaled over 580,000. As you can see from the interactive map included in the NYT article, the overwhelming majority of them occurred in largely African American and Latino communities.

I'm hard pressed to hear people complain about the loss of dignity they experienced at the hands of a T.S.A. agent...unless they are also concerned about the loss of dignity of these young black and brown men in Brooklyn who are suspects by virtue of walking the streets.

I'm hard pressed to have sympathy for those whose innocent children are subject to additional security measures at the airport...unless they are also concerned about black and brown children who are viewed and treated as potential criminals from the time they emerge from the womb.

I'm hard pressed to take seriously people's complaints that their civil rights are being violated...unless they are willing to acknowledge that the civil rights of urban youth, which are constantly suspended when it suits the needs of various authorities, are also important to uphold.

When the aggressive pat-downs and frisks happen to me, it is a violation of my dignity. When it happens to black men in Oakland, it is necessary for "law and order."

When the aggressive pat-downs and frisks happen to me, my constitutional rights are violated. When it happens to Latino men in the Bronx, it is an matter of "public safety."

When the aggressive pat-downs and frisks happen to me, it is an invasion of my privacy and an act of humiliation. When it happens to black children in Atlanta, it is a necessity in order to "keep the peace."

Where is the call for dignity and the fight against humiliation for those who are constantly forced to endure stops, searches, and frisks - merely for daring to be the color they are, in the place they live?

If anything good comes out of these new measures taken by the T.S.A., it may be to remind us that civil rights are not actually civil rights if they only apply to those who can afford the luxury of air travel. Civil rights, if they mean anything, must apply to the "least of these." And the dignity, respect, and justice to which one is entitled, must be applied to all - not simply at LAX and EWR, but also on the corners, playgrounds, and streets where black and brown people walk.

© Yolanda Pierce

Weights & Measures

2010-11-08T07:39:00.014-05:00

I made an appointment with a doctor who had been highly recommended by several of my friends. After a wait of about 3 months, I found myself in the familiar paper gown of a doctor's examining room. The nurse had already taken my vital signs and vital statistics when the doctor appeared and proceeded to give me the most thorough physical I had ever had. I began to see why an appointment with her was worth the wait. I was also surprised by one of the tools of her trade: my new doctor wielded a tape measure.

As we talked, she expressed no interest in my BMI. Instead, she focused on my blood work, my lifestyle habits, my diet, and the measurements she had taken, including a hip-to-waist ratio. She explained to me that people often focus on the number recorded by the scale. Your weight, she said, is not the full measure of your health. This appointment left me wondering how many other important things in life are being measured by the wrong scale.

We measure wealth by its accumulation. More money, more cars, and more houses mark how we classify the wealthy. It is what we all strive for in our never-ending quest to have more stuff. But what if we were to measure wealth by generosity, rather than accumulation? It would would make someone like Oseola McCarty, who donated all her life savings from her work as a laundry woman, one of the richest women on earth.

We measure beauty by standards created by fashion magazines and modeling agencies. People are willing to risk their health to achieve a certain look that conforms to these external (and ever changing) standards of beauty. And we demonize those who fail to conform to these standards. But what if we were to measure beauty by affirming differences, rather than insisting on one physical standard? If all are equally made in the image and likeness of God, our vastly different bodies, shapes, hair textures, skin tones, heights, and weights are a gift to be celebrated, not a yardstick to be used to beat and shame.

We measure success by triumphs, wins, and victories. To be a success is to close the deal and serve on the winning team; we all want to be associated with a successful enterprise and to feel that we are successful people. But what if we were to measure success by a refusal to throw in the towel, even in the face of continued failures? Perhaps success is better measured with an "I gave it my all," instead of an "I won."

My doctor's office did not throw away the scale. They simply acknowledged that the scale is not enough; by itself, it is an insufficient measure of both internal and external health. I want to be able to do the same with how I have measured the terms of my own wealth, or my beauty, or my success. My internal scale has often been too harsh, leaving me without hope that things can be different (much like my actual digital scale at home which announces your weight!). I'm slowly learning that the means by which we measure something predetermines its outcome. And that learning how to truly be wealthy, beautiful, and successful - in the eyes of God - will require me to use God's scale and not man-made ones.

© Yolanda Pierce

We Speak Your Names

2010-11-01T09:57:00.008-04:00

It is All Saints Day and while my church won't mark this occasion until Sunday, I wanted to reflect on what it means for me to be surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses - those ancestors and saints who have paved the way for me.

I am thinking about my unknown ancestors, including those whose bodies rest on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. My unknown ancestors include those who fought their chains and those who endured their chains. This great cloud of witnesses reminds me that freedom comes at a cost and that diligence must be constantly maintained against those forces that seek my bondage.

I am thinking about my known ancestors, those men and women in my life who have died, but have left me with a priceless legacy. While generational wealth is a wonderful thing, it cannot compare to generational wisdom and faith. This great cloud of witnesses reminds me that common sense is quite uncommon, and the beginning of wisdom begins first with awe and reverence of the One who created you.

And I am also thinking about my loved ones, near and far, who are a great cloud of witnesses to me, even if they do not know it. It is the friend who sends an email with words of encouragement or a text message that brightens your day. Sometimes it it a rebuke and a moment of conviction; at other times, it is a sympathetic shoulder and a listening ear. This great cloud of witnesses remind me that I am not running this race alone.

We need to name these witnesses. We need to call upon them. We need to speak their names. Speak the name of that teacher who inspired you. Speak the name of the grandmother who raised you. Speak the name of the one who first touched the deepest part of you. Speak the name of the neighbor who always had a kind word. Speak the name of a friend who sat with you in dark places. Speak the name of those aunties who schooled you. Speak the name of those you love and have never forgotten. Speak the name of the One who sustains and provides. For All Saints Day, we speak these names. Ashe.

© Yolanda Pierce

Trespass

2010-10-27T08:01:00.019-04:00

I remember the first time I heard the recitation of the Lord's Prayer in which the speaker and congregation together prayed "forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors." I remember it distinctly because those were not familiar words to my ear. Taught this prayer as a young girl, even before I could read, the refrain of the King James Version of this prayer - unwieldy though it may be - felt more natural in my mouth. "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us."

I have nothing at stake in the biblical translation wars or in the various versions of the Bible that seem to force people to choose sides. I'm frankly happy that anyone still prays and I am happy to listen and share either version of the Lord's Prayer. But I am a lover of words, someone who loves to wrestle with language, and someone seeking truth even in narrow spaces. So it is this notion of "trespass," that speaks most immediately to me when I seek God in prayer.

To ask for forgiveness for our trespasses is to acknowledge the ways that we have willfully and deliberately sinned; it is to admit that we have ignored the spiritual "no trespassing" signs and that our thoughts, words, or deeds have caused someone injury. Our forgiveness is dependent first and foremost on the acknowledgement of our wrongs, those deliberate and those unintentional.

But to "forgive those who trespass against us" also requires the naming of sin, the acknowledgment that one has been sinned against. When someone has trespassed against you, they have crossed a line or a boundary, violating your space and your very being. When we are courageous enough to forgive those who trespass against us, it is only by naming the infringement and the violation.

I have long grown weary of forgiveness talk that involves neither true repentance nor true restoration. And I am learning that repentance and restoration is slow to take place because people are not willing (or are not able) to name the actual nature of the trespass. When someone uses language that is demeaning and degrading, the sin is not merely in the language they use; the trespass is the assault on human dignity. Or as my grandmother would say, the real problem is that somebody is trying to "call you out of your name." When someone commits an act of violence, the trespass is not just a physical event, but an infringement on one's very spirit.

To trespass on someone's property is to insist "I have a right to cross into your territory, at will and on my own terms." It is to insist on your superiority and the other person's inferiority and submission. We are trespassers when we insist on providential sovereignty to land that we stole. We are trespassers when we determine the terms of the discourse, the participants in the discussion, and we exclude those we deem do not belong at the table. And we are trespassers when our angry words and volatile tempers both silence and humiliate.

The Lord's Prayer and its language of "trespass," insists that we name, we repent, and we restore. There is an expression that reminds us "everyone wants to go to heaven, but no one wants to die." Likewise, everyone wants to be forgiven, but no one wants to do the sacrificial work of justice.

© Yolanda Pierce

Even Worse

2010-10-18T10:03:00.031-04:00

There was a great deal of tension in my classroom last week. I had finished a lecture that was not easy to deliver, situated around subjects that are never easy to discuss: lynchings, racial violence, and forms of slavery masquerading under other names - the substance of the African American experience at the beginning of the 20th century. My students did an excellent job working through these topics; and while everyone was careful of other people's feelings, it was a time of truth-telling. I could see that several people were deeply unsettled by these aspects of American history that they have never confronted or that they did not wish to confront.

When the class came to a close, I could see the relief on some faces that this "difficult" conversation had finally ended. As a student walked out the door, she exclaimed with some relief her joy that things today are not like they were then. Exhausted from the intensity of the conversation, and my attempts to hold the hands of those who had never confronted this material, I responded from the weary depths of my soul: "no, things today are not like they were then. They are even worse."

My intention had not been to open that Pandora's box, but I have been bombarded with examples of what a hateful and contentious moment in American history we now occupy. We are living with a modern system of slavery that is the prison industrial complex. We are spectators in racialized violence committed against black and brown people, violence that is committed upon both their bodies and their very souls. We are citizens in a nation that caricatures the President, his wife, and family, while senators and congressman forward these racist emails to their constituents as a "joke."

We dismiss as a mere prank the misogynistic hate speech of pledges on a college campus, their chants of "no means yes, yes means anal." And we pretend that white male privilege doesn't exist, even as this same group of men is being groomed for leadership in our nation's courtrooms and boardrooms. We applaud a resurgence of "Christian" values in politics, even as this resurgence attempts to reduce women to second-class citizenship, denigrate the LGBT community, and institute a theocracy based upon flawed human interpretations of a Divine God.

These examples are where I began to explain to my shocked student that things are even worse today, than they were in the historical moment we covered - and I could have continued unabated for several more hours. People no longer hide their racism under white sheets, but under anonymous internet names on websites. While 100 years may separate these two groups, they are the same racist cowards. There were those who opposed women's right to vote on the grounds that a woman's political opinion was sufficiently represented by the vote of the "male authority" in her household. Today, one senator openly opines that sexually active, unmarried women are bad role models and should be restricted from being teachers. 100 years difference in time; same ass-backwards reasoning about women's inequality.

We lynch when we erect 50 foot billboards of an African American president in which he is depicted as a gangster and terrorist. We disenfranchise when we strip the right to vote from those who have served their prison terms and are attempting to be full and productive citizens. We oppress when we refuse to institute a living wage and national health care system, even as we demonize working mothers as the cause of all that is evil in our world.

I understood that after my depressing lecture, this student wanted to hear from me the "good news." That is a hermeneutical moment at the end of a sermon (or lecture) where despite all of the challenges you present, you reassure the congregation that there is good news. This was a day I refuse to make that rhetorical turn. The news is bad, even worse than we fear. And rather than turning so quickly to the "good news," we should sit with the "even worse."

© Yolanda Pierce

Sticks and Stones

2010-10-08T08:05:00.042-04:00

In reviewing the proslavery arguments that sustained chattel bondage in this country, I always focus my remarks in the classroom on the rhetoric that can sustain an oppressive system. Trained, as my students are, in both homiletics and hermeneutics, they immediately grasp my argument that words, even when they are not tied to a legal or political process, can still have the power of life and death. Slavery in the United States should serve as a sobering reminder that while sticks and stones can break bones, words can also cut, wound, and batter.

I've been thinking about this since I violated one of my personal rules: reading the comments that follow an article about a controversial issue. As a New Yorker, I have been following the debate about Mayor Bloomberg's plan to ban soda purchases for the recipients of food stamps. And while I have a definite opinion on that particular subject, my heart is broken by the callous, brutal, and heartless language used to talk about poverty and people who are poor. It seems entirely acceptable to demonize an entire group of people based on the fact that their income falls below a certain level. Because that is all that poverty is - a reflection of the disparity of between the "haves" and the "have nots."

Poverty is not an intrinsic state of being, nor is it reflective of someone's soul, worth, or value. The proslavery materials I had my students read demonstrated the pervasive argument that "blackness" was not merely a reflection of skin color, but of the evil state of one's soul. That is no more true than the notion that the reason people are poor is because they are somehow inferior, morally bankrupt, or "lesser" than those who are not. Some people are poor because of the unfair distribution of resources in this country. Some people are poor because of systems of discrimination and oppression. And yes, some people are poor because of bad decisions and choices. But poverty does not have a monopoly on bad decisions...there are plenty of rich people making bad decisions, with consequences for both themselves and for us all.

The poor are lazy and are drains on our tax dollars: two thirds of people living in poverty work more than one job. And because many in poverty rely on (non)existent public transportation, getting to and from work, child care centers, schools, and home require several hours of work even before they actually begin their jobs for the day. And these wages that are earned are, in fact, taxed. We denigrate those who receive public assistance as a "drain" on the system without acknowledging that even those working at minimum wage also pay into their local tax base.

The poor are fat and obese: there is no economic strata that remains unaffected by the rising rates of obesity in this country. We can spend our time and energy banning one food item, or we can spend our time and energy addressing the various food deserts in our urban and rural areas; or questioning the tax subsidies allotted to particular agricultural companies; or thinking more comprehensively about the diminishing nutritional value of all our food.

The poor are a bunch of minorities who are just trying to work the system: while people of color are disproportionately poor in this country, there is no "one" profile of the face of poverty. There is poverty in rural Appalachia and Louisiana, and there is poverty in the shadow of the White House and in the shadow of the Hollywood sign. We mock poverty by suggesting that the "real" face of poverty is a woman in a fur coat, driving a Mercedes, while using her food stamps at the grocery store - while at the same time, we accept the fact that corporations which received billions in a governmental bailout, offer their executives million-dollar bonuses.

The poor want to be poor: welfare benefits, food stamps, or subsidized housing are not nearly as generous as people claim, particularly if the people in poverty live in a high cost of living area. Less than 1% of the total federal budget provides direct cash or cash-equivalent benefits to those in poverty. If our societal priorities are reflected by dollars spent, then direct assistance to those in poverty is at the bottom of that list. Poverty in this country is expensive. Housing, food, transportation, banking, child care, and health care are disproportionately more expensive for the working poor than for any other group.

I am someone who grew up in the depths of inner city poverty, the likes of which may be difficult for people to imagine unless they have experienced it. Poverty is exhausting and depressing. But the language used to degrade the poor, along with the policies implemented to strip the poor of agency, also strip people of their human dignity and the respect which they are due. As a Christian, I affirm that at every turn, Jesus fed the hungry and healed the sick. In other words, our biblical model reminds us of the necessity of working for a more equitable society. Campaign for an actual living wage; work to combat discrimination and environmental racism; accept the necessity of affordable housing without a "not in my backyard" attitude.

Let us fully embrace a campaign against poverty. But let us refrain from a rhetorical campaign against the people who live in poverty. If our current economic crisis has taught us anything, it should be that no one is exempt from the consequences of either poor choices or the weight of structural forces and greed that cause unemployment, underemployment, hunger, homelessness, and hopelessness.

© Yolanda Pierce

An Impoverished Theology

2010-09-28T07:31:00.079-04:00

As this most recent televangelist scandal continues to dominate headlines, I've been thinking more and more about how much money is at play in the situation. We've been given details about multi-million dollar salaries; luxury cars and black diamonds; and a steady stream of cash for international trips, college tuition, clothes, and housing. The money trail of this story leads us into the heart of prosperity gospel, those who believe that the Bible offers a "get rich" scheme for Christan believers. And yet with so much bling and ice circulating in our churches, with so much material wealth available to prosperity gospel believers, why is the theology being preached of such poor quality?

It is an impoverished theology that allows any human being to state that as pastor, he demands obedience from his members because "I first died for them." The very heart of the Christian message recognizes only one death and one resurrection with lasting power. It is poor theology and a mockery of Christian beliefs to elevate yourself to the place of the cross.

It is an impoverished theology that takes one scriptural verse and attempts to build an entire message around it, with no attention to context, history, or interpretation. You can build a movement by quoting all the biblical verses about "riches," but it is a poor theology that ignores questions of mercy, justice, and sacrifice.

It is an impoverished theology that builds a movement based on the hatred of any group of people, and that actively seeks to promote second-class citizenship for any of our brothers and sisters. It is a poor theology that fails to focus on the greatest command: to love God with all our hearts and to love our neighbors as we love ourselves.

It is an impoverished theology that can only name God as "He" and "Him" and uses those limitations to justify the submission and silence of women, and the elevation of mortal man to the status of "master." It is a poor theology that cannot use inclusive language to know and to call on the "Eternal One" or the "First and the Last" or "Our Source and Our Strength." Selah.

Some Christian churches are wealthy in appearance, but suffer from poor theology. Cash machines in the lobby may indicate material wealth, but say little about theological substance. And some of the most humble of churches may be rich, because they seek a fuller understanding of genuine repentance and righteousness. A storefront church may lack a sound system, but the praises offered may represent a sweet sound in God's ear. Perhaps recent events will reveal the theological poverty rampant in many of our churches and turn our hearts toward what is truly required of us: walking humbly, loving mercy, and showing justice.

© Yolanda Pierce

Not Just A Church?

2010-09-24T09:18:00.039-04:00

I am grateful for all my colleagues who have weighed in on the allegations against the pastor of New Birth Missionary Baptist Church in Georgia. The timely statements of Drs. Shayne Lee, Jonathan Walton, and Anthea Butler have provided so much context in which we can situate the seriousness of these accusations, as well as the ramifications of race, gender, and sexual orientation as it applies to this case and to the larger phenomena of mega-churches, prosperity preachers, and televangelism. And while my thoughts today are prompted by this continuing scandal, I want to explore what I believe to be at the root of the many, many scandals that continue to befall Christian churches: pastors who want to be feudal lords of their own personal fiefdoms instead of the shepherds they are supposed to be...

“We’re not just a church, we’re an international corporation. We’re not just a bumbling bunch of preachers who can’t talk and all we’re doing is baptizing babies. I deal with the White House. I deal with Tony Blair. I deal with presidents around this world. I pastor a multimillion-dollar congregation. You’ve got to put me on a different scale than the little black preacher sitting over there that’s supposed to be just getting by because the people are suffering.” (Eddie Long regarding his compensation package; Atlanta Constitution Journal, August 28, 2005).

These words reveal to me a profound disconnect between what scripture requires of a pastor and what a corrupt and materialistic culture believes a pastor should be. Why has the corporate model, built upon the acquisition of stuff (things, people, money) become the model for our churches? Why is the number of members, or the amount of money raised and spent, the marker of success for a church? How do we reconcile this vain pursuit for bigger numbers with the biblical command to create disciples - not members - but true disciples for God?

We're not just a church: If the church is the body of Christ, made up of all those who have put their trust in Christ, why would you not want to be "just" a church? If you are called to lead an international corporation, would you not submit your resume to Microsoft or any one of the thousands of corporations that may need a new leader? A pastor is a shepherd and a guide, one who knows his or her sheep by name.

Baptizing babies: There may be no more profound act in the Christian church than the baptism of new believers. Baptism recognizes the individual's death to a life of sin and the embrace of a new life in Christ. It is a public affirmation of one's commitment to live a life that is pleasing to God. A meeting with the prime minister of the United Kingdom has only temporary value; the baptism of a new Christian believer has eternal significance. I am grateful for all those "bumbling preachers" who do not believe it is beneath their calling to perform one of the most important sacraments of Christianity.

Getting by: Everything that I know and have studied about the historical Jesus, and the men and women that he chose as his disciples, affirms one simple fact: they abandoned all they had and took up the work of ministry. If you truly believes that God cares even for the sparrows and the lilies of the field, then does not God provide for those who, through obedience, have taken on the mantle of ministry? I know many pastors and religious leaders whose financial situations may qualify as "getting by." But these men and women are more interested in storing up real treasure, not the fleeting material goods of this earth.

Suffering people: Where people are hungry, God is there. Where people are homeless, God is there. Where people are suffering, God is there. And everything that we do for these, we do as unto God. If people are suffering and you do not want to be associated with them, you need to check your witness. And if people are suffering and you are thriving, you need to check your level of sacrifice.

Pastors are not kings who preside over a benign monarchy; pastors are not feudal lords who require homage from their peasants; pastors are not corporate executives who can tax, reward, or exploit their workers; and pastors are not on a different "scale" depending on the size of their congregations. Pastors are servants. And in every single place where the servant-leadership model thrives, so does the authentic witness of God's love.

© Yolanda Pierce

Letting Go

2010-09-22T08:09:00.020-04:00

On a recent trip to Chicago's Navy Pier, I found myself in line behind a group of children as we all waited our turn for a ride on the Wave Swinger. These kids may have been wondering why I, as an adult, was there by myself - with no child in tow to give legitimacy to my presence. In truth, I had briefly run away from the long and boring meeting I was attending in order to relive some of my favorite childhood memories. And so for a few moments, with my feet high above the ground and a panoramic view of the Chicago skyline in my sight, I was a little girl with ponytails flapping in the breeze.

On my way out of the park, back to my role as stodgy seminary professor, I passed a group of nuns. There are very few orders that still wear formal habits, so I easily recognized the group and remembered something of its mission. While not cloistered, these nuns were contemplatives: their lives dedicated to serious meditation and fervent prayer. But on this sunny Chicago day, this group of nuns battled ferociously on the remote control boats at the park. I could tell that I was not the only one amused by this sight: four or five older women, veiled and in habits, racing miniature sailboats with the joy and glee of five year olds.

On the plane ride home, I kept thinking about that day at the Navy Pier and wondering: how would we live if we truly did not care what others thought? What things would we do and what risks would we take? I find myself making decisions, and some important ones, based on how I think others will perceive me. I was worried that a group of kids would judge me for being in line for a ride by myself! I've replaced the girly dresses and heels that I love with "power suits," because of worry that my colleagues will not take me seriously. I've often tamed my natural gregariousness for fear of being perceived as that "loud" black woman. But those choices came at a cost of not being the whole me.

We worry what people will think of us if they see us out alone - so we miss out on wonderful opportunities. We worry what people think of us if we are not dressed according to social norms - so we miss out on feeling truly comfortable in our own skin. We worry what people think of us if our hair, or our accents, or our bodies, or our speech patterns seem out of place - so we miss out on representing the families and communities that made us who we are.

It took a group of nuns playing with toy sailboats to help me think about really letting go of the power of other people's perceptions and expectations. I loved watching the complete lack of self-consciousness of this group of women, who would have ordinarily spent their day in a convent, attending to the business of divine reflection. Perhaps it is with age, wisdom, and spiritual maturity that they have embraced what I am only now learning: to let go and live, accountable only to God, and in accordance with the joy and spirit that dwells within you.

I'm wearing my favorite dress and open-toe heels at work today. And it feels wonderful.

© Yolanda Pierce

Holiness Is

2010-09-20T11:29:00.012-04:00

"Holiness is right." I can still hear echoes of this refrain from my childhood upbringing in the Pentecostal church. "Holiness is right." It was a catch-all phrase meant to remind us that as Christians, we were to live in the world, but not be of the world. It was the phrase repeated when someone's skirt was too short or someone's head was uncovered in the sanctuary. It was the phrase that barred drinking alcohol and going to the movies. "Holiness is right." It was the phrase that attempted to impose a legalistic definition of what it meant to be a faithful witness for Christ.

But it was also the phrase that created a longing in my soul for genuine holiness, not a mode of conduct dependent of rigid interpretation, but the holiness that is the fear and awe and wonder of living a life that is pleasing and acceptable to a Holy God. My quest for a life of holiness has not removed me from the cares, concerns, and complications of this world. In fact, holiness requires an active and present engagement in the gritty reality of a fallen world. Of what purpose is a holy life if is hidden out of fear of engagement with the world? If we are so holy that we are afraid to walk outside our doors, lest temptation besets us, then our holiness has no power and no purpose. Genuine holiness is a beacon of love; a light engaging the world.

Holiness...is not a perfect life, but a life lived with intentionality and purpose. It is holy to love others, even when you do not understand them. It is holy to sow goodness, even when you are constantly confronted with evil. It is holy to work for justice, even when the case for justice has long been denied.

Holiness...is a longing for God. When we seek God with our whole hearts and our whole beings, we know holiness. When we surrender our worries to God with the knowledge that even the grains of sand are numbered, we know holiness. When we rejoice in God's faithfulness and when we lament in God's silence, we know holiness.

Holiness...demands neither a dress code nor a list of rules. The open communion table is holy because all, regardless of status, creed, or color are welcomed. The spontaneous fellowship that happens when two or three saints are gathered is holy, because no formal program is needed to worship God. The laughter and joy of a full dinner table is holy, because we are called to nourish both body and spirit.

"Holiness is right." Yes, a life of holiness is right in that it draws us closer to God, to each other, and to our innermost beings. Holiness requires grace, not the shackles of legalism. To be holy, as God is holy, is to imitate the love of God in all that we do. May this phrase, "holiness is right" prompt in us not an arbitrary set of rules, but a genuine hunger to be a faithful witness to God's grace and mercy.

© Yolanda Pierce

A Decade of Grace

2010-07-05T00:01:00.001-04:00

(For my daughter, as she celebrates her tenth birthday)

For childhood memories of dirty dishes in the sink and overflowing hampers: please remember when I skipped cleaning to jump double-dutch with you. And please forgive the overwhelmed mother who often managed to drop several of the balls she was juggling.

For childhood memories of train trips and plane rides and every other form of travel: please remember the new candy stores found, new toy stores revealed, and new friendships begun. And please forgive the distracted mother working on her latest conference paper, not fully listening to the soundtrack of your life.

For childhood memories of homemade meals and family dinners: please remember the joy and laughter of friends and family gathered in our home, eating cookies we prepared together. And please forgive the nights when weariness and stress meant a mother's indifference to what was on the table.

For childhood memories of concerts and sports events and public outings: please remember moments of trying new things, wearing funny hats, dancing in public, and singing out loud. And please forgive the mother whose own self-consciousness and insecurities kept you from taking risks.

For childhood memories of school and reading and learning: please remember the mother who introduced you to her favorite writers and ignored the flashlight burning long after bedtime. And please forgive the hard life lessons learned not from books, but from my mistakes, fears, and failures.

For childhood memories of church and worship: please remember the very present love of God experienced from hugs received, words of encouragement given, and the joyful expressions of praise and thanksgiving each week. And please forgive the mother whose vocation made Sunday after Sunday a day of work and not of rest.

I pray that when you are an adult, and you look back at this first decade of your life, there will be grace for a mother who loves you unconditionally, even with her imperfect love. Happy birthday, little one.

© Yolanda Pierce

Reading the Text

2010-06-30T08:56:00.027-04:00

There are books and authors that I come back to time and time again; works of literature that I've read and re-read for many years. In part, I love the physicality of these books. I've read the same copy so many times, that the pages are worn or falling apart. I mark up the margins and circle meaningful passages. Sometimes, I even write comments or questions, adding my own text to the text. My copy of a James Baldwin novel is being held together with tape; I have a Faulkner novel that can literally open by itself to my favorite passages. And my favorite Toni Morrison novel is tear-stained. While I can, and have, received new copies of each of these books for seminars that I teach, I return to these old copies for comfort...and for wisdom.

Because while the words in each of these books do not change, I have read these books at various stages in my life, and I've gleaned something different every time. Like many, my introduction to Zora Neale Hurston happened when I was in college. I loved her wit and her audacious critique of anybody and everything. I loved her joy and her celebration of African American life. But reading Hurston these days is a different experience. I still appreciate the laughter and joy, but I also understand the descent into "sorrow's kitchen." At eighteen, I may have enjoyed a literary appreciation for the folk expression "mule uh de world." But now, as a black woman negotiating higher education and ministry life, this "folk expression" is a powerful description of my daily state of being.

Part of this process is great writing: the revelation of truths so powerful that people are compelled to read again and again. The other part of this process is the reader's recognition of how she has grown, changed, or shifted when re-reading a text. Text and reader function together - vivid truth-telling must meet with honesty and experience in order for words on the page to have real meaning.

It is no wonder that many of us find ourselves coming back to the same sacred scriptures, again and again. The words of Ecclesiastes or Job or Corinthians have not changed, but who we are at a particular stage of life does change. As a child in vacation bible school, I loved to read and memorize the Psalms. Our teacher would reward us with candy for each verse memorized, and verses from the Psalms were short and easy. I earned a lot of candy that summer and I even learned quite a bit of scripture. But the Psalms are about joy and lament; God's absence and God's presence. They are verses that point us to the awe of the Divine, as well as to the reality of sin. It is a "grown up" moment in life, born out of trials, when you realize that there is evil in this world. And it is a "grown up" moment in life, born out of peace in the midst of those trials, when you realize that God is real.

You can read all about life or evil or God in the scripture, but you've got to live, really live, to fully grasp its truths. Our failures and triumphs, our loves and losses, our disappointments and successes, all influence our understanding of the texts that we read. And each dog-eared corner, underlined passage, binder held together by tape, and tear-stained page brings us a little closer to knowing (and loving) ourselves.

© Yolanda Pierce

Worship

2010-06-11T09:59:00.016-04:00

I was sitting in the pulpit and from that vantage point, I had a clear view of the congregation. I saw what I expected to see: an aging church. The membership was under 100 people; there were some young people under the age of 18, but mainly members over 60. There were only a handful of men, including the two ministers who shared the pulpit with me. The facility was well-cared for, but worn. The words appearing on plaques below the stained glass windows reflected the names of members who passed away long ago. I was in a historically black city, an inner city church, and a neighborhood that time and gentrification forgot. In my head, I could hear the echoes of a colleague's infamous pronouncement: "the black church is dead."

But then...

A deacon whose face was carved with lines and memories of things he cannot forget, approached the altar and began a prayer of intercession. His firm voice called on the God of Abraham, Issac, and Jacob. He petitioned the Rock, the cornerstone that the builders rejected. His prayers anointed that small sanctuary and the presence of God filled the place. I watched a frail hand lifted up in worship. Dressed in her Sunday best with wide-brimmed hat in place, this woman stood with hands uplifted as tears streamed down her face. She, too, was at the throne of grace. Prayers both private and corporate, joined together; the words were indistinguishable, but all our hearts gathered together for this moment of prayer.

On that Sunday morning, there was music and dance; there was laughter and sorrow. Announcements were read and visitors were welcomed. Choirs sang and babies cried. As I brought forth the Word, my message seemed insufficient and my ideas too simplistic. But those same frail hands and lined faces responded to my words and lifted me higher. They encouraged and pushed; they called and they responded. In that small church in a city that stimulus funds neglected, a great cloud of witnesses in this realm and beyond, worshiped with a truth and intensity that moved my soul.

I've come to praise Him/While I have a chance/Cause I may not have a chance/Anymore.

This church was a place of life, not death. These lives did not represent the academy or a comfortably-ensconced middle America. This congregation did not have a pastor who marched on Washington or sat down with presidents. These people cared little about politics and even less about the observations of Ivy League professors. But this body - this black church - was alive! They were raising grandchildren whose parents were lost to the prison industrial complex. They were awarding scholarship money to graduating seniors, even though few had ever finished high school. They were praying for the sick and visiting the shut-ins; filling in the gaps of a racially-biased health care system. They were a balm for the lonely and the unloved. Weighed down, as I was, by every news and media report insisting that black women were unwanted and undesirable, it was this tiny church that reminded me of the beauty of all whom God has created.

True worship distills the power of death and restores life. Healing and joy and catharsis and fellowship and music and laughter and singing are all life-giving. On Sunday mornings, in nameless and faceless places across this country, there are moments of true worship - where spirit and truth restore the breath of life to those who far too often live on the edges of death.

© Yolanda Pierce

Measuring Success

2010-06-08T11:28:00.021-04:00

An educational institution is frequently required to evaluate itself. As much as we grumble and complain, faculty and staff must engage in assessment of our work: how do we know that we've met the goals we've set forth for our classes? How do we know that students are actually learning what we claim we are teaching? Every institution and corporation, secular and sacred, deals with the question of how to measure success. And it is a question that many of us take personally: how do I know if I am a successful at what I do and who I am?

My thoughts are prompted by two different occasions: my alma mater's yearly boast of a record number of applicants for admission. Success, in part, seems to be measured by how few students can be admitted into a college that receives over 30,000 applications for an incoming class of only 1,300. These numbers supposedly tell us something about the "success" of a particular college as a low yield-rate is a desirable statistical outcome for a "successful" college. This idea that numbers and statistics can tell us something about success is no different in the church world.

Under the leadership of a new pastor, a small church in New Jersey grew from about 300 members to over 3,000. As an audience member, I listened as many people lauded the "success" of this church, which now offers three Sunday morning services in order to minister to all its new members. I watched as many ministers listened attentively for clues as to how to build such growth in their own churches. I watched as the concept of how to run a "successful" ministry became conflated with the idea that sheer numbers indicate success.

In both these cases, numbers tell you very little. While 30,000 people applied to this college, it is probably only the right place for a very few of them. That large number merely indicates popularity and people's perception of prestige. And it is not, at all, connected to whether this is the right school for a young man or woman finishing high school. The same is true for the church: numbers cannot tell you whether it is a place that is truly engaged in the work of ministry. The numbers may reveal something about Sunday morning attendance, but it may say absolutely nothing about whether lives have been transformed, bodies have been healed, or souls have been saved.

I want to be engaged in a conversation of changing our perceptions of success; shifting the fairly stereotypical means that we employ to measure success. A school is not successful because of a large number of applications: its success must be measured, at least in part, by the quality of teaching; a cultivation of the desire to learn; a joy and delight in asking hard questions and searching for meaning. A church is not successful just because it holds three Sunday morning services. Are new believers becoming genuine disciples? Is the pastor an actual shepherd to her flock? Is the church serving as a hospital for the sick or is it only a social club for the healthy? In either of these cases, numbers tell you nothing - but transformed lives bear fruit. How do we begin to measure success by the fruit that one bears?

I struggle with this daily, living in an environment that places so much value on numbers, like salary, and the more tangible markers of success. I struggle not to fall into the trap of measuring my own success as an educator or minister or parent by the numbers, but I often do. More money and material wealth would make me feel more successful; more people reading my books or attending my classes would make me feel more successful; more shouts of "Amen" while I'm preaching would make me feel more successful; more eligible suitors at my door would make me feel more successful. Like everyone else, I want the tangible trappings of success. But as I mature, I am learning that those tangible trappings tell you very little, because these things do not necessarily "bear fruit."

You need good soil, healthy seeds, fresh water, life-giving sunshine, and patience to bear fruit. This cultivation process requires the farmer to plant, but only God can bring the increase. So I'm trying to reorient my definition of success to include being a planter of seeds, where my attention is more focused on the planting, cultivating, and tender loving care of the work that I do - and not on the increase I expect. Can we begin to define real success not in the numerical yield of the fruit produced, but in our simple obedience to the God of the harvest?

© Yolanda Pierce

Ordination

2010-06-04T07:09:00.001-04:00

Several years ago, I sat with a group of sister-friends over pancakes at breakfast. We were all college professors teaching at the same institution and dealing with the craziness of higher education. Our discussion had a philosophical tone as we considered what career path we individually would have taken if we had not chosen to pursue doctoral work, teaching and research in the academy. It was the first time I had spoken aloud what I had known for years: that I had been called into ministry work. I did not have a clue, at that moment, what shape it would take, but speaking the words released the fear I held inside.

Shortly after this conversation, I left that institution and joined the faculty of a seminary. I knew that this was an important piece of my new vocational path: helping to train men and women for service to the Church. The second piece was more personal: becoming licensed and ordained as a minister. While I knew those two callings were compatible, I resisted the final process of becoming ordained for a long time after I was licensed to preach. The truth of the matter was this: I dislike very much of what the institutional church has to offer.

I am increasingly frustrated with the limited imaginations of congregations to do the very things they are supposedly charged to do: there seems to be very little mercy, love, and humility in churches. I have seen few models of effective congregational leadership: too many ambitious ladder-climbing preachers fail to understand the very meaning of "servant." And every time I turn on the news and hear some crackpot hypocrite identify himself as a Christian, I long to distance myself from churches and Christianity, in general. How do I claim the "Christian" label as the essence of my identity, while at the same time people marching with "God Hates" signs, can also claim the very same label?

While my faith crises continues to ebb and flow, I have been assured of two things. First, obedience to my own calling and God's plans for my life trumps the doubts I continue to have about the institutional church. The problems the Church face are great, but God is greater. And secondly, just one singular individual can work to make a difference within the Christian body. And so, facing my ordination service this weekend, I stand ready to affirm my own faith; my vocation as a scholar and a minister; the ability of women to hold any position in the church to which they are called; and a genuine love to serve all of God's children.

The denomination in which I was raised does not ordain women. Despite the millions of women who have given their lives to the work of this institution, the bishops and elders of the Church of God in Christ continue to deny women full agency and authority. Women can preach, but not pastor. Women may speak from the floor, but not the pulpit. I find these beliefs and behaviors completely antithetical to the liberating message of the gospel, where the Holy Spirit pours out grace to all - men and women, sons and daughters. Christendom - Protestant, Catholic, and Orthodox - must make a choice: ordain women or stop baptizing them. Either women are completely free, completely made in the image and likeness of God, completely worthy of God's love and grace - or they are not. If you baptize women into the community of saints, then you must also support those courageous women who dare to answer the call to become "servants" of the Most High.

© Yolanda Pierce

Naming Names

2010-05-24T12:45:00.022-04:00

I was honored to be the baccalaureate speaker for the graduating class at my institution. Taking a sermonic risk, I chose as my text the story of Jesus healing the man with a legion of demons. Clearly, it was not the usual graduation sermon, but one in which I hoped to challenge the listeners to "name names." I believe that an essential component of reconciliation and restoration is to name those internal and external forces that thwart the work of justice. We must certainly be willing to name and confess our own sins, but we must also be willing to name the structures and the forces that sin against us and the world God has created.

My thoughts for this sermon were inspired by the school board of the state of Texas and their decision to rename the "Transatlantic Slave Trade" as the "Atlantic Triangular Trade" in their revisionist history texts. The explicit reference to slavery, the very word "slave" is being completely dropped from the textbooks that are supposed to educate millions of young people about America's history. This decision is not merely bad judgment. Because it obscures the truth and impedes the work of justice, I am naming this action as immoral and unjust.

Using the name "Atlantic Triangular Trade" can underscore the variety of goods that were exchanged between the European continent, the African continent, and the New World. This term can certainly refer to the exchange of precious metals, cloth, guns, ammunition, and spices which fueled exploration, development, and colonization. But to remove the presence of enslaved people, human beings, who were bought, traded, sold, and stolen, is to deny that the rape and exploitation of the African continent created the bedrock of the very wealth that this country continues to enjoy.

The Middle Passage, that horrific voyage endured by African men and women who were packed onto cargo ships and subject to rape, torture, and abuse is the means by which millions of this nation's citizens can trace their lineage. I am a descendant of an involuntary immigrant, those whose forced labor force built this nation; including my alma mater, my current place of employment, and the very city in which I live. To remove the horror that is chattel slavery from the transatlantic trade is to attempt to whitewash the historical record. The shipping companies and the insurance companies and the trading companies that built the railroad, funded our libraries, and erected many of our institutions of higher learning, traded in human flesh. There is no transatlantic trade without the living, breathing, human subjects who made it possible. We cannot strip from our historical record the very word that reminds of this history, which is our shared history - however horrible.

I often begin my class on African American religious history with a list of names. The names I quote are not the great men and women of the Christian faith. The names I list are not the wonderful churches and institutions that have contributed to this legacy of faith. I begin my class with a list of the slave ships used to transport African people from the shores of one continent to the other. I read the names of these ships, sometimes with the names of the ship captains, and most often in concert with the company that sponsored the voyage. I want my students to know of a particular ship named in honor of Jesus Christ, with the name of a captain who was a gospel minister, which was funded by a named Christian denomination - that set forth with the explicit purpose to enslave other human beings. I must name these names, because there are millions of African names lost to the historical record whose bones are in the watery grave of the Atlantic ocean.

By making the decision to rename this foundational era in human history, the state of Texas disrespects the descendants of the slave trade, silences the victims of Middle Passage, and commits a lie of omission and commission. There is no mercy and justice in a lie; there is no truth and reconciliation if names cannot be named. My grandmother's favorite expression was "tell the truth and shame the devil." Until Texas is ready to tell the truth of the transatlantic slave trade, its immoral act should continue to shame the entire nation.

© Yolanda Pierce

Whole Families

2010-05-17T12:46:00.046-04:00

There have only been two occasions when I have seriously considered walking out of a church as an act of protest. That's a pretty nice track record for someone who has spent all of her life, several times a week, in a church! One of these incidents occurred about ten years ago and the other, just a few weeks ago. Now, I will leave in a heartbeat if the service has gone on for far too long: if the Holy Spirit hasn't shown up in the first 2 hours, it's not going to happen. I spent too much of my childhood in services that went for five or six hours, so one of the rewards of being a "woman grown" is that I don't ever have to stay in church for that long. But this time, I wanted to leave because the message, while short, offered false news instead of good news.

In his sermon, the preacher decried "broken families" as the reason for the "downfall" of all of today's society. He stated that godlessness and sexual immorality is directly correlated with the fact that "broken families" are tolerated in our world today, unlike in the past. I could barely keep still as I listened to his words. First, there was no golden era of perfection in America's past to which many of us long to return. Despite his emphasis on an idyllic time when people "knew God was God," and the nuclear family was "not under attack," my work as a historian sees this mythic past as a fallacy. And I much prefer a "fallen" society if it takes place in an era in which I can vote, attend the institution of my choice, and have government protection from racist violence. The preacher's longing for a time when people "knew God was God" has often neatly coincided with times in which people thought African Americans were subhuman, women were inferior, and Catholics were heretics.

However, it was his comments about family life that most profoundly disturbed me. Several times, he indicated that any family that did not consist of a father, mother, and child(ren) was somehow "broken," and in need of repair and repentance. He continued: unless a family followed this particular mode, it was "out of God's order" and responsible for the sin that was rampant in our world. Apparently "sin" is a relatively new invention propagated exclusively by single mothers and gay parents. I wanted to take apart his comments with a scholarly smackdown: the "nuclear" family to which he referred is a relatively new phenomenon. The "village" or extended family, consisting of both blood relatives and community members is still the norm in much of the world, and not the solitary, heterosexual parental units raising their biological offspring that he put on a pedestal.

I wanted, most of all, to challenge his definition of brokenness, not because I don't believe that families can be broken, but because every type of family must deal with brokenness and must search for restoration. The brokenness of sexual or emotional abuse; the brokenness of harsh criticism and even harsher punishment; the brokenness of parental indifference or childhood defiance comes to gay families and straight, single parents and couples, the poor and rich, adoptive families or biological. The devastation of a daughter's drug use, the financial crisis of a recession, or an unexpected death can break any family. All families are broken in some way because all families consist of flawed human beings in need of healing. All families find restoration and healing when they receive support, encouragement, and assistance.

This minister insisted that he could tell what broken families look like just by a brief glance at their structure. As I sat there, I refuted that point in my mind as I thought about all the happy and healthy families I knew, some of whom did not fit his narrow definition. Perhaps a better sermon, a more loving sermon, could have considered this question: what do healthy, whole families look like? They look like love...that common trait present in the rich diversity of all different kinds of healthy families, of all shapes in sizes. And if love is absent from a family (or a sermon), whatever the structure or however traditional, there will be brokenness.

© Yolanda Pierce

The Old House of Theological Education

2010-05-10T14:27:00.033-04:00

When you live in an old house, you learn to live with the joys and frustrations of older homes. The hardwood floors, solid construction, original trim and details, and beautiful nooks and crannies of an old home are juxtaposed with the paltry insulation, old pipes, and original wiring. Old houses, those 100 year plus beauties, can be wonderful, but if you are a homeowner, you must be willing to identify the problems that come along with their upkeep. Naming the problem helps you devote time, material, resources, and attention to the issue. You don't have to knock down the whole structure, but sometimes you have to completely rewire so that the structure can stand for another one hundred years.

Theological education has failed to "name the problem" when it comes to training, recruiting, and retaining faculty members of color. Despite demographic shifts in religious communities and despite the increasing enrollment of a much more diverse student body, the faculty at many theological institutions reflects neither the racial or gender diversity of the very Church it claims to serve. The numbers are unsettling, but the continuing silence and refusal to name this issue as a problem is sinful. Institutions of theological education that do not see the utter absence of faculty members of color as a problem, are the same institutions that are not willing to devote time, attention, and resources to changing the landscape.

What perspectives, traditions, and histories are being missed in theological education without a more diverse faculty? How are students being mentored and educated for today's religious climate? Christendom in 2010 is not the same as Christendom in 1810; however, we are still training students for the church that "was," instead of the church that "is" and "is to come." Some do not see this as a problem, insisting that a curriculum that was valid and a faculty that was cutting edge fifty years ago, can still serve theological education. Along with many others, I insist that a rich, full, and purposeful education needs multiple voices, multiple communities, multiple lenses. Our institutions of higher education have failed to provide that diversity at the faculty level. Sadly, some do not even see the necessity of it.

Theological education, that rich tradition of training men and women for scholarly or vocational service in God's name, is an old house. And it can be a beautiful house. It is a structure that has sent some to work in schools and social welfare agencies; others to non-profits and churches; still others to the direct mission of feeding the hungry and clothing the naked; and most all to a life lived in service to God's calling. But like any old house, we must name the problems that threaten the structure - the issues that make a structure seem outdated and antiquated. Chief among these problems is the unwillingness (or worse yet, the ambivalence) to recognize the different theologies, experiences, and methods of a more diverse faculty body. Are we ready and willing to bring in different voices that offer something of value to those we claim we want to reach, those who can help contribute to the longevity and vitality of that structure? Or will we allow our theological institutions to merely be whitewashed sepulchres?

© Yolanda Pierce

A Motherless Chid

2010-05-07T08:08:00.013-04:00

In anticipation of Mother's Day, I have been chatting with and emailing wonderful family members and friends all over the country. This week, I have watched big kids and little kids buy cards, flowers, and candy to celebrate the mothers in their lives. On the surface, what could be more simple than a day set aside to honor and cherish motherhood? Every second Sunday in May, we pause to say "thanks" to mothers. And that is an honor well deserved. And yet, for some of us, Mother's Day is a complicated mixture of joy and happiness, but also grief and loss.

For those of us who have lost mothers or grandmothers much, much too soon, Mother's Day is a time of remembering, but also for grieving. The loss of a mother leaves a hole in your life that time never heals. And so this holiday reminds you that you are a "motherless child" and that you do indeed feel "a long way from home" because of that loss, even as an adult. And for those of us who are motherless daughters, the loss of that special female bond is irreplaceable. There is no greeting card to capture both this powerful sense of loss, but also the profound wellspring of memories.

And there are others who are motherless because of abandonment, forced separation, or general estrangement; people for whom a relationship with a mother is extremely complicated for a wide variety of reasons. Not every mother is a loving mother; not every mother has made good choices for her children. Not every parent and child relationship can be summed up by a Hallmark greeting card or a jewelry commercial. So how do you celebrate an occasion with cards, flowers, and candy when you are working through anger, despair, or grief?

So I wanted to pause for a moment, even in this weekend of celebration, to reflect on loss, 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. I am a motherless daughter and the loss of my mother has shaped me in profound ways. Grief and loss mold us in ways seen and unseen. This loss has left a void in my life that nothing has ever filled. But it has also helped me to recognize parenting as an incredible gift, thus allowing me to cherish every single second I have with my own daughter.

On Mother's Day, I will reflect on the memory of my own mother and also embrace my own identity as a mother. I pray that we will celebrate all the mothers in our lives; biological and adopted mothers; grandmothers and aunties; "play" mothers and godmothers; church mothers and neighborhood mothers. 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.

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.

© Yolanda Pierce
(originally published at The Kitchen Table)

Walking Wounded

2010-04-29T06:12:00.021-04:00

I have a very old scar on my finger that is still visible if you know where to look. It was the kind of injury that should have landed me in the emergency room for stitches. But it is a wound of childhood poverty, where everything short of death was handled in the family bathroom with bandaids, home remedies, and various ointments. While the scar has faded significantly over time, I know exactly where to look to see the contours of the knife that sliced into my finger. The scar is folded into the wrinkles of the skin and almost invisible to everyone but me, but I can still trace its outline. I always think this is an appropriate metaphor for my life: daily living with scars and wounds that no one else can see.

External appearances tell us nothing about what is going on deep within a person's soul. At times, I am still struck by the irony of this fact. While sitting outside on a bench during a lovely spring day in Kentucky, a conversation with a student turned to depression and thoughts of suicide. The day itself could not have been lovelier, with blooming cherry blossoms as our backdrop. The student could not have been more beautiful, barely out of her teens, with supermodel looks. And yet, she was the walking wounded. Her internal scars and bruises ran deep. No homemade remedies could fix the brokenness of her life. She needed an emergency room; our conversation was just the triage.

I wish that we treated each other with more care as we go about our daily lives. It's simply impossible to know, based on any external factor, the internal scars someone carries. What if we, the walking wounded, had a sign above our heads that read "Fragile, Handle With Care?" I think we would discover that we are not so alone. Maybe that sign would halt a careless word on someone's lip.

I mentioned that my scar is almost invisible, as it has worn away with time. But when I tell the story of that childhood injury, I can choose to allow someone into my space. It is only in a posture of intimacy and vulnerability, that someone can really see the jagged reflection of my scar. By putting my hand into someone else's hand, held close to eyes that want to see, my scar is revealed. There is risk in revealing our scars and our wounds, both those that have faded with the passage of time, and those that are still open and raw. But maybe there is also healing.

© Yolanda Pierce

Under Assault

2010-04-23T09:22:00.021-04:00

Two unrelated events recently solidified my argument that misogyny, sexism, and patriarchy are more alive than ever, and that women, and most especially women of color, are under assault in this country and the world. Various news outlets reported on the Iranian cleric who insists that women "who do not dress modestly" are responsible for earthquakes. Apparently, their "loose" morals are shaking the world's tectonic plates and we are all doomed for disaster until women cover themselves and learn how to behave properly.

On an unrelated note (or not), a tenured professor at California State University Northridge, allegedly runs a sex tourism website advising American men on how to find and negotiate with prostitutes in Thailand. Because he does not run his website on university servers, he is free, as a tenured professor with full academic freedom, to dispense advice on the internet, complete with names, places, and pictures of the sex trade in Asia. Apparently a professor who writes about the "difficulty" of negotiating prices for sex while a “half or sometimes fully naked teenage girl” is gyrating on your lap, is a man who can be trusted to not create a hostile environment for the young women in his classes.

I am so angry, both about these two particular incidents, but also by the myriad of ways in which women's dignity and humanity are constantly under assault. In both these cases, women are the primeval Eve, who entice men with their sexual wiles and must therefore be covered and silenced, or exploited and discarded. In either case, women are objects, stripped of their full agency. For the sex trader, women are commodities whose worth fluctuates with the economic market. For the fundamentalist, a woman's value still lies between her legs as family honor is connected with either virginity or the birth of "legitimate" heirs. In either of these cases, women are forever "whores" or forever "virgin" or "madonna." None of those subject positions locate a woman's full expression of dignity, humanity, and value with her mind, heart, and soul. Women are all vagina, all the time.

While these cases are the extreme, versions of this are played out in American society on a daily basis and in every setting. Sexism is an insidious disease that cuts to the quick in the corporate world, academia, and religious institutions - to name just a few locations. A woman can finance the work of the church through her tithes and offerings, but she cannot lead a congregation. A woman can labor just as hard, if not harder, than her male co-workers, but still earn 75cents to his dollar. Women hold up half the sky, but deal with a disproportionate load of the world's hate and anger directed towards them. What ties these two disparate figures together, an Iranian cleric and an American university professor, is a hatred of women that underlies their claims of "love" and "affection" for the female sex. You do not objectify, de-humanize, and commodify those whom you love.

© Yolanda Pierce

Bodies

2010-04-20T10:16:00.014-04:00

Why are we so afraid of the body in worship? What is it about God-given bodies, in celebration or mourning, that makes us so uncomfortable? Why has worship become only a cerebral experience, separate and distinct from the body? And what has this separation cost us, spiritually?

As part of my vocation, I spend a great deal of time in worship spaces - those of my own tradition and those quite different from my own. I love to see the sharp differences and the muted similarities across religions, people groups, and worship practices. When you enter a synagogue or a church that is well-designed, you can sense the presence of God even in the shape of the building. Some houses of worship have an intimacy, regardless of size, that pulls you into fellowship. Some places are cold and sterile. You can physically sense the difference before the first word is spoken or the first note is sung.

My body reacts to the history and use of worship spaces. There is something particularly contemplative when you are in a cathedral that is several hundred years old, as you sit in pews that may have held generations of worshipers. New spaces can be designed to promote religion as a performative experience - where you are the audience and the liturgists are the actors. But some newer spaces, carefully and simply created, invite you to enter into communion with the Divine.

And yet, no matter how welcoming or distant the space, I continue to feel that we want to foster a divide between the "mind at worship" and the "body at worship." We sit in worship the way we sit in classrooms: attention riveted to the front; bodies turned away from each other; knees together and hands in our lap. Yes, we may pass the peace to one another; we may even shake hands and give gentle hugs. But even in the most charismatic of churches, where people may clap their hands or stomp their feet, the body seems incidental to the actual spiritual message.

When was the last time you heard a sermon about the body? When was the last time you heard a speaker engage issues of sensuality and sexuality, connected to spirituality? When was the last time you heard a sermon about the flesh - not to be mortified or crucified, but celebrated? The physical body may be present in church, but by the absence of the body as a topic for spiritual insight, the body is silenced.

We are not amorphous beings, floating above the material world. We are encased in flesh that we struggle to love and care for; bodies that we cherish and bodies that we abuse. The needs, demands, and desires of our bodies are genuine and they are no less worthy of attention than the needs, demands, and desires of our souls. We miss out on a rich store of spiritual knowledge when we don't engage the fleshly substance of our bodies. Can we truly understand what it means to be wonderfully and fearfully made if we are afraid to talk about the very substance of that creation?

© Yolanda Pierce

Lists

2010-04-12T08:03:00.022-04:00

I hosted an afternoon reception at my house on a Tuesday afternoon, which was scheduled for barely thirty minutes after I was done teaching for the day. I am a list-maker and a compulsive organizer, so I wanted every detail to be in place before I left home on Tuesday morning. Food prepared and refrigerated, table set and candles ready, flowers arranged and hardwood floors gleaming...all I had to do when I arrived home was turn on the oven, warm up the food, and wait for the guests. Classes done for the day, I prepared to go home as I mentally reviewed my list, and noticed a problem. 25 people due to arrive at my house for appetizers and I never purchased the appetizer plates I had seen the previous weekend. The clock was ticking...

It occurred to me to simply go home and make do with what I had in the cabinets; as someone who entertains frequently, I imagined that I had enough assorted plates to make it work. But my anger at myself fueled my crazy decision to get in the car, drive to the store, purchase some plates, and be home and prepared to receive guests - all within 30 minutes. And so I did. And it all worked out for the best. Everyone enjoyed themselves and I felt like a proper hostess with the proper accessories. Except...

During the drive to the store and on the way home, I kept beating myself up about this mistake, berating myself for missing something so clearly written on the list. During the reception, I never really enjoyed my guests, still fuming from my own error and how stressed and rushed I felt. After everyone left, I once again looked at my list, wondering if I could discover the source of this failure, as if the list itself had somehow betrayed me. Appetizer plates were clearly listed as item eleven. I went to the trash can to throw the list out and noticed words on the back in my daughter's handwriting. Knowing how religious I am about following my lists, she had created her own list of requests for me. Her first item was a puppy and her second item was a new Wii game. Her third and fourth items were "have fun" and "don't worry."

I wish I had seen her list before I jumped into my car on that Tuesday afternoon. It would have been a powerful reminder to me that we are meant to enjoy life and to take even its crazy moments in stride. The idea of all of my crazy list-making is to reduce stress by having a plan, but if I am so enslaved to the items on the list, I can easily forget the joy of the event I am planning. We cannot be so bound to the law, that we forget the spirit of the law. I won't stop making lists; life is too hectic not to have some plan of action before me. But I am learning, gradually, to accept when life veers "off list," as it so often does. And I continue to allow my daughter to doodle all over my precious lists. I need these gentle reminders of who and what is truly important.

© Yolanda Pierce

Silent Saturday

2010-04-07T12:49:00.027-04:00

I must confess that for at least the past decade, I have refused to go to church on Easter Sunday. I decided to go this past Easter and now I clearly remember why I stopped in the first place. I go to church all the time, sometimes several days a week; I simply do not need a holiday or other reason to be in the house of God. So on Easter, when crowds of people who don't normally come to church decide to attend, I happily relinquish my spot in the pew and my parking place in the lot. Anyone can get to church on Easter Sunday; try church on a Wednesday night in February!

There is also a part of me that objects to the commercialization of Easter, even more so than the same process at Christmas. While nothing is more adorable than freshly-scrubbed children in their Easter best, Easter can easily become a holiday that essentially equals shopping for new clothes. Not even a generation ago, those new clothes were bought in anticipation of church on Sunday morning: little white gloves, matching straw hats, and patent leather shoes. Now, our local paper reports that new athletic shoes are Easter's "most popular purchase."

There are also spiritual reasons that also keep me out of church on Easter morning. The minister has a difficult preaching job on this Holy Sunday. She must speak to the needs of those who only hear a sermon once a year, and yet, she must somehow have words for those who need something more solid. It is a rare preacher that can hold this tension: offering the gospel to those who have never heard it and edifying it for those who hear it all the time. The tendency is to jump too quickly to the "hoop" of the service, creating a kind of performativity that can mock the very heart of what Christian faith encompasses.

I think I will once again give up church attendance on Easter Sunday and focus my attention on Holy Saturday. At Good Friday services, the focus is on suffering; on Easter Sunday, it's all about the resurrection. I wish that we took the meaning of Holy Saturday more seriously. It is the silence of a period which straddles death and life; it is the silence of work done and yet unfinished. That silent and holy Saturday is the space between mourning and rejoicing; it is a time in which death has not yet been defeated, nor can victory be proclaimed. Holy Saturday is a time of doubt and unbelief. It is a time of a descent into hell.

I think most of us spend more time in this liminal space that Holy Saturday represents: struggling with doubt, struggling with hell on earth, and struggling with work insistent and yet unfinished. There is a ritual in services which do pay attention to this day. It involves blowing out candles, extinguishing all the lights of the sanctuary, and then waiting in silence, but with great expectation, for the coming dawn. It is a powerful worship experience. Perhaps this is all that faith is: an assurance that even when things are at their dimmest, light will surely come and illuminate the darkness.

© Yolanda Pierce

Risen!

2010-04-04T12:39:00.004-04:00

Seven Stanzas at Easter

by John Updike

Make no mistake: if He rose at all
it was as His body;
if the cells’ dissolution did not reverse, the molecules reknit, the amino acids rekindle,
the Church will fall.

It was not as the flowers,
each soft Spring recurrent;
it was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled eyes of the eleven apostles;
it was His flesh: ours.

The same hinged thumbs and toes,
the same valved heart
that–pierced–died, withered, paused, and then regathered out of enduring Might
new strength to enclose.

Let us not mock God with metaphor,
analogy, sidestepping, transcendence;
making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the faded credulity of earlier ages:
let us walk through the door.

The stone is rolled back, not papier-mache,
not a stone in a story,
but the vast rock of materiality that in the slow grinding of time will eclipse for each of us
the wide light of day.

And if we will have an angel at the tomb,
make it a real angel,
weighty with Max Planck’s quanta, vivid with hair, opaque in the dawn light, robed in real linen
spun on a definite loom.

Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
for our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are embarrassed by the miracle,
and crushed by remonstrance.

Lenten Reflections - Seven Last Words (VII)

2010-04-02T12:38:00.031-04:00

Father, into Your hands, I commit my spirit...

This is the last of the seven phrases uttered by Jesus at Calvary. And with these final words, Jesus breathed his last breath; a prayer on his lips until the very end.

Father, into Your hands, I commit my spirit...is a prayer of intimacy. Jesus calls on the Creator, as a child calls on her parents. A mother can hear her child's cry in the middle of chaos and noise. It is a piercing sound that tugs at the very fabric of her being. Jesus calls on the Father and this cry tears the veil that separated us from the Holy of Holies.

Father, into Your hands, I commit my spirit...is a prayer of trust. Jesus yields himself to hands that are capable, hands that will stretch forth and lift you up when you are weak. Jesus trusts that the Giver of Life will also be the Restorer of Life. In the darkest hour of his need, Jesus calls on the One who neither sleeps nor slumbers.

Father, into Your hands, I commit my spirit...is a prayer of commitment. The work of the Cross is given over entirely to God. Jesus reminds the believer of the most important part of ourselves, that which can never be destroyed: the spirit. And so, in mind, body, spirit, Jesus willingly and generously surrenders all.

On this Good Friday, I choose to sit with the fact of death. Before I so quickly rush to the "risen" moment that will end this Lenten season on Sunday, I must reflect on the lessons of this final word. I pray for those who have never experienced the intimacy of a parent's love...and for those who so deeply miss that intimacy. I pray for those who have been betrayed by hands they trusted...and for those who are courageous enough to trust again. I pray for those who have committed their minds, bodies, and spirits to that which they believe. And I pray for those still longing for something or someone in whom they can place their hope.

© Yolanda Pierce

Lenten Reflections - Seven Last Words (VI)

2010-04-01T13:37:00.017-04:00

It is finished...

The sixth word of the seven last words of Jesus at Calvary is a note of finality; it is the declaration of a mission actually accomplished. Born into the lowliest of circumstances, Jesus led a theological and political revolution that changed the world. He tore down divisions between the king and the pauper; he spoke restoration to women and outcasts; he staked a claim for the "least of these" and the lost; he fed and healed the multitudes; and he triumphantly established a new spiritual lineage in which all who believed could have access to divine grace, salvation, and justice. The plan for redemption, through the work of Jesus is finished. Calvary is the victorious shout of God's plan, perfectly executed and embodied in the life and death of Jesus. In the original Greek, "it is finished" translates to "paid in full," the words rendered on a bill of sale or contract. Our debt has been paid.

"It is finished" does not mean, however, "I am done." This ending is actually a beginning for all believers. We are called to continue the ministry of Jesus; we are called to live the gospel - not just preach its words. Each of us, uniquely and wonderfully made, have been called to make a contribution to our world. Each of us is called to continue the radical and revolutionary work Jesus embraced: the work of justice and mercy. Calvary is finished, but the work that is the legacy of Calvary is not yet done.

© Yolanda Pierce

Lenten Reflections - Seven Last Words (V)

2010-03-31T12:37:00.036-04:00

I thirst...

"Seven Last Words," in the African American religious context, is a collective experience. Seven preachers are each assigned a brief (or not!) interval in which to engage the final expressions of Jesus on the Cross. The assignment of the fifth word, "I thirst," is often difficult; some believe it is tough to give a theological reading of this short statement. I often volunteer to be the speaker of the fifth word because I believe it so concisely summarizes the human condition.

I thirst...Thirst is a biological need, insistent in its demand. While the body can exist for many days without food, death by dehydration is possible in a very short period of time. We must drink to replenish the physical body. And while there are many things to drink, it is life-giving water which so deeply satisfies our thirst. To thirst is also a spiritual condition; it is a longing for and a yearning after. We can quench our spiritual thirst with many things, sacred or profane, but it is only the life-giving love of our Creator that can so deeply satisfy the thirsty places in our souls. Jesus is our Living Water and our Daily Bread...

To provide for someone in need, to bring water to the thirsty, food to the hungry, and companionship to the lonely, is to honor the work of the Cross.

© Yolanda Pierce

Lenten Reflections - Seven Last Words (IV)

2010-03-30T14:22:00.000-04:00

My God, My God, why have you forsaken me...

How does God forsake God? This fourth phrase of Calvary points us to the mystery of the Cross: the moment in which the One who knew no sin, becomes sin on our behalf. And sin is simply this: distance and separation from God. In choosing to bear the weight of the world's sins on the Cross, Jesus creates distance between himself and the perfect righteousness of a holy God. That moment of being forsaken, that moment of questioning, is essential for Christian faith, because it is this moment in which the Holy One bears our griefs, carries our sorrows, and is wounded for our transgressions.

In this instance of full humanity, Jesus is speaking from a position of anguish and despair. It is a cry of lament and a cry of sorrow. It is this moment that so powerfully models a real world faith. We are allowed to ask those questions that burn within us: God, where were you in the earthquake? God, where are you in my grief? God, will you be there in the operating room? We are allowed to declare the fullness of our emotions: we have been abandoned; we have been forsaken; we have been forgotten. And the pain is unbearable at times.

The fourth word reminds us to ask the tough questions. The fourth word reminds us that there are risks in asking the tough questions. "If I give bread to the poor, they call me a saint. If I ask why the poor have no bread, they call me a communist." Are we courageous enough to interrogate the seemingly absent God, in the midst of human suffering? And are we willing to listen to the answer, even if the answer is an indictment not of Divinity, but of our flawed humanity.

© Yolanda Pierce

Lenten Reflections - Seven Last Words (III)

2010-03-29T11:33:00.023-04:00

Woman, behold your son...
Disciple, behold your mother...

In this third phrase from Calvary, Jesus relinquishes his filial duty to his mother. As the eldest son, her continued well-being was his responsibility. Into the hands of one of his disciples, Jesus commits the care of the one he loved. Not even the approach of death could diminish the love and respect he had for the one who had ushered him into the world.

But this third word does something more. It establishes a kinship bond between Mary, Mother of Jesus, and the disciple to whom Jesus entrusted her care. It was not, as patriarchal culture would have demanded, the transfer of a woman from one male authority to another male authority. This move was a radical alteration of familial relationships. No longer would the ties of flesh and blood be the only determinants for participation in a divine lineage. Mother and brother, sister and father, are no longer simply terms of biological destiny, but of right relationship.

What would health care reform look like if we were designing it for our own mothers? How would we change the criminal justice system if our own biological brothers were continually caught up within its grasp? That prisoner, freshly released from jail with no job skills, the victim of prison rape, functionally illiterate, with no place to go and no moral standing in the community - behold, your son! That woman, sleeping under the protection of the restaurant awning, with all her earthly belongings stuffed into a shopping bag, feet swollen from untreated diabetes, heart broken from abuse and neglect, hair matted and spirit cast down - behold, your mother!

© Yolanda Pierce

Lenten Reflections - Seven Last Words (II)

2010-03-28T12:11:00.014-04:00

This day, you will be with me in Paradise...

The promise of Jesus to the thief on the cross is the second of the seven last phrases uttered on Calvary. It is a word of love and compassion, the promise of immediate forgiveness and eternal life available to any who would believe. This word is the very heart of grace and love, the willingness to offer comfort to those in need, even as you are literally being crucified.

While it is easy to focus our thoughts on "paradise," and the eschatological promise of a perfect eternity, we fail to see ourselves as the thief, the criminal, and the trespasser. Our sins are legion and our crimes innumerable. We sin daily in thought, word, and deed and yet grace is available to us. The unmerited favor of forgiveness and love daily extended to us is because of the work of the Cross.

Wrongfully accused and executed by the state, Jesus offered forgiveness to the actual criminal at his side who both acknowledged and repented of his sins. Will we likewise extend compassion to all those in our own criminal justice system, recognizing that even among them, the innocent and repentant can dwell?

© Yolanda Pierce

Lenten Reflections - Seven Last Words (I)

2010-03-27T18:36:00.013-04:00

Father, forgive them, they know not what they do....

The first word of the final seven phrases Jesus utters at Calvary is appropriately a message of forgiveness. Even while his accusers are nailing his hands to the cross and piercing his side with the spear, Jesus offers forgiveness for all who would receive it. This message of forgiveness and compassion, in the midst of such pain and suffering, is a hard word. How do you forgive the one whose foot, even right now, is pressed against your neck? It is only through divine grace that forgiveness of our enemies becomes possible. We are commanded to love one another, even those that spitefully use us.

But the second part of this first phrase acknowledges the condition of ignorance under which we all labor. We do not know what we do. We may not know that our moralizing words have left deep wounds; we may not know that our social privilege causes someone else's disenfranchisement; we may not know that our wasted food and water means hunger for a child halfway across the globe.

As we enter Holy Week and meditate each day on the seven final phrases uttered by Jesus, may we fight against ignorance - the ignorance that leads us to crucify the innocent and execute the blameless.

© Yolanda Pierce

Lenten Reflections - Day 29

2010-03-22T10:35:00.015-04:00

Many Christian worship services include a time for public confession: prayers of corporate and personal repentance. This is often followed by an assurance of pardon: the reminder of God's forgiveness for our sins and our need for God's grace. I think both these elements in worship are exactly right; confession and forgiveness are essential in a right relationship with God and with each other. But I wish the worship service would not move quite so quickly from the confessional mode to the assurance of pardon.

We have sinned and we have been sinned against. These words cannot be empty gestures if the assurance of pardon is to have true meaning. How have we sinned, in thought, word, and deed? Before there is reconciliation, there must be truth. Have we sinned against our neighbors with the greed which lurks in our heart, our unwillingness to yield even a penny of our salaries so that others may have health care? Have we sinned against others with an attitude of selfishness, believing that since we have pulled ourselves up by the bootstraps, everyone else can do the same?

We have sinned and we have been sinned against. In what structural and systematic ways have we been sinned against? In what ways, personal and intimate, have we been wounded by the harsh words and thoughtless actions of others? Can we name those persons and parties that have been sinned against? Can we name the perpetrators of those sins, even if our name is among the guilty party? Are we willing to label certain policies as evil and sinful, when they systematically deny groups a voice and human agency? Are we willing to offer reparations to those who have been sinned against?

The Lenten season is a time for confession and repentance. The celebratory joy of the assurance of pardon, embodied by the Easter season, is almost already upon us. But let us sit with the corporate and private confession of sin a little while longer. Repentance finds true meaning in a contrite heart.

© Yolanda Pierce

Lenten Reflections - Day 23

2010-03-15T17:51:00.020-04:00

My arms were filled with baked goodies as I attempted to close the car door. The woman parked next to me got out her car, relieved me of some of my bags, and helped me to the doors of the elementary school. She asked if I was bringing a snack for one of the classes; I mentioned that these were treats for the bake sale. She inquired if I was helping to raise money for the school's overnight field-trip. I replied that the class was holding a bake sale as part of their continuing efforts to help Haiti. She wanted to know if something new had happened in Haiti, because she thought we had already "done the Haiti thing" last month.

The national spotlight is gone; the media coverage has moved onto the latest political scandal. Other international and national disasters have grabbed our attention. We gave during the telethon or by text message in the days following the earthquake. But have we already forgotten the human face of Haiti on January 12, 2010? Have we already forgotten the stories of a quarter-million dead and millions more displaced?

Please pray for those that are still without shelter. Please pray for those who are experiencing hunger and thirst. Please pray for the widow and the orphan. Please pray for the sole surviving member of a family line. Please pray for children who long for school and jump ropes and crayons. Please pray for fathers mourning their sons. Please pray for the women who travail in bringing forth new life. Please pray for the artist, and the dancer, and the poet. Please remember.

© Yolanda Pierce

Lenten Reflections - Day 22

2010-03-13T00:03:00.001-05:00

As a long-time advocate of public education, I have been following the news of textbook debates in Texas with a great deal of dismay. News of proposed national core standard s for public education have also left me with a great deal of anxiety about the future of public education. I found myself thinking, despite the excellent public schools in my own area, that I can always pull my daughter out of public school if things decline. But if I leave, who will stay?

Troubled by the increasing materialism, conservative politics, and patriarchal vision of religious communities, I have long contemplated leaving the institutional church. As I often remind myself, membership in a congregation is certainly not a requirement of salvation. I could continue to be a faithful Christian witness and a servant to the nations, even if I am no longer a regular member of a local parish. But if I leave, who will stay?

Wearied by the gender and racial politics of higher education, I have contemplated leaving the academy and using my talents elsewhere. Frustrated by the slow pace of progress and the inability to bring about real structural change, I wonder if I would be better off working for a different organization, one without 200 years of history and traditions that do not reflect my experience nor my culture. But I leave, who will stay?

Some are called to be outside of institutions, raising their prophetic voices as an outside critique. And some are called to remain inside those institutions, working from within its walls. But this, too, is the work of social justice: weighing the larger social costs of personal decisions. This is the work of a Lenten journey and personal reflection, asking the question: "if you leave, taking with you all your education, resources, talents, and gifts, who will stay?"

© Yolanda Pierce

Lenten Reflections - Day 20

2010-03-11T10:51:00.008-05:00

At seminary, we often discuss the role of the "scapegoat" in scriptural texts. In classical Christian atonement theology, the sacrificial object, animal, or person symbolically takes on an entire community's burdens and sins. The Lenten season points us to the Lamb who was slain for the remission of our sins, a remembrance of the One who became sin for us so that we could be called righteous.

My heart has been heavy during this Lenten season about the many ways that we force particular groups of people to be our communal scapegoats. We have targeted marginalized groups as the collective fall guy for everything that ails us as a nation. This rhetoric is all around: "if only those lazy people would work instead of collecting welfare, our economy wouldn't be where it is." Or, "if those illegals would go back to where they came from, there would be more jobs for real Americans." How about, "those single mothers are the reason children today are on drugs and are so violent." Or perhaps you've heard, "how our country went downhill when those godless heathens took prayer out of school."

It is much easier to choose a scapegoat for the problems that plague us instead of doing a critical self and national examination of our personal and collective responsibility. It is much easier to blame single parents on welfare for raising our taxes than it is to blame corporate greed for their role in the same. The unemployed, the working poor, single mothers, the disabled, the immigrant - all become national scapegoats in our cultural imagination. We blame them, and their supposed moral failings, for everything including the economic crisis, terrorism, and natural disasters. The scapegoat becomes the emblem for all that plagues us - so these individuals stop being fully human and just become objects for our disgust.

My reflections for today: have I used more of a non-renewable resource than I have needed? Have I stripped something from the earth and failed to restore it? Have I thrown away more food at the end of the week than most families subsist on for that same period? Have I refused to support increased revenue for afterschool programs and child care facilities? Have I said "not in my backyard" to transitional housing or improved public transportation? Have I thought about my own culpability or greed before I rush to place blame squarely on some other person's feet?

© Yolanda Pierce

Lenten Reflections - Day 17

2010-03-08T12:22:00.010-05:00

While at the athletic field yesterday, I witnessed a little girl take a hard fall while running laps around the track. Before the coaches even knew what happened, a group of half a dozen mothers, myself included, rushed over to her, offering hugs and warm assurances, along with strong arms and legs to help her stand. As experienced sports moms, we produced enough medical supplies from our handbags for a full-scale surgery! Each of us saw our own daughters in that little girl and we reacted from a deep well of maternal instincts. When my daughter is in pain, it grieves my heart. Her skinned knees or her bruised feelings are wounds to my own body and soul. In a moment of reflection after this fall, I wondered what would happen if I treated everyone with this same empathy and sensitivity.

One of my favorite books to teach is Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler. The main character of this science fiction novel is hyper-empathetic: she bleeds when others bleed and she experiences pain when others experience pain. I have often encouraged my students to think about her hyper-empathy and acute sensitivity as a "blessing" and not a curse. How would we treat each other if we experienced one another's most painful moments? Would we be able to deny health care to anyone if we suffered a broken leg or aggressive cancer along with them?

It is easy to become desensitized to pain or violence or suffering. Ubiquitous television appeals for hungry children or abused animals leave us empty. Choreographed acts of violence in movies leave us numb to real domestic violence and war. We may be sympathetic to poverty and homelessness, but we often lack the empathy to do something about it. I am praying for more empathy this Lenten season, a desire to rush to the aid of all who have fallen and may need a little help to stand.

© Yolanda Pierce

Lenten Reflections - Day 15

2010-03-05T11:36:00.006-05:00

I have a brilliant colleague that I greatly admire. While he is a renowned academic in his field, my respect for him stems from his consistent presence in the fight for social justice. If there is a movement, he is in the middle. If there is a protest, he is on the picket lines. It is his presence, and not just his scholarly expertise, that makes him a voice crying in the wilderness.

My best friend has successfully fought a battle against cancer this year. For the months that she was in treatment, I felt helpless. She had a battalion of doctors, nurses, and therapists at her side, offering medical expertise and care. All I could do for her was to be present; at our weekly breakfasts at the local diner or sitting with her and watching television.

Last week, in the middle of a meltdown, I sat in a coffee shop with a dear friend. As the snow fell outside, I poured out my cares and my worries. She listened without judgment; she did not offer various cliches of comfort. She was simply present for me in that moment. And I am grateful.

We are called to be fully present in the midst of suffering and pain. We are called to be fully present where people are hurting and alone. We are called into the center of the struggle and not to the margins of comfort. When we feel helpless, when our personal problems or the world's problems are too much for us to bear, may we remember that just the simple act of being present for someone else is a gift. Of this gift, we have received and may we freely give.

© Yolanda Pierce

Lenten Reflections - Day 12

2010-03-02T15:54:00.010-05:00

I have been thinking deeply about the question of hunger, about the fundamental injustice of there being enough food to feed the world, and yet the fact that so many go without food. Hunger was a topic of a lecture I delivered in class recently and hunger has been the topic of my extracurricular readings. But while searching the biblical text for inspiration, I was forced to reflect on both the hunger for food as well as spiritual hunger. While everyone would acknowledge that there are millions who are malnourished and undernourished, I wonder what would happen if we dared to count all who are spiritually famished?

Many hunger and thirst after righteousness, but feel denied. Some hunger for a spiritual touch, but feel empty. Others hunger for God's presence, but feel abandoned. Too many are in an emotional desert, longing for an spiritual oasis. This hunger, these longings, must be addressed by our churches and institutions. Empty stomachs cannot hear the words of the gospel; but empty hearts cannot do the work of justice. Revelation 7:16 promises a world where "they shall hunger no more, neither shall they thirst any more." While I embrace this eschatological hope, I also pray that in this present world, we take seriously the issues of both physical hunger and spiritual hunger. O God, how may I be fed and how may I help to feed the hungry?

© Yolanda Pierce

Second Sunday of Lent - Remembrance

2010-02-28T20:13:00.016-05:00

Engraved on the communion tables of many Christian churches is the phrase "Do This In Remembrance of Me." I have seen these words in worship all of my life, etched in wood or on linen cloth. I have presided over communion, offering these very words of institution for the Lord's Supper. We gather, sometimes monthly and sometimes weekly, at the communion table to lift up the central precept of our Christian faith: the broken body and the shed blood for the remission of our sins.

What would happen if we were to live our whole lives with that phrase in mind? What would it mean to do all things - work and parenting and relationships - in remembrance of Christ? We would find ourselves parenting with a gentle and loving spirit, in remembrance of the One who is Shepherd. We would find ourselves working with integrity and conviction, in remembrance of the One who is the Chief Cornerstone. We would find ourselves feeding the hungry, in remembrance of the One who is the Bread of Life.

May the words engraved on the communion table be also engraved in our hearts. When etched into wood, these words are an empty expression, but when lived and embraced, these words are a guidepost for how to love our neighbors. Whatever we do for the "least of these," we do in remembrance of the One who is our Source.

Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you? The Lord will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these, you did for me.'

Lenten Reflections - Day 9

2010-02-26T10:40:00.028-05:00

We have had several major snowstorms in New Jersey this year. The state has been battered with record snowfalls, exhausting municipal budgets for snow removal. Schools, at all levels, have been closed several times this winter season. Snow-related traffic, accidents, and repairs are taxing individuals and communities. We are all longing for Spring.

This month, as I have grumbled through storm after storm, I have had to remind myself that is February, and what should I expect but snow? A string of snowstorms in February is no more shocking than a heat wave in August. But the weather patterns as a result of global climate change have become our "new normal." The past few winters have yielded little in the way of snow, so we've grown accustomed to winters that aren't truly winter. We've allowed the "new normal" to alter our expectations of how things are supposed to be. Winter, in all her glory, yields snow to allow the earth to rest and heal.

We are operating under a "new normal" in our nation, accepting as normative conditions that would otherwise be shocking: national double-digit unemployment and much higher rates in minority communities; up to half of the nation's children going hungry; families in foreclosure because of medical expenses; and rising rates of homelessness among middle-class and working-class families. Even if we accept that this is the way things are, must we also accept that this is the way things should be?

I have grown accustomed to winters that barely produce a dusting of snow, but I never want to grow accustomed to my neighbor's hunger or homelessness or despair. I pray this Lenten season will stir within our hearts a rebuke of this "new normal."

© Yolanda Pierce

Lenten Reflections - Day 7

2010-02-24T15:41:00.023-05:00

She told me: "I need to get my own act together before I am in a position to help anyone else. Until my own stuff is correct, how can I be a blessing to someone else?" She spoke of brokenness and loneliness and grief. She shared both her emptiness and pain. "This," she said as she pointed to these invisible wounds, "is all that I could bring to the table."

But broken and cracked vessels offer multiple layers of compassion in the work of caring for those in need. Who better to feed the hungry than those who have known seasons of hunger in their spirits? Who better to care for the homeless than those who have walked with loneliness as their companion? Who better to tend to the sick than those whose emotional scars may still be healing?

We work towards justice not because "we" are better and "they" are worse; or not even because "we" are whole and "they" appear to be broken. In ways large and small, spiritual or financial, we are all cracked and flawed. The work of justice is an acknowledgment of shared humanity and dependency. We need each other in order to survive. And there can be mutual healing as we pour out love onto others, even if it is love that flows from broken vessels.

© Yolanda Pierce

Lenten Reflections - Day 5

2010-02-22T07:54:00.016-05:00

However we choose to mark the Lenten season, we depend on our creativity to help sustain us. If we decide to abstain from meat, we explore more vegetarian dishes. If we choose to abandon chocolate and dessert, we creatively imagine new ways of dealing with our sweet tooth. Perhaps you use the Lenten season to develop a new and positive habit. These acts most especially require the work of our imagination. To find time to write daily, to exercise more regularly, or treat others with kindness means being more creative with our time and the reshuffling of some of our priorities.

We need to approach the work of social justice with this same type of creativity. How do we solve the problem of world hunger? The magnitude of the question alone causes some to abandon hope of working toward the goal...world hunger seems too big and our earthly solutions seem too small. How do we provide clean drinking water to the majority of the world whose water supply harbors life-threatening bacteria? The task overwhelms our senses; the mathematical models we use may tell us that it is impossible. While we say, "with God all things are possible," I wonder if we really believe it.

My arguments is that we are called to access our divine imaginations, most especially for the work of social justice. A voyage to the moon was outside the realm of possibility, except for those who dreamed it was possible. The work of bringing water to the thirsty is the work of scientists and environmentalists, but it is also the work of poets and dreamers. Tapping into our imaginations and dreaming of new approaches to old problems may lead to completely novel solutions to persistent inequities. That which seems impossible, like eradicating hunger, becomes possible when our imaginations - along with our time, talent, and money - are actively engaged in the work for justice. Or, as American poet Emily Dickinson so beautifully writes: "the possible's slow fuse is lit by the imagination."

© Yolanda Pierce

First Sunday of Lent - A Whole Tithe

2010-02-21T06:00:00.000-05:00

The concept of a "tithe" or the voluntary donation of a tenth of one's income is central to Christian church. Some people tithe directly to their church, financing the upkeep of the sanctuary, the salary of the pastor, or support for outreach efforts. Others choose to tithe a portion of their income to a charitable organization or a cause they support. Charitable giving, from people of every race, creed, color, and economic status, keeps food banks stocked and suicide hot-lines staffed.

Yet far too often, we hear "tithe" and we think "money." But "tithe" means a percent of our increase, and not just our salaries. The Lenten season reminds us that there is a "whole tithe," a giving of not just our money, but also of our time, energy, and talent. We can write a check to an organization, but working for that organization may yield even more results. We may send checks to ease the devastation in Haiti; we may donate to crisis pregnancy centers. But what would it look like if we worked to build a stable infrastructure before an earthquake hit or if we worked to provide access to birth control and sex education? What if, instead of giving money after the fact, we exercise some forethought about the millions who live in substandard housing or the lack clinics for prenatal care?

Donating money can assuage our guilt; it assures us that we are helping, while keeping our hands clean. But if we commit to tithing our time, energy, and talent - to getting our hands dirty - we would have to confront the face of a problem...and not just the credit card statement of our contribution. It is difficult to demonize the homeless if you are walking the streets with them, talking to them, helping them in their quest for shelter each night. It is difficult to not see the reflection of your own child's face in the children of the poor, if you are reading to them and helping them learn to write their names. By tithing our time, we commit to giving a percentage of our energy and efforts into changing the structure of a problem. This is a whole tithe: donating, along with money, two of our most precious commodities: our time and our talents.

The Lenten season itself is a tithe, as the 40 days of Lent are approximately ten percent of the calendar year. The duration of this season helps us to think about natural increments of tithing: yes, ten percent of our incomes...but maybe ten hours a month to work at the food pantry. Maybe we can spare ten hours a week to serving on the school board. Do we have ten hours a year to give to an organization like Habitat for Humanity? Can the notion of a "whole tithe" help us to love the whole person? Money is absolutely necessary, but love expressed through time spent and talents given, are also food for the hungry.

© Yolanda Pierce

Lenten Reflections - Day 3

2010-02-19T08:15:00.007-05:00

Prophetically, W.E.B Du Bois posed a question 100 years ago, which accurately describes how we deal with issues like poverty: "how does it feel to be a problem?" In our inability to separate out those who experience poverty, with the structural forces of poverty itself, we make poor people "a problem." The problem of poverty may include inequities in education and housing or environmental and judicial racism. The people who are poor are fully human, made in the image and likeness of our Creator, and of equal value to God.

During this Lenten season, may we reflect on how we deny people the full measure of their humanity, when we equate their "condition" with their "being." Poverty, as a socio-economic condition, is a force we must work against. But in that process, we cannot demonize those who are poor. Let us speak "death" to the hunger and hopelessness that accompanies poverty. And let us speak "life" to those who lack the basics that we take for granted.

© Yolanda Pierce

Truth in the Inner Parts - Ash Wednesday

2010-02-17T19:37:00.020-05:00

While I did not grow up in a denomination that marked Ash Wednesday with the imposition of ashes, I now consider this ritual as an important part of my faith. I cherish the visible symbol of repentance as well as the reminder that we are dust, and to dust we will return. Repentance inclines our hearts toward God; helps us to acknowledge the human propensity to sin; and reminds us to give thanks for a God who is gracious to forgive. When we speak of our return to dust, we embrace the fragility of life; a tomorrow that is not promised; and a abiding connection to the source and author of our beginning and ending. It was a joy to serve with other clergy today, as we offered the imposition of the ashes and words of blessings to those who chose to receive them.

However, it was not the ashes on my forehead, but rather a verse from Psalm 51 that stirred something deep within me in worship today: "Surely you desire truth in the inner parts." If I am truthful, my "inner parts" have been burning with anger.

I am angry about Haiti and the callousness of clergy who use this devastation as a bully pulpit for their wrong-headed theology.

I am angry about the denigrating language used to describe the poor, which attempts to ascribe moral significance to their economic plight.

I am angry about a woman whose history of violent acts was shielded by the privilege of her race, paving the way so that she could brutally murder three of her colleagues.

I am angry by the arrogance of students who do not know how to disagree without also disrespecting.

I am angry about the inability of my colleagues to recognize white privilege in their midst, or to acknowledge the ways in which they help to systematically perpetuate it.

I am angry about all the slights and all the indignities and all the racial microaggressions that define life as a black woman in America.

My reader may ask: does this type of anger have a place in the Lenten season? I would answer with an emphatic "yes." For some, the Lenten season is a period in which to give up candy or coffee or Facebook; but these are luxuries and the denial of them are not genuine sacrifices. If the Lenten season is to be a time of deep reflection and repentance, it begins with truth telling, even the revelation of truths that you would otherwise hide in your inner parts.

My Lenten reflections this season will focus on social justice and the power of speaking about those hidden places that wound us. Psalm 51 assures us that in those inner places, we can find wisdom. May we begin this year's Lenten journey to wisdom with true sacrifice: an admission that our inner parts are in need of places to speak, unfettered by the forces that often demand our silence. And this is the promise of Lenten: the joy and healing that awaits at the end of the journey.

© Yolanda Pierce