Photo by Ann Gerondelis
Arrival of the National Guard at the Philadelphia at the Municipal Services building
June 2020

By Deacon Jeanette Burgess

​While making breakfast the other day, I was drawn to the TV as a big-name hip hop star posed for the paparazzi.  Now I don’t want to play down the value of entertainers or the arts (hey, I’m one of them), but as I watched her raise colorful talons to pouty lips and saw her in a totally impractical designer dress that gave the impression she was literally blooming from a flower, I thought to myself with a certain amount of urgency, “I’ve got to do something that makes a difference.”  Insert rueful smiley face …
 
You might recognize that star’s name, but here’s a name few will:  William Tyndale.  Tyndale, who the Evangelical Lutheran Worship (ELW) commemorates on October 6, was an English scholar during the time of Martin Luther.  This professor, a lover of language (and a master of eight), made a lot of firsts in the “language” of faith.  He created the first English Bible directly translated from Hebrew and Greek texts and the first one produced by using the printing press.  His translation was the first English Bible of the Reformation and the first English translation to follow English Protestant Reformers’ preference to use “Jehovah” as God’s name.  He was also the first to coin many phrases in his translations that we still recognize today:  “my brother’s keeper”, “knock and it shall be opened unto you”, “let there be light”, and (in whom we) “live, move, and have our being” to name a few.
 
Yes, it would seem this biblical scholar was bound for fame and fortune but instead, he spent the later part of his life in hiding and was unable to complete his translation before being burned at the stake as a heretic.  Among the charges against him: Breaking the law that stated no one was to possess an English version of the scriptures since the Roman Catholic church mandated scriptures be interpreted by clergy only. 
 
And yet God had plans.  William Tyndale’s work lived on and a few years after his death, four English translations were published by the king’s command, all based on Tyndale’s work.  Though he didn’t live to see all of the fruits of his labor, through him, God’s word to Jeremiah in Chapter 29 verse 11 came to fruition for many more:  “’For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.’” (NRSV)
 
God has plans for each of us.  Sometimes we see them unfold before us, and it’s delightful and satisfying.  Other times, as for Tyndale, the results may not come about in our lifetime or for many lifetimes, and it can be disappointing and discouraging.  But never doubt God is still at work. Jeremiah verse 12 continues, “Then when you call upon me and come and pray to me, I will hear you.”  God’s willing to walk with us, no matter how we do it.  Wonders can happen in big, loud thunderclaps or soft, quiet wisps of air, but we all have it in us to be a light in the darkness, a voice in the silence, and hope in the face of despair. 
 
You don’t need to put on fake nails or fancy clothes to make a difference.  You don’t need a golden voice or a cadre of fans to make an impact.  You don’t need to be a rock star.  Just be who you were created to be and let God do the rest. 

By Adam Renner
 
Philippians 3:12-16
Not that I have already obtained this or have already reached the goal; but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own. Beloved, I do not consider that I have made it my own; but this one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus. Let those of us then who are mature be of the same mind; and if you think differently about anything, this too God will reveal to you. Only let us hold fast to what we have attained.  
 
Come, Come, Whoever You Are
Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving.
It doesn’t matter.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come, even if you have broken your vows
a thousand times
Come, yet again, come, come. 
~ Jalaluddin Rumi 
 
It’s been that kind of summer all around us, hasn’t it? Mentally exhausting, with new things to be exasperated about on an almost hourly basis. I’ve been reflecting on how we might have lost that momentum and enthusiasm from the spring. When states and cities were first beginning their lockdowns, and when our church first began its own self-quarantine, there was a strong sense of coming together. The data confirm it. As we transitioned our church activities to a digital space, there was a surge in website traffic, email clicks, and attendance in online worship. We received frequent check-in calls from our congregational care team. And “out there” in the wider world, my Facebook feed was full of stories and articles about how we can learn from this pandemic and change our society for the better. We would not go back to the way things were, we said. Air pollution was down. Society hit the brakes and had a little Sabbath time. We took care of our neighbors, and governments stepped in to help the newly unemployed. It seemed that as trying as the times were, we might manage to pull together and get through it, collectively. There was hope for a better world on the other side.

But it wasn’t to last. The pandemic quickly devolved into a political issue, and now the lockdowns have mostly ended, even as the virus continues to claim lives. The summer has been a lot of two steps forward, three steps back. Most of us are back to business as usual, only now there’s an added financial strain on top of it.

September marks two things that are near and dear to my heart. First, we are entering the Season of Creation in our church year. Second, it is Suicide Prevention Awareness month. But those two things seem out of place right now with everything else that’s going on. 

I find myself fatigued and barely able to summon the strength to be concerned for the environment or my own mental health because of everything else that we are lamenting in the world. We’re witnessing in real time Black men and women being murdered by police, unprecedented government corruption, conspiracy theories becoming mainstream, brothers and sisters being pitted against each other like pawns in a dystopian chess game, and an election under attack. I don’t think I can remember such a confluence of crises happening in such a short period. It is too much, and it honestly feels like all our efforts at positive growth and change aren’t even worth it.

This pandemic was caused by a natural world out of balance, by human infringement upon the natural world, and ultimately, by our lack of self-awareness. Creation has also been groaning louder than ever. We’ve seen giant swarms of locusts from East Africa to India, 500-year floods in Europe, wildfires reducing entire California communities and forests to ash, over 40% of Iowa corn and soybeans flattened by a 140 mph wind storm, and the hottest temperature ever recorded north of the Arctic Circle (over 100ᵒ F). Again, it’s all too much, and I find my care for Creation lacking these days.

I’m not sure how to describe my internal experience of all this. It feels like grief, and despair. I feel grief for the lost lives and the unravelling of the social fabric in this country. I find it hard to avoid a creeping sense of existential dread. And I know a lot of you are feeling the same and more so. Amidst the chaos, it’s hard to resist the urge to withdraw. Especially when social distancing makes it too easy to isolate altogether.

Multiple lines of evidence indicate that the pandemic, social unrest, and climate crisis are having profound psychological effects, which will probably persist for months if not years to come. Studies show that we are now in a period of great distress, anxiety, fear of contagion, depression, insomnia, chronic stress, substance abuse, and other mental health disorders in the general population. Suicidal ideation is elevated, with a rate twice as high as last year (the actual number of suicides this year is not yet known, but experts are predicting a tsunami). One medical examiner recently predicted that 2020 is on pace to be the worst year for suicides in the Black community ever. The resulting trauma from these crises has been and will continue to be experienced disproportionately by people of color, older adults, children, immigrants, those with disabilities, and those with preexisting medical conditions.

Sorry for all the doom and gloom. I bring it up simply because I have a tendency to want to put on a happy face, especially whenever I’m interacting with my church family. I, like many of us, suffer from “Happy Christian Syndrome” – the conviction that as a Christian, I am not supposed to show the world that I am unhappy, for various reasons. Sunday’s always comin’, after all. And our individualistic, achievement-oriented culture instills in us the notion that no one has time for our weakness, so we are better off going it alone and suppressing it.

Yet this is exactly what we need to avoid doing. We cannot distance ourselves emotionally from others, even while we are social distancing. If I am not expressing myself authentically, I feel even worse, which in turn worsens my despair and negative coping behaviors. Not only is it okay to feel and own my negative thoughts and emotions, it’s healthy. Faith is strengthened not by relying on that alone to solve my problems, but by recognizing the pain points that need my attention.

“The Church,” wrote Martin Luther, “is the inn and the infirmary for those who are sick and in need of being made well.” Luther’s image of the Church as a hospital reminds us who we are – a community of vulnerable people in need of help; we are a community of healing. At the same time vulnerable and healed, we are freed for a life of receiving and giving help. In the mutual bearing of burdens, we learn to be people who are willing to ask for healing and provide it. If we are to live into our identity as resurrection people, we have to do the work. We have to get into the mess as Jesus did.

Our faith communities can be a place to talk openly about our pain, to provide resources, and to offer care and support for all of us who are touched by despair. Over the last few months I’ve been working diligently as part of our synod’s Mental Health Ministry and the Suicide Prevention Ministry to develop mental health resources for our faith communities. Though our synod ministries still have a lot of work to do before we fully launch our main resource offerings, be encouraged that this church is making good progress as a pioneer in promoting mental health awareness and education.

We recently held a webinar on self-care best practices (click for video and/or slides). I’ll quickly share some takeaways here:

1. Self-awareness and appraisal are key components to caring for ourselves. If you’re unsure about your current emotional state, you can take a free online mental health screening at https://www.helpyourselfhelpothers.org/.
2. The top three things that can help fight stress and anxiety are social support, exercise, and adequate sleep. Make these things a priority if you don’t already.
3. Spend just three minutes a day doing mindful breathing. That is, listen to and feel your breath while paying attention to nothing else. Make your exhale longer than your inhale – in for 5 seconds, out for 7. You’ll be surprised what this short exercise can do for your day. You can do it at a specific time or as needed.
4. No amount of self-care will do any good unless an effort is made to address the underlying issues. So if I’m depressed, drinking, or having emotional outbursts, I need to consult with a qualified professional and examine why I am having such reactions, which will inform my strategies to address them.
5. Make a list of the things you can control, and a list of things you cannot control. For example, “I cannot control whether people wear masks,” vs. “I can control how much time I spend scrolling on social media and news sites.” Ask yourself, what if anything, can you do right now to address your fears? What is within your immediate grasp that you can do?
6. Mind, body, and spirit are interconnected. Treat your mental health just like you would your physical health. If you are sick, you go to a doctor, right?

And, I will add another big one: Connect. The church is a great opportunity for self-care because it brings us together. People coming together in times of need – this is essential for our individual well-being. “Two are better than one… If either of them falls down, one can help the other up.” (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10). If you’ve been disconnected from community recently – you can start back again, no matter.
Over the past months, this church community has spoken out against racial injustice, held memorials, and erected banners to commemorate victims of racism. We have repurposed our space and resources to better help our brothers and sisters on the margins. We have worked with our Mercy Church partners to provide food, handwashing stations, mobile showers, masks, porta potties, and a place to rest, and we have done so while keeping our building and grounds in good shape. Going forward this month, we are beginning weekly prayer services Wednesday evenings on Zoom, which will give us an opportunity to refill our cups through lament as well as praise and encouragement.

I implore any of you who are experiencing anguish, suicidal thoughts, addiction, or any kind of emotional pain, to reach out for help. Talk to someone. Don’t bear your pain by yourself. There is no shame in asking for help. Indeed, when life’s difficulties and disappointments threaten to overwhelm us, that is when we most need to talk with others. Likewise, when we sense that something is seriously amiss in a friend or family member, we need to trust our instincts and lean into our own discomfort by reaching out. We are called to be our brother’s or sister’s keeper. We are called to walk beside our friends with courage and without judgment. We may want to shy away because we feel unprepared to help, yet our responsibility is to listen, to encourage the person to talk, and to help them find appropriate help.

Admittedly, we fall short of this, and we have especially fallen short of keeping everyone in our community connected during this most difficult time. Unfortunately, it was never going to be perfect. I am imperfect. You are imperfect. Our shared community is imperfect. Not only that, but we have broken our commitments, to ourselves and others, time and time again. And that is okay! We can always start anew and try again.

That we often fall short of our own ideals is almost the point. It is in the continual striving that we learn to live into our faith as individuals and communities. It is in the acknowledgement of imperfection and vulnerability that we find our calling to remain to put forth the effort to attain, not perfection, but the better versions of ourselves that are rooted in healing, compassion, mercy, and grace.

In grace, we know that simply acknowledging it is not enough. We must address our vulnerabilities, the roots of our fear, and honestly face our reluctance to counter the narratives that hold us down. This requires a kind of death of self, and this is where God meets us. If we tend our own garden of truth, God will help us through it, and ultimately God will reveal opportunities to us that we never could have imagined while we were stuck in that place. If we want to bear good fruit, we need to tend to the plant. We need allow the gardener to do what he will do with us. The gardener will sustain us through all of life’s endless challenges. I know that I can’t do it alone. I have to look outside of myself.
​
Though we have broken our commitment to ourselves and others countless times, God repeatedly welcomes us, and invites us, just as we are, admittedly imperfect, to continue striving, as individuals and as a community. The joy is not in the product but in the work. And there is much work to do. 

For discussion: How are you taking care of yourself? Do you need anything? 

By Jennifer Arnold​

​
At that place he came to a cave, and spent the night there. Then the word of the LORD came to him, saying, "What are you doing here, Elijah?" He answered, "I have been very zealous for the LORD, the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away." He said, "Go out and stand on the mountain before the LORD, for the LORD is about to pass by." Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the LORD, but the LORD was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence.

When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. Then there came a voice to him that said, "What are you doing here, Elijah?" He answered, "I have been very zealous for the LORD, the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away." Then the LORD said to him, "Go, return on your way to the wilderness of Damascus; when you arrive, you shall anoint Hazael as king over Aram. Also you shall anoint Jehu son of Nimshi as king over Israel; and you shall anoint Elisha son of Shaphat of Abel-meholah as prophet in your place. Whoever escapes from the sword of Hazael, Jehu shall kill; and whoever escapes from the sword of Jehu, Elisha shall kill. Yet I will leave seven thousand in Israel, all the knees that have not bowed to Baal, and every mouth that has not kissed him." --1 Kings 19:9-18 
_________________________________________________________________
 
I remember having a conversation with my brother about this text when we were in college. He asserted, "The Bible says God is omnipresent. Then it says God wasn't in the wind, or the earthquake, or the fire. How can this be? Clearly both can't be true!" So as I read this text again today, and I look around a world ravaged by a pandemic, racism, and capitalism, I find myself asking the same thing Chris asked - "Where is God?" Sometimes it can seem like God really isn't in the hurricane blowing, the world trembling, the Wendy's burning. In the midst of such chaos, we long and wait for the silence. Chaos - bad. Silence - good.
 
At least so it seems. I'm curious here about Elijah. He is hiding in a cave when the LORD asks him, "What are you doing here?" Elijah explains (a little self-righteously perhaps) his loneliness and the fear that has driven him to isolation. (Sound familiar?) God replies, "Go out and stand on the mountain for the LORD is about to pass by." Cue crazy strong winds, earthquake, and fire. Then, only after all that chaos, that "bad", comes sheer silence and finally - finally - Elijah moves. Even then he only goes so far as the edge of the cave.

Now I don't blame Elijah. I also would much rather be deep inside a safe cave than on an unprotected mountain while the mountain itself is splitting into pieces and rocks keep zinging past my head. Not to mention the earthquake and fire - all of that sounds absolutely terrifying. Of course Elijah stayed in the cave! If I were Elijah I'd probably have gone deeper into the cave! His response is deeply human - he stays where it is safe and hides from the pain and chaos, never making it to the mountain where the LORD would pass by.

Usually, when I hear this text preached the message is about how God is in the silence - slow down and listen. And yes, surely, God is in the silence. Yet, I can't help but wonder what Elijah missed out on as he chose the silence of the cave to the rumbling outside. What if God really was in the wind, earthquake, and fire but Elijah was too scared to step into something that seemed so uncertain? I feel Elijah's urge to avoid pain and hurt deeply in my soul. I want God to make me feel better from the harsh realities of the world. I want an escape and I want calm. The problem with this "hide and wait it out" approach is that it doesn't demand us to change in any way. It is the easy way out.

When Elijah finally makes it to the entrance of the cave God asks him again (I like to imagine in a surprised tone), "What are you doing here?" and Elijah gives the exact same response - word for word. The world has literally been turned over and spun around but his worries and fears for his own life have not altered a bit. The LORD has passed by and he has missed it. Everything has changed, yet, nothing has changed.

The hope I find in this story is that the second time the LORD says "Go", Elijah goes (v. 19). He stops hiding. The world is still uncertain, perhaps even more so, but he steps forward into that chaos instead of moving further away from the possibility of pain. As teachers and families prepare for school to reopen, as the government lets benefits expire, as the chaos never seems to stop, I wonder - can we take a few steps closer to the edge of the cave? Can we find a way to stand on the mountain with rocks flinging past us? Can we listen not just for silence but for the cries of those hurting? Can we bravely step forward and let ourselves be surprised by the ways God is passing by right now, even in the chaos?

By Francoise Wackenhut​

​
But I say to you, Do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also; and if anyone wants to sue you and take your coat, give your cloak as well. Matthew 5:39-40

For some reason, I have been mulling over these Matthew verses and pondering what they mean in this time of unrest. Searching to make sense of the passage, I found many interpretations  about it and its preceding verse, "You have heard that it was said, 'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.'" While learning that the Old Testament famous words are prescribing not revenge but a limitation of revenge so as not to escalate violence, I grappled with common understandings and misunderstandings of the 39th and 40th verses. Some hear Jesus' words as a call to pacifism, an admonition to endure, or a savvy manner of dealing with a personal insult or injury by turning away from the legal vindication prescribed in Deuteronomy. After all,  you cannot use your unclean left hand to strike again, or see the nudity of a person whose coat and cloak you take, because both acts are against the law! 

The passage still did not make sense. Obviously the key was in the word "resist," as we can cite plenty of occasions when Jesus resisted in the face of evil: among them, saying no to the temptations in his forty days in the desert; casting out demons by naming them, thus exposing them; or denouncing the selling of merchandise at the Temple, sacrifices that could not be brought but bought at high price on the spot, thus robbing the pilgrims and filling the coffers of the priests. In the Greek text the word for "resist," antistenai, means "to stand against," to react violently to an offense. And if we are to reject revenge, standing passively is not the needed answer either. Jesus does not end his sentence at "Do not resist an evildoer." He continues with "but," carving a breach for another path. The Greek word stenai, "to stand," appears in Ephesians 6:13, when Paul admonishes the people to "put on the whole armor of God" and to "stand firm." By standing firm against an opponent, by affirming our opposition in a non-violent way, we defy evil and change the discourse. In his book The Powers that Be: Theology for a New Millenium, Walter Wink discusses this passage and calls it "Jesus' third way." "Jesus," he writes, "is not telling us to submit to evil, but to refuse to oppose it on its own terms. We are not to let the opponent dictate the methods of our opposition." As followers of Jesus believing in social justice, how do we stand firm when we see evil? 

On May 27th, George Floyd's awful death, taped by a bystander, struck a chord and resonated around the world. Protests of black and white people under the banner of Black Lives Matter took place in cities and towns over the country. But the death of black people at the hands of police or vigilantes is nothing new, despite the fifty years since the end of segregation. I recall a discussion several years ago at Theology on Tap where Pastor Beverly was explaining "the talk" black parents had to have with their growing sons.  I cannot forget Trayvon Martin, 17, and his hoodie; Tamir Rice, 12, and his toy gun; Stephon Clark, 22, and his cell phone in his grandmother's backyard; Freddie Gray, 25, hands and feet shackled and tossed to death in a police van. 

Evil is ever present in history. Think of the Nazi Final Solution, the four-year Cambodian Killing Fields, the 100-day Rwanda genocide, all pre-meditated crimes. In each situation, the leaders were trying to eliminate part of the population in cold blood. But we cannot compare the evil of destructive regimes with America's unique situation. The crimes committed in other nations were addressed after the defeat of the enemy, but not here. Having been born in another country, I learned American history bit by bit on my own. In the South I was intrigued by the War of Secession, as we call it in France. How could people, sometimes relatives, or officers who had attended the same school or learned war tactics on the same battlefields fight against each other? I had heard of the KKK, but didn't know what black codes meant, and wondered who this Jim Crow could be! I was appalled when I realized the short time it took to replace slavery with the evil of segregation; how the Supreme Court's decisions allowed and cemented the flood of Jim Crow laws; and how not just the South but the whole nation was incapable of "dealing" with the presence of black people and offended at the idea of sharing the wealth of the country with them. It was not a matter of being pro-slavery anymore, it was the belief that  white people were superior to black people. So how do we stand firm for justice in a country that at every turn doubled down and refined the well-oiled machine of redlining and gerrymandering, creating jarring disparities in housing, bad mortgage offers, cash bail and fines for petty traffic violations, leading slowly but surely to incarceration? How can we pretend the social problems of black America are self-inflicted, when white America is the one who put in place everything to keep the black America from becoming her equal?

In order to stand firm in the face of evil, we have to identify where the injustice came from. In his article published on Medium "Slavery Is Not America's Original Sin, and to Think So Misses the Point,"  Sam Heath quotes the following words from Wendell Berry's book The Hidden Wound:  " [T]he root of our racial problem in America is not racism. The root is in our inordinate desire to be superior.... It seems likely, then, that what we now call racism came about as a justification of slavery after the fact, not as its cause." 

Before God, there is no hiding, no self-justification. When on the side of evil, we don't name the sin, we deny it, because we are busy justifying our behavior. Repentance is not part of the equation. When we lay down our anger, our bullying, our weapons, and we admit evil whether present outside or inside of us, we can now repent and stand firm for good. Maybe in a non-violent protest. Maybe in sharing our coat, our dinner. Maybe in genuinely seeking the neighbor in the former stranger. 

So do not respond violently to an Evildoer. But if anyone wounds your brother or sister, take Jesus' third way, stand firm with them, use your voice for them, share radical love with them. Amen. 

By Jennifer Arnold

​
​Last week as my boyfriend Matthew and I were driving through a rural and conservative area, we stumbled upon a radio preacher talking about 1 Peter 3 - a chapter which begins, "Wives, in the same way submit yourselves to your own husbands..." This pastor interpreted this to mean a woman should do whatever her husband says. Even, he added, when the husband was clearly in the wrong. Sarai was right, he claimed, to go along and let Abram turn her over to the pharaoh to protect himself. We didn't listen for long, just a minute or two but it felt so long, too long. At first I was exasperated - eye-rolling. Then I got angry. I wanted to throw my phone, shatter the windshield. The pastor just kept talking. The radio stayed on 20 seconds too long and suddenly I was crying. Resigned and staring out the window, tears streaming down my cheeks. Matthew turned off the radio, put his hand on my knee, looked at me and began to speak.
"That is bad theology. It keeps women in abusive relationships. I don't believe it but unfortunately it's common down here. People wonder about how [white] women can vote for Trump but when you hear sermons like that it's easier to understand..."
I don't remember what else he said. Honestly, I just wasn't interested. It's not like I didn't already know what he was telling me.

I stared silently out the window as tears continued to roll down my face.

I know at some point, between my silences, I said these two things: "This isn't about you." and "Every word feels like someone twisting a knife deeper and deeper into my chest."

Finally, he was silent too.

Eventually, after my tears had passed and we'd just sat for a while - certainly longer than we'd listened to that preacher - he said, "I'm sorry. What do you need?"

And that it turned out was exactly what I needed.

I said, "I needed to hear you say you're sorry. So, thank you." 

Perhaps he was surprised. He asked why that was what I needed. "Because right now I just hurt. I'm not interesting in analyzing the theology or politics or psychology. I can't do that right now. I just hurt and I needed to have that hurt recognized. I just need you to be with me while I hurt.

Sure, the sermon makes you angry too but you cannot feel the depth of pain I feel about this. And you will never be able to feel that depth. Those statements will never be about you and your life and the lives of people like you. There is and will always be a degree of removal for you.

If I was with another group of women we could feel the depth of hurt together.  So, right now, alongside the hurt part of what I feel is lonely."

Matthew listened. Nodded. Seemed to understand. Then we continued on our way.

----

Our country is reeling again - still. always. - from the racism rooted deep in it's core.

On February 23rd a white father and son chased down and killed Ahmad Aubrey here in Georgia.  They were not arrested until May.

On March 13th at 1 am Louisville Metro Police officers forcefully entered the home of  Breonna Taylor and shot her 8 times. The FBI opened an investigation in May.

On May 25th a white woman named Amy Ross called the police on  Christian Cooper as he was bird-watching in Central Park.

Also on May 25th Derek Chauvin, a white Minneapolis police officer, knelt on  George Floyd's neck for 8 minutes and 46 seconds - 2 minutes and 53 seconds of which occurred after Floyd became unresponsive - and killed him.

In the wake of all this blatant visible violence - what do I do as a white person trying to be actively anti-racist? Many of those around me are wondering the same thing. Inspired by the phrase "white silence is violence" my facebook feed is flooded with reading lists, articles, and diatribes against racism. On a call this morning a woman from my church said, "We began to think what we could do so we bought a bunch of those 'Black Lives Matter' yard signs and bumper stickers." My inbox is flooded with requests for me to watch a sermon, sign a petition, or send a check. These things are easy. Make me feel good, productive. Put me on the "right side" of history I like to think.

But I have a confession to make. Not a confession like, "I ate the last cookie in the cookie jar," but something deeper. Something that touches the very essence of my soul, my humanity, and my spirituality. It is the sin that hides in the shadows of my soul. So let me begin with these sincere words of confession:

I confess to almighty God,
and to you, my brothers and sisters,
that I have sinned through my own fault,
in my thoughts and in my words,
in what I have done,
and in what I have failed to do;
and I ask you, my brothers and sisters,
to pray for me to the Lord, our God.

Here is my confession, the thing I am most scared to let others know and even to admit to myself.

I confess that during these times of intense pain, grief, and rage, I have cut myself off from my own emotions and thus also from my brothers and sisters. I am an over-functioner who prefers to stay busy rather than feel. I have rested in my privilege to avoid feeling. I fear feeling. I fear it will be "too much" for me to handle. I am fragile. I have kept the news at a distance. I stand frozen because I know my desire to erase history is impossible. I distract myself with other good things happening in my life. I analyze the way chattel slavery became convict leasing became Jim Crow became the War on "Drugs" and the prison industrial complex. I justify myself by the organizations I'm part of, the work I've done, or the connections I have made. I worry about what taking a job at an elite, predominately white, private school means for being grounded in cross-racial relationships. I consider where I should worship when we're allowed to be back together in person. I pretend that focusing on the joys in my life is an act of resistance. (It's not. At least, not for me, not right now.) I keep adding to the number of lingering-but-never-read tabs open at the top of my browser. And so much more.

In short, I confess giving into (living into?) my whiteness. I am doing it in the same way my ancestors gave into their whiteness. Silently with averted gazes. Patting themselves on their back for something or another. Burying the shame they feel under explanations and justifications. It is the way whiteness has always worked - must continue to work. No matter what words I use about us all being the same deep down, the myth of whiteness requires me to believe that even deeper than that sameness is my supremacy. And supremacy is founded on the idea of difference and separation. Their pain is separate from my pain. My internalized supremacy allows me to look cruel and violent death and oppression in the face and seek to explain it instead of  letting myself feel it. To be a passive onlooker and not an active participant.

This ability to separate and unwillingness to allow myself to feel is making me less human. I can feel it damaging and corrupting my own soul and still I am scared to feel.

Rebuke me O, LORD but not in your anger, lest I come to nothing.

Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Lord have mercy.

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Last summer, I visited a lynching tree in rural Missouri. The tears came easily there. Every time I think about lynchings I wonder about the white people. Not how did someone(s) feel so fueled and justified by their privilege and hate to kill another innocent person that they understood as somehow less human - I can wrap my head around the blatant acts of violence. But what always stops me is the bystanders. "How could white people have gathered for picnics to watch strange fruit - human beings - swinging from trees? How could you laugh and eat instead of cry? Or even just walk past and go about your day? What kind of mental gymnastics of supremacy and separation must one do to allow oneself to keep on living and pretending like this is normal, natural, or even just the unfortunate reality? What does that do to your soul?"

Well now I know. Day after day we watch modern day lynchings happening in our streets. We read about them on facebook, make a post condemning their death, and then go to work. Our day might feel a little off but for the most part it is alright. That is until someone reminds us again or we log back into social media. The cycle repeats. We watch the videos by the millions and consider ourselves the judge of what is murder thus and who "deserves" to die. We trust the courts to bring justice.

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Someone (supposedly, but probably not actually Benjamin Franklin) once said, "Justice will not be served until those who are unaffected are as outraged as those who are." Growing up Mennonite, a historic peace-church, I was taught that anger was close to violence and so it was bad and should be avoided. I was encouraged to turn the other cheek and forgive 70 x 7. All of that is to say, rage is not a familiar emotion of mine.

Only once in my life have I truly felt rage. Brett Kavanaugh had just been nominated to the Supreme Court despite the witness of Christine Blasey Ford. As a survivor of sexual assault, I woke up with an unfamiliar anger - rage - in my bones. I dreaded going to my Systematic Theology today where I was one of 3 women in the class. That morning I knew a few things: 1) No one would mention the trial and nomination. 2) We would spend the large majority of our 90 minute class talking about Karl Barth instead of discussing our other reading - the rivoting and timely article by Janet Soskice "Can a Feminist Call God "Father"? 3) When it came time (the last 10 minutes of class I predicted) to discuss Soskice I would be called on for the first time all class to speak and give my opinion. "At least," I thought, "my professor is a woman skilled at calling out dude's BS."

Thinking "It feels wrong that I actually have to see a man today," I tried not to slam the door as I pounded into class. All three of my predictions came true - mostly. When I saw that my professor was out of town and our discussion would be led by a bumbling supposedly "woke" male TA I restrained myself from storming out of the classroom leaving everything in my wake. As we discussed Barth, my arms folded across my chest and I kept myself from shouting curse words at everything my classmates said. The way class carried on like everything in the world was normal, like some great and obvious injustice had not just occurred before our very eyes on national television, made me want to flip the table in front of me. My eyes felt like laser beams trying to decimate every man in the class. Eventually, I looked up and locked eye contact with the portrait on the wall. Dr. Roberta Bondi - the first female professor at Candler - and I had a silent conversation above the heads of everyone else in that room. "You know. You have been here," I said. She said, "I will not leave you alone in here." When, with five minutes left in class, the conversation finally turned and I was asked (by name) my thoughts on feminism I couldn't answer. I just sat silently and refused.

Class ended and everyone left the class like normal. The TA looked at me quizzically and then also walked out while I lingered to say goodbye to Dr. Bondi. And then I lost it. Ugly sobbing everywhere. The rest of my day continued in much this same fashion. Trying not to hurt someone. Trying to only cry silently not loudly and obnoxiously. Totally unable to function.

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All of these experiences whirl around in my head. What am I trying to say?

Eckhart Tolle writes about the idea of a "painbody" - "an accumulation of painful life experience that was not fully faced and accepted in the moment it arose. It leaves behind an energy form of emotional pain. It comes together with other energy forms from other instances, and so after some years you have a 'painbody,' an energy entity consisting of old emotion." Tolle doesn't say this but I think some of these old emotions he talk about stem from generational trauma - like sexism and racism. The idea of a painbody explains not only why I was triggered by the preacher's words despite never having been explicitly told to obey the men in my life as a form of worship to God or why I was triggered to the point of rage at Blasey Ford's testimony and Kavanaugh's nomination. It also explains why my classmates could just go about their day reading white male theologians in a white male dominated class and not notice anything askew. For them, the pain has been removed, separated, from their bodies. Their brains may understand theoretically but as  Bessel Van Der Kolk writes, "The body keeps the score."

The bodies of my African-American friends and neighbors have been keeping the score for over 400 years. Trauma upon trauma upon trauma - their painbodies hold a deep knowledge my body will never know. Just like Matthew couldn't feel the pain of the radio-preacher's sermon so too is there is a depth of pain that I, as a white person, will never be able to understand. Especially during times like these. Death after death after death. Rage after rage after rage.

Yet, it is wrong of me to shut myself off from the pain that I am capable of feeling. When I refuse to let others pain enter my body I am able to maintain distance, separation, and superiority. When I maintain distance, separation, and superiority, I refuse to let others pain enter my body. I am not sure. There is pain I should feel just from the simple fact that I am human. A grown man dying under another man's knee while he calls for his mother. A "justice" system that protects white civilians who kill unarmed black men. A woman shot 8 times in her own home by the police. If you are human, these stories HURT. White people, we need to let them hurt.* When we are scared, may we find the bravery to take a step closer to the pain we fear. Let us try our hardest to look the pain in the eye and then listen deeply. This is the only way we regain the humanity our whiteness has stolen from us.
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I share these two photos from the lynching tree in Missouri as a visual example of getting close to the pain and feeling it (because let me tell you, that tree knew pain) instead of standing back and observing it.

​What I'm learning this week is that the way that we get close to the pain is by learning to say, like Matthew did, "I'm sorry. What do you need?" For me that meant reaching out to my friends whose painbodies are hurting right now and letting them know I want to be with them in their pain. It does not go unseen or unacknowledged. And although I have been too scared to feel the pain myself as soon as I force myself out of the abstract, intellectual place and into my body and my relationships, everything hurts. I imagine my parent friends trying to explain these deaths to their young sons. I consider organizer friends who must feel so burdened and yet with no time to rest because this is the time to act. I remember clergy friends trying to care for themselves and their black congregants while fending off white tears. And when I think of these people - real people with real stories and real emotions - it's like my eyes are opening and I can suddenly see the body swinging in the tree right before my eyes. And then I feel a bubble of anger rise up. I feel grief. I feel determination. I feel human.

When I ask my friends what they need they say different things - connections to more black clergy, prayers, and one has even asked me to be a guest speaker on her podcast. The first thing I should say is I am completely humbled and honored by her request to speak as a white ally during this time. I know what a privilege and responsibility that is. I want to do right by her and her listeners. But I have to be honest, I am scared. I haven't been to any protests. I haven't posted on social media (until now). In fact, I've been running away and letting my whiteness have the best of me when that feels like the worst thing an ally can do. I feel woefully inadequate and at times in the last month I have felt a handful of shame about that fact too.

Yet, this is the real, messy, inner-work of liberation. I had to write this post because it was my way of shining a flashlight on the whiteness monsters hiding in the crevices of my soul - ready and willing to devour me live and this whole world with it. This is how I get free. I cannot speak as an ally if I am only trying to liberate others. I cannot speak as an ally if I am just trying to fit the part and not living it internally too.  There is no hashtag to signify this kind of work. But I am learning. I am not perfect. Far far far from it! I fail every day. I am not the kind of ally I want to be. But learning to let myself feel, learning to sit in pain, learning to ask "what do you need?" will heal me, and our world, so much more than a yard sign or 280 characters ever will.

*It must be noted that while it is so important that we feel, please be aware of where/when/with whom/how you express this pain and any possible tears.  White tears have a way of redirecting the emotional energy of a room away from the situation that needs addressed and into consoling the white person.


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Jennifer Arnold is a St. John's member. Prior to joining she served as a ministry intern at St. John's while attending Candler School of Theology at Emory. The reflection above is shared by permission and originally appeared on her blog, The Education Exploration.