Tamir's death: Is this the new normal?

My rage has transformed to numbness.  I can’t feel my heartbeat. I’m weak.

What are you supposed to feel after a grand jury decides not to press charges against the police who killed Tamir Rice? What do you say after prosecutors recommend bringing no charges against the two officers who shot the 12-year-old after confusing a toy gun for one with real bullets?

What excuse can be made, this time? How can you argue that officers were simply doing their job? What…?

I’m numb. I’m confused. I’m angry.

I’ve been crying off and on for two days. Who hasn’t? What else, beyond crying, do we have after this? What parent is incapable of feeling remorse? How can a group of people, after watching that video over and over again, decide no wrong can be found?

The ruling came after I submitted this week’s column in the Columbia Missourian.(http://www.columbiamissourian.com/opinion/local_columnists/carl-kenney-time-to-make-your-best-of-list/article_5d5cc56e-ade1-11e5-bbcc-7776a25bd8dd.html) I wrote about my struggles in compiling my list of top stories in 2015.  I wrote about the mass of stories regarding police malfeasance. They seemed to come like the rising of the sun – everyday. 

  

One of my readers responded to my list.

“I have an idea how you can expand the limits of your contribution,” Joseph Lanigan, a consistent pain in my ass, wrote. “You can do a story on the grand jury system in Boone County, and why our Founding Fathers made sure it would be an integral part of the new country they helped to create.”

Is that the opinion floating among those who want to take us back to the days when lynching black folks was both common and legal?

I’m sick of it.

But, we must press these questions.  What is behind this familiar pattern of black people getting killed by police officers, followed by their actions being protected by citizens? What is underneath the rhetoric that fails to embrace the humanity of black bodies? What inspires the outlook willing to protect the actions of police irrespective of evidence proving culpability?

Lanigan’s statement, regarding the role of the grand jury, is frightening for a range of reasons.  His remarks assist in tapping into the convictions of those who serve in law enforcement and those who serve as members of juries.  Lanigan's words help us flush through the manure that authenticates the actions of police officers.

This is why I’m numb.

Could it be that the public attitude related to black bodies has shifted back to the post-reconstruction mentality? Black people deserve to be killed.  Police officers are protected from reprimand when the victim is black.  The role of the grand jury is to punish black people for being black.

My reader is affirming this opinion in a way that challenges us to move beyond these incidents as individual cases.  These deaths are not about the guilt of the victims or the innocence of the police.  Tamir’s death may not be about his age or the fact the gun was a toy. These cases may involve the common sentiment among those chosen to rule on these cases.

Black people deserve to die.

Black people deserve to be punished for being black. The evidence doesn’t matter.  The background of the person is insignificant.  The experience and training of police officers fails to change the conclusion. What is the conclusion? In the minds of some who are called to serve and protect, it is a crime to be black. In the minds of some who serve on grand juries, when police kill a black person, they are simply doing their job.

Is this the point of my reader’s comments? Did the forefathers institute the grand jury to protect police officers when the crime involves a black person? Is the American legal system constructed to protect people for punishing people for being black?

These are questions that force us to consider the complexity of systemic racism as it relates to the enforcement of laws. The suggestion demands a serious analysis that presupposes the mentality of those who see a need to kill black people because they are black.

This may be the logic feeding the protection of gun rights and the anti-Obama movement. Could it be that some fear a black revolution? Is it possible that some police officers are involved in an unspoken war against black people? Should we consider the possibility that some white people are willing to compromise the integrity of the judicial system when the life of a black person is taken?

Is this the purpose of the system – to maintain white dominance at all cost?

I’m numb because the questions.  I’m hoping I’m wrong.  I’m thankful for the countless white people in my life reminding me not all white people feel this way. I’m also aware of the trends. Those trends make it difficult to consider life beyond the Obama years.

Can we expect a nation comparable to post-reconstruction? Will the hate that consumed the South reemerge to take America back to the days when black people were kept in corners of discontent?  Will hate in America rise like Hitler’s Nazi Party?

Absurd you say.

This is what happens when a person is numbed by an onslaught of confusing decisions. 

A black woman living in a white body: Confronting racial identity in the context of black female rage

Rachel A. Dolezai’s interview with Matt Lauer of NBC failed to expose more than we already knew. 

People tuned in to hear more about Dolezai’s deception.  Why does she prefer being black? What was her motivation behind it all?  I mean, how does it feel being a black woman trapped in a white body?

“When did you start deceiving people,” Lauer asked. It was a point Dolezal refused to concede. 

“I do take exception to that, because it’s a little more complex than me identifying as black, or answering a question of, ‘Are you black or white?’” she said.

In her mind she is a black woman. 

Dolezai isn’t the first white person to identify as black.  Teena Marie, called the Ivory Queen of Soul, often spoke of her connection with black people. Numerous white people have been given the coveted black card due to their swag and willingness to fight for causes important to blacks.

Teena Marie had the groove of a black woman. It’s not uncommon to hear a person say, “That white woman was black”.

What makes Dolezai different is her inability to trust the black community.  It’s her lack of trust that has stirred the ire among many blacks.  What makes this story news is not her role as President of the local branch of the NAACP.  That’s not unusual.  The organizations founders included white people.

This story is about the deception.  Black people are angry because she lied.  But there’s more to it than Dolezai’s pretending to be black.

Black people are angry because she got away with it. 

She was able to convince black people she’s black.  That’s hard to accept among those who take great pride in their history and culture. As much as a white person may want to be black, black people take exception when a white person believes they’re black.  It’s one thing to act the part; it’s another believing you’ve done enough to be black. Black people are willing to give that race card, but you have to wait for the community’s endorsement.

She fooled black people.

No she didn’t. Oh, yes she did.

She did it with her hair and black swag.  Note the rage of many black women.  Could it be that Dolezai has crossed a line that troubles black women?

What happens when white women take on the persona of black women?

It’s one thing to pretend to be black. Again, that happens all the time.  It’s understood, and, for the most part, forgiven. Black women can accept being envied to the extent that those of another race attempt to mimic their looks and ways.

They understand the cultural appropriation that shows up among white women.  Historically, white women have attempted to replicate the images of blackness.  From thicker lips, Bo Derek’s cornrows, tanning to butt injections, there is something about the beauty of blackness that white women desire.

You can’t hate a white woman for embracing the beauty and culture of black women.  Their swag is the envy of the world.  There’s no problem with taking a bit to add to one’s personal flava.  Do you.  Have fun with that.  Black women may not like it, but, from what I’m told, they do understand.

Dolezai took it a step to far.  She not only borrowed parts of black identity, she claimed it as her own.  In doing so she fooled black men and women.

She perfected being black and that’s crossing the line.

You can borrow pieces of black identity, but you can’t claim the right to be called black devoid of the permission from those who have carried the burden of blackness. When you do that, you’ve opened the door to getting your ass whipped.

This is a story about racial identity.  Dolezai’s story helps us filter the emotions of those who prefer connection to another race.  Does this help us understand black people who fight to strip themselves from all things labeled black?  Black people understand the history of passing and the benefits that come with siding with those willing to share some of the crumbs of white privilege. We get that. 

This is new.  Although black people have witnessed white people steal parts of black culture and claim it as their own, this is a rare example of a white person able to fool black people into thinking they are black.

Crossing that line is dangerous due to the persisting tension between white and black women.  More than a lie, this story is about feelings black women carry related to white women dating black men.  It is about black women feeling disregarded by white women.

Consider the feelings carried by black woman. Feelings like, does this white woman believe she can out black a black woman and what happens when white woman can fool black men into believing they are black to be considered black?

Dolezai’s deception is affixed to the complicated matter of black female identity. It’s one of the ongoing issues carried over from slavery.  As black women grapple to overcome the discord of dark skin versus light skin, Dolezai obscures potential healing by being a white woman who identifies with being black.

Is there enough room within the convoluted dialogue regarding black female racial identity to introduce a white woman’s issues with racial identity?

I understand and appreciate Dolezai’s struggle with her racial identity. 

There’s a lot of work to be done before black women can have this conversation.

Troubled by the message of death

It’s 12:54 a.m.

I gave the benediction at 11:34 a.m. – more than 12 hours ago.  I’m still haunted by the sermon I delivered today at Bethel Church.  Something was missing.  I feel it deep.  I’m dismayed by what I failed to understand until the stuff tugging at my soul wouldn’t allow me to sleep.

I’m angry about the implications of the text I preached.  I wasn’t willing to face the deep angst that came with reading and studying John’s gospel.  The words of Christ confronted all of my false assumptions and compelled me to consider the works of ministry from the place of death and shame.

“Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit,” reads the Gospel of John in the 12^th Chapter. “Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life. Whoever serves me must follow me, and where I am, there will my servant be also.”

Each word reminded me of an email I received from Dr. J. Alfred Smith, Sr., pastor emeritus at Allen Temple Baptist Church in Oakland, California, in response to my rant regarding the sacrifices I’ve made to remain in ministry.  My missive to Smith came during a night soaked in tears after reflecting on the things missing in my life after moving to Columbia, Missouri over a year ago.

“You now live the cross shaped life,” Smith wrote. “Fight like your life depends on it.”

Suck it up son.  This is what it means to die for Christ.  This is what comes with the work of ministry. I felt each word as if the cross had in fact shaped my life after a series of deaths.

Pain kept me from preaching the text from the gut.  I failed to allow the words to reflect the onus of a person who understands the meaning of carrying that old rugged cross.

I have to face the message I refused to preach today.

What is that message?

Living the cross shaped life hurts.  It’s painful living to die, overcoming with resurrection, only to be killed over and over again.  The work of ministry is a series of deaths and resurrections.  It’s lonely at times, and there are days when you are much too weak to share the anguish that comes with saying yes to the call to serve.

I can’t sleep due to the fear related to telling the truth about how difficult it can be to preach the Good News when so much of it is built on bad news.

I wanted the shout that comes with the message of resurrection.  Yes, I wanted to skip the message of death by going directly to the lessons involving new life on the third day.

I didn’t want to discuss the pain of dying.  Not today. Not after Trayvon’s death. Not after Michael Brown’s witness of remaining on hot pavement for four hours after the bullets ripped his body. Not after Eric Garners struggle to breathe.

I can’t sleep because we, those who preach, often fail to preach from that place “where deep calls unto deep at the noise of your waterfalls “(Psalms 42:7).

I was seduced by the comforts of the good news, while contending with the relevance of all that bad news.  Isn’t this the work of ministry that is often lost within a culture enamored with health and wealth? Has our desire to feel good, and inspiring others to feel the same, hindered our ability to adequately share the message of death?

If so, is this where the message of social justice gets lost among a massive list of feel good memos shared in churches every Sunday in America?

I refused to dig deeper into the message of death.

It’s 1:53 a.m.

Lord, can I sleep now?

Finding words to express rage fueled by hate

Image courtesy of creativeclass.com

This is why we should pray together.

All of us should pause from what we’re doing, find a person from a different culture, faith community or race, and beg God to heal our nation. My atheist friends are welcome to bow in silence while honoring the presence of the people holding hands.

All of us.

Me, you, everyone in your church, mosque, synagogue, temple or humanist meeting group – pause and scream -I’m tired of this shit!

There you go. I said it. I’m tired of the meaningless deaths stirred by hate.

I’m past asking why it all happens.  I’m done with scrutinizing the lives of these murdering bastards.  I’m sick of attempting to bring a level of intellect to stupid bullshit.

I have no better way to express the angst I’m carrying after Craig Stephen Hicks, 46, shot and killed three people near the campus of the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill. Police said all three victims were killed over a dispute involving parking tickets.

The killing of husband and wife Deah Barakat, 23, and Yusor Mohammad, 21, and Mohammad’s sister Razan Mohammad Abu-Salh generated national outrage after reports surfaced that all three were Muslim.

The religion of the victims was placed in the lede, while the alleged motive for the shooting was found deep into the story.  In the journalism business we call this burying the lede. The lede is the up top information that captures the essence of the story.

Parking rage seemed less sensationalized than Muslims being shot in Chapel Hill, NC.

We could wag fingers at the press for stressing the religion on the victims on the same day that American hostage Kayla Mueller, 26, was confirmed dead after being abducted by members of ISIS. Were members of the press using the murders to prove the point President Barack Obama made during the National Prayer Breakfast?

“In our home country, slavery and Jim Crow all too often was justified in the name of Christ,” the president said during the breakfast. It is true that the Bible has been used in America and around the world to justify revolting actions throughout history.

The appropriate response is for the people, all of us, to say amen.

Drop the mic.

No one can deny the massive hate circulating under the guise of God’s will.  Hate can be found in a variety of places, and religion is often used to support the acts of those hell bent on proving a point, even if it means killing innocent people along the way.

None of us really knows the motive behind Hicks’ decision to kill. Maybe it was because of a parking space. Maybe it was because he hates Muslims, and from what we’re being told, anyone who practices any religion.

We can only assume.

Does it even matter?

That, in a big nasty nutshell, is the crux at what has me using bad words versus the others that come with having a quality education.  Those dirty words get at the essence of what has me fuming and ready to explode whenever I pick up a newspaper, turn on the television or check my newsfeed on Facebook.

I can’t help but ask - have Americans become impervious to death?  Are we to assume the right to hate alongside the other privileges that come with living in the U. S. of A?

Sadly, I can’t cuss my way out of my rage.  Mixing street jargon with a few big words fails to convey the indignation I carry after more people are killed for reasons none of us understands.

I would like to say prayer is enough, but I’ve been praying for a long time.  I know God is listening, but are we listening to God’s response?

Can you hear her speaking? 

It all seems so simple – stop, listen to one another, pray together and move beyond the assumptions each of us make.

I’m praying that we take the hate out of our religions.  Until then, I’m tired of this shit.

Help me stop using those bad words.

Discussion on Selma sounds like an old movie

I didn’t know where to begin.

The silence denoted something deeper than what my emotions had to say. I stood and paused long enough for the words to catch up with my feelings.

Ninety people gathered to discuss Selma, the movie that tells the behind the scene story of the protest against voter repression in Alabama. The people in the room watched the movie before gathering at the Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Columbia (UUCC) to share their thoughts.

“It felt like the same story being played over again,” I said to begin the discussion.  “I left drained because the same thing keeps happening, over and over again.”

Rev. Molly Houch Gordon, minister at UUCC discussed learning to listen.  She admitted not having answers.  She talked about the need to show up.  She hoped that would be enough.

“There’s so much pain that I carry with me every day,” Mary Denson, 21, president of UUCC, said. “There are so many issues and I don’t know where to start.”

Denson wasn’t alone. Many in the crowd felt overwhelmed by the burden of fighting a war to end the systems that separate us from one another.

We all want to embrace hope in better days.  It doesn’t have to end this way. Right?

Rev. Cassandra Gould, pastor of Quinn Chapel AME Church in Jefferson City, talked about the connections between then and now.  Born in Alabama, Gould told the story of her mother going to jail after protesting the laws that kept her and others from voting. Gould’s mother was there on that horrific Sunday when police beat protestors on their way to Montgomery.

Then she talked about the tear gas mask she wore in Ferguson, MO.

“Watching the mask they wore in the movie connected me to the mask I wore,” she said.  “I had to grip the hands of those next to me to fight back the tears.”

It’s a reminder of how close we are to the story of Selma.  Many of us remember the images on our black & White televisions.  The brutal attacks of protestors shifted the consciousness of those far removed from the system that denied people the ability to vote.

What about the color images from Ferguson? Why aren’t people outraged by the men, women and children tear gassed in Ferguson? Has time robbed us of our sensitivity, or can we assume the people in Ferguson deserved to be treated that way?

Can we presuppose that every person in the crowd should be punished for looting? Was it deserved punishment for disobeying the law, and, if so, can the same argument be applied to those who protested in Selma on that bridge?

Has time crippled our compassion toward people begging to be heard?  Have Americans forgotten how corrupt ways can easily consume those employed to protect the rights of all Americans?

Could it be that we trick ourselves into thinking Selma happened a long time ago?  If so, we forget that so much of what happened then continues to strangulate so many today.

People are still working to suppress the vote of black people.  In Missouri, state legislators are pressing to place a Voter ID law on the ballot for the 2016 election.  If approved by voters, the law will be the most obstructive law regarding voting rights in the nation.

The Republican controlled House Elections Committee proposed HB30 and HJR1 within days of the Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday,on  the 150^th anniversary of the end of slavery in Missouri and while people are watching Selma.

Do they care?

Don’t they understand how insulting it is to press to limit voting rights while people are hurting throughout the state after the death of Michael Brown?

Do they assume it doesn’t matter?

Or, are they too coldhearted to understand?

I didn’t know where to start. 

It’s too close to process through the pain. 

I’m still doing my best to understand.

Help me breathe

I didn’t know where to begin.

The silence denoted something deeper than what my emotions had to say. I stood and paused long enough for the words to catch up with my feelings.

Ninety people gathered to discuss Selma, the movie that tells the behind the scene story of the protest against voter repression in Alabama. The people in the room watched the movie before gathering at the Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Columbia (UUCC) to share their thoughts about the movie.

“It felt like the same story being played over again,” I said to begin the discussion.  “I left drained because the same thing keeps happening, over and over again.”

Rev. Molly Houch Gordon, minister at UUCC discussed learning to listen.  She admitted not having answers.  She talked about the need to show up.  She hoped that would be enough.

“There’s so much pain that I carry with me every day,” Mary Denson, 21, president of UUCC, said. “There are so many issues and I don’t know where to start.”

Denson wasn’t alone. Many in the crowd felt overwhelmed by the burden of fighting a war to end the systems that separate us from one another.

We all want to embrace hope in better days.  It doesn’t have to end this way. Right?

Rev. Cassandra Gould, pastor of Quinn Chapel AME Church in Jefferson City, spoke of the connection between then and now.  Born in Alabama, Gould told the story of her mother going to jail after protesting the laws that kept her and others from voting. Gould’s mother was there on that horrific Sunday when police beat protestors on their way to Montgomery.

Then she talked about the mask she wore in Ferguson, MO.

“Watching the mask they wore in the movie connected me to the mask I wore,” she said.  “I had to grip the hands of those next to me to fight back the tears.”

It’s a reminder of how close we are to the story of Selma.  Many of us remember the images on our black & White televisions.  The brutal attacks of protestors shifted the consciousness of those far removed from the system that denied people the ability to vote.

What about the color images from Ferguson? Why aren’t people outraged by the men, women and children tear gassed in Ferguson? Has time robbed us of our sensitivity, or can we assume the people in Ferguson deserved to be treated that way?

Can we presuppose that every person in the crowd should be punished for looting? Was it deserved punishment for disobeying the law, and, if so, can the same argument be applied to those who protested in Selma on that bridge?

Has time crippled our compassion toward people begging to be heard?  Have Americans forgotten how corrupt ways can easily consume those employed to protect the rights of all Americans?

Could it be that we trick ourselves into thinking Selma happened a long time ago?  If so, we forget that so much of what happened then continues to strangulate so many today.

People are still working to suppress the vote of black people.  In Missouri, state legislators are pressing to place a Voter ID law on the ballot for the 2016 election.  If approved by voters, the law will be the most obstructive law regarding voting rights in the nation.

The Republican controlled House Elections Committee proposed HB30 and HJR1 within days of the Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday, the 150^th anniversary of the end of slavery in Missouri and while people are watching Selma.

Do they care?

Don’t they understand how insulting it is to press to limit voting rights while people are hurting throughout the state after the death of Michael Brown?

Do they assume it doesn’t matter?

Or, are they too coldhearted to understand?

I didn’t know where to start.  The emotions were too deep for me to put it all into words.

It’s too close to process through the pain. 

I’m still doing my best to understand.

Help me breathe

The fear of acting white

The room was chilly cold.  It wasn’t the temperature that had most of us trembling; it was the purpose of the gathering.  Administrators at Duke University, the Divinity School, called a meeting with black students to discuss our lack of participation during worship at the chapel.

Worship services were held Tuesday – Thursday at the divinity school.  The time in between classes was viewed as the perfect opportunity to ripen strong bonds with our peers.   It was our chance to practice what we were being taught – what it means to be “One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic”.

Many of the black students were being immersed in the teachings of liberation theology for the first time.  Some of us began pondering the significance of Christianity given its long and brutal history in being used to subjugate people of color.  Most of us found ourselves embattled by congregations that regarded theological education antithetical to the cause of the black church.

We were being pulled between diametrically opposed agendas – learning to advance the work of the Church and remaining vital in the churches we were being called to serve.

“I refuse to cast my pearls to the swine and, in the process, forfeit the idiomatic expression of the people I have been called to serve,” I said that day.

I meant every word. 

I was afraid of gathering for worship, taking preaching classes from people who had never participated in worship with a black congregation, learning the theology of white men who died long ago, and, as a consequence, gaining nothing to support the work I’m called to perform.

Put another way, I was afraid of becoming white.

More to the point, I was afraid of being perceived as too white.

The tension I felt then continues to pester many who make the decision to pursue theological education.  Many pastors warn their ministers not to be changed by the teaching.  They’re told not to listen. They’re warned not to learn, but to go. Go and receive credit for going, but don’t accept what is being taught.

They’re taught that theological training is not designed to prepare those in ministry, but to credential and separate those who have it from those who don’t.

So, what is the significance of my working as a pastor at Bethel Church, a predominately white congregation? Does my presence reflect the function of my theological training and, as a result, the surrendering of my role as a servant of the black church?  Is there an assumption that my embrace of the things I’ve been taught has led me toward becoming the very thing I feared.

Does this mean I have become white?

Let’s be clear. That is completely impossible.  No matter how hard some work in denying the implications of race in their life, there is enough to remind me that I can never run away from the relevancy of my skin.

Some want me to pretend it’s not there.  I’ve already been told I talk too much about being black.  Why wouldn’t I? Why would I refute the part of me I love so much?

I love being a black man.  I’m proud of my ancestors and the mass of people who keep it real while working to invalidate the stereotypes people wave in our faces. Yes, we are brilliant.  We are artistic, and we have contributed more to America than any other race.

I said it.  We make America what it is today.

I have no reason to run from my blackness. I love the energy and passion of black worship.  I am a preacher of the black faith tradition.  I love the deep moans that leap in my throat when the spirit of God catches hold of the congregations causing all present to break free from bondage of the week. That’s who I am, and nothing will ever take that away.

So, why am I serving a white congregation? If all of that is true, and it is, what is it that would lead me to step into the pulpit of a congregation that doesn’t understand the significance of what it means for me to be me?

That’s simple. It’s called a calling.

Put another way, this is bigger than me.  It’s beyond what I understand.  All I know, for today, is this is the work that God has chosen for me in this season.

How do I know this to be true?

Because everything I have done, before today, has prepared me for this challenge. I have been trained for this season.  I know it’s true because I’ve written about and preached the message of inclusion long enough to be baptized into its meaning. I know it’s true because my footsteps point in the direction of healing and understanding. 

I know it’s true because the world and the Church have to change the way it functions in regards to the things that divide us. It’s true because hate and detachment has fractured the essence of what it means to be crafted to promote love and peace.  It’s true because someone has to stand beyond the assumptions we claim to rouse faith beyond the barricades built to keep us on the other side of unity.

I know it’s true because of the people I serve at Bethel Church.  They have taught me beyond the things I have been taught.  They teach me not with their words, but with their willingness to build community in a new way.  I’ve watched them transcend the comforts of their sacred community.  I’ve watched them say no to the crippling messages that keep America divided because of an aversion to listen.

No, it has not been easy. Yes, it comes with a cost beyond what I may be able to pay.

But, I’m here now glaring at my words from long ago.

“I refuse to cast my pearls to the swine and, in the process, forfeit the idiomatic expression of the people I have been called to serve,” I said.

I have a new message.

Beyond the color of my skin.  Beyond the history of suppression. Beyond the assumptions made when I show up to speak. Beyond all of it, I have been baptized in a faith that makes me who I am today.  Yes, I say it loud, I’m black and I’m proud. Nothing will ever take that away.

But, beyond all of that, thank you Lord for calling me to a purpose beyond things I can comprehend.  I accept your will.

Show me that way.  I don’t know the way, but I hear that still small voice calling my name.

Here I am Lord, send me.

Dr. William Barber's prayer at the Congressional Black Caucus Prayer Breakfast

William Barber II, state president of the North Carolina conference of branches of the NAACP and head of North Carolina's Moral Monday movement, delievered this prayer before the Congressional Black Caucus in 2007.  It was before the rise of the Moral Monday movement.  It was before the deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner.  Barber sent this prayer to me on last night to encourage me upon hearing I have been appointed to serve as Co-Pastor at Bethel Church.  The prayer reminds me of why we serve. It's a challenge to serve with integrity and passion. The prayer moved me to tears. After reading it the first time, I felt like hands had been placed upon me again to affirm my calling.  I'm sharing it with my readers to symbolize my unyielding faith in the God who called my name and set me free to serve.  This is my yes to the work at Bethel.  This prayer is my mission statement. I will feed upon each word and use it as fuel for my faith.

 

I thank God for William Barber.  I'm also grateful for the others who sent messages supporting this appointment: Dr. Jeremiah Wright, Dr. J. Alfred Smith, Sr., Dr. Melissa Harris-Perry and my good friend Dr. Robert C. Scott.  The outpouring of support challenges me. 

 

Read the prayer, say Amen and join me and Bethel as we move toward embracing this amazing calling. - The Rev-elution
 

Gracious eternal and all wise God.   Thou who formed what is out of nothing, and called us into being to serve you. You, oh Lord, who weighs every nation in the balance of your own standards. Today, we acknowledge how great Thou art, the marvelous mystery of your mercy and exalt the excellence of your name.

                Because your Holy Spirit brings all things to remembrance, breathe on us now, that we might remember how gracious you have been to this nation, we call America.  As a nation, we have our faith and frailties, strengths and shortcomings, yet you have allowed grace to be shed upon us. When we have honored your ways and when we have fallen short you have been a merciful God.   Remind us that the history of this nation is more about your grace than about our greatness. When we are not where we should be, let us hear and follow what you said to Solomon, 2 Chronicles 7:14, "If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from heaven, and will I forgive their sin, and will I heal their land."

                In our land we need healing, for a land so blessed by grace there is too much poverty, too much sickness, too many children dying, and too much war. We need a healing.  Michael Bell and five others in Jena, or the three year unjust lock down of James Johnson in Wilson are but symbols of a justice system that needs healing.  Katrina was more than a flood.   It was a failure to protect the vulnerable and a metaphor of the wave of disenfranchise that flows in too many communities.  We need a healing.

In your word you have said, he who rules the nation must be just and if we are to please you we must learn to do justice, care for the fatherless, support the widow, loose the bands of wickedness, pay people what they deserve, care for the sick, the homeless, and the hungry.   To please you it must be said of us, “For I was hungry, and ye gave me meat:  I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me in; naked and ye clothed me; I was sick, and ye visited me; I was in prison, and ye came unto me.”  

                Trouble the soul of this nation as you did in the days of Amos so that no one is at ease in Zion. Use our prophetic words and our prophetic actions to remind those in the seats of power that they are not God.   Trouble this nation with the voice of concern and the voice of compassion.  Make us mindful of the thousands without paths to the pursuit of happiness…

Shake the foundations of our conscious until we cannot help, but change our course. Move on us to study war no more. Cause us to live our lives to serve others.   Teach us that life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness requires justice and hope and help and caring.  Expand our morality beyond the narrowness of personal piety into the broadness of public policy.   Give us the strength to challenge racism, classicism, poverty, and uncheck militarism.  Empower us with your Spirit that we might be a nation unto God, not unto fear; show us again that America is only here by your grace.  Show us that grace carries responsibility.   That a nation under grace must lead the world not merely police the world.  A nation under grace must care, must remember her past so that she will not be arrogant in her present. A nation under grace must bring the world together and not tear it apart. A nation under grace cannot refer to people as aliens when we all were created with one blood. A nation under grace cannot leave cities decaying and flood victims barely surviving.   Grace demands something better than that. So Lord as you stirred up dry bones in the valley, stir up hope, and stir up righteousness.   Restore the Prophets and the prophetic voices to the land.  Revive the spirit of Medgar, Martin, Malcolm, Corretta, Harriet, Rosa, Cinque, Douglass, Dubois, Sojourner, Jordan, Wilkins and Bethune.    Hold and sustain the Congressional Black Caucus whose seats are dipped in the blood of martyrs and were raised to be the conscience of this nation. Call us and challenge us again.  Teach even this nation that even with all our power and all our resources we will still have to stand before your judgment one day.   Give us leaders who understand that the purpose of power and influence is to help someone.   Grant us a citizenry determine to be yoked together in common humanity.   Let us know the only way to a more perfect union is for our laws and policies to reflect your kind of love. Let faith be a conviction not a convenience. Help us, Oh God, to smooth out every wrinkle in the flag of our community life until we are one nation under God, with one justice system for all, with living wages for all, with quality education for all.  Finally, oh Lord we pray that the mind of the psalmist will be ours:

Psalm 66: 1-7

1 Make a joyful noise unto God, all ye lands:

2 Sing forth the honor of his name: make his praise glorious.

3 Say unto God, How terrible art thou in thy works! through the greatness of thy power shall thine enemies submit themselves unto thee.

4 All the earth shall worship thee, and shall sing unto thee; they shall sing to thy name. Selah.

5 Come and see the works of God: He is terrible in His doing toward the children of men.

6 He turned the sea into dry land: they went through the flood on foot: there did we rejoice in Him.

7 He ruleth by His power for ever; His eyes behold the nations: let not the rebellious exalt themselves. Selah.

                We thank you God that your eyes still behold the nation.   We thank you God that you still see injustice, you still see poverty and because you can still see it, these things don't have the last word.   We thank you God that you still see America.  You still see our leadership.  You know how to bring down the high and lift up the humble.   O God we bless your name, we lift up every voice, we declare and rejoice that you are still the God of our weary years, the God who is able to bring life out of death. Help us to know like our foreparents sung, ‘Time is filled with swift transition, naught of earth unmoved can stand, Build your hope on things eternal, Hold to God’s unchanging hand.”

In the name of the Father who sticketh closer than a brother, watches us like a mother, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.  AMEN.

 

Additional Scripture References:  Colossians 1, Daniel 5,

Isaiah 1-58, Ezekiel 37, Luke 4, Matthew 25, and Psalm 27 

In memory of all the saints of old who taught us the words and worth of prayer.