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Dear friends and members of University UMC:
Thank you for spending time with me in these Friday notes. I think about the community formed by those of you who read. You are people connected to University UMC, where I serve as one of the pastors. You are also colleagues and family, longtime friends and new friends who live as close by as my neighborhood and as far away as Boston. Readers, I am grateful for you. In these little Friday notes, you hold space as I pray the news.
This morning, I sit with my mug of coffee and read a Psalm. This is one of the ways I pray. I take in the words: |
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| Come, behold the works of the Beloved,how love does reign even inhumanity's desolation.For the Beloved yearns for wars to cease,shining light into fearful hearts..."Be still and know that I am Love.Awaken! Befriend justice and mercy;Do you not know you bear my Love?Who among you will respond? (Psalm 46, translated by Nan Merrill) |
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Fearful hearts.
I consider the type of fear that is sinful because it’s a fear of “the other” that leads to discrimination. It’s the devaluing of brown and Black bodies, evident in the disproportionate number of people of color detained, picked up off the streets by officials dressed in plainclothes. Then I think of fear that is understandable as I try to imagine the terror underrepresented persons experience in the living of these days.
Yesterday, I read about a teacher in Austin ISD detained by ICE. I consider the sin of systemic racism that has led to our inhumane immigration policies. The Psalmist claims that God the Beloved shines a light into fearful hearts. I question where the light is shining. Then I remember the words Rev. Dr. Park shared in worship Sunday: “A vision I have for University UMC is that it will be a home to anyone who has left their home for any reason - physically, emotionally, or spiritually.” This is the world as it should be. We are talking a lot at UUMC right now about our dreams and visions for the future. Dr. Park’s words reflect God’s dream. You can find more beautiful voices sharing in worship about dreams in the video I’ve placed below.
My prayers continue. Prayers of hope and prayers of lament live side by side. The hope for peace. The lament of war’s destruction - humanity’s desolation.
Earlier this week, we heard about the return of Israeli hostages who were kidnapped by Hamas about two years ago. Clearly, the kidnapping, abuse, and lives lost is terrible. Absolutely, the return is good news. Then I recalled a colleague’s postings on social media celebrating the return of the hostages, my heart hardening as I cried out in the privacy of my home, “But you never once posted about the brown Palestinian children left to die!” I confess my judgment. The return of the hostages caused many to feel hopeful about a true ceasefire. I confess my cynicism. “How long before Hamas picks up their weapons again? How long before Israel starts invading again?” I pray my bent towards cynicism is something to confess rather than the reality of relentless violence. I like to think I’m a person of faith and, even, a person of hope. But it has never been more difficult for me to believe in and hope for a lasting peace.
Last Sunday after worship, I gathered with others to hear Rev. Leyla King share from her book “Daughters of Palestine: A Memoir in Five Generations.” Rev. King is an Episcopal priest and Palestinian-American. Her page-turning book is all at once heartwarming and heartbreaking.
As Rev. King has written: |
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| | “My grandmother was four months pregnant with the child who would become my mother in April 1948 when, along with my grandfather, she fled for her life from her home in Haifa, Palestine, to Beirut, Lebanon, on a cargo ship. The two nights and one day on the ship, seasick and hormone-nauseated, with no food or water, no notion of what life was available to them in Beirut, were one of the darkest experiences of my grandmother’s life. It was an experience shared by many others like her in those horrifying days of the spring of 1948 as Israel was |
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founded and more than 750,000 Palestinians were forcibly evicted from their homes by violence, terrorism, and explicit existential threats.” |
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| It is true that Israel has been a place of safety for Jews following the horrific nightmare of the holocaust. It is also true that claiming land leads to harm and violence. And this is especially true when the taking and claiming of the land is done in the name of God. Lord, have mercy on us. Christ, have mercy.
As Rev. King shares her stories of family, faith (and food!), she offers insights and perspectives that challenge our society’s long-held beliefs and assumptions about conflict in the Middle East. I encourage you to step into her story. Purchase her book. Listen to her on podcasts. (I’ve placed a link to one below.) Even in the tragic stories of her family’s journey, Rev. King’s faith and hope shine through. Earlier this year, she wrote about joy as the ultimate resistance. I’ve included the poem. She uses the word dabkeh. I had to look it up! Dabkeh is an Arabian folk dance.
I still pray for peace. But I think God understands that my prayers for peace quickly grow complicated these days. I always have more to learn. And always in my ignorance, I stumble and at times offend in ways I do not intend. But as I continue to pray the news, I find God leading us to listen to the people on the margins and the voices that are underrepresented in the media. God asks us to befriend justice and mercy. God asks, “Who will bear my love?” May our response be the same as Rev. King’s in the last line of her poem: “Here am I, O Lord. Send me.”
What a joy to be your pastor!
Teresa |
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| Voices from Our Community | Visions and Dreams for UUMC |
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| | | | Despite it all, I will insist on joy.
I will drink in wonder in the natural world,
in the miracle of my own body,
in the faces of my children, glowing in life,
until there is no room left for despair.
And my joy will be the ultimate resistance,
the utter rebellion against the violence and evil in men’s hearts,
the glorious satisfaction that whatever happens, they cannot win;
they will not win.
They can murder and massacre my people and steep themselves in sin,
but we will yet find joy in the goodness of God’s creation,
in the sure knowledge of our salvation,
our own belovedness in the face of their bombs and blockades.
Vengeance is mine, says the Lord.
But how utterly shocking that even God’s righteous anger erupts as joy.
Not at our suffering. Never that, of course.
But what a feat of God’s power that I can yet still sing!
What a testament to His strength that we still praise Him with timbrel
and dance, a dabkeh right through doubt, to shout
above the chaos and confusion they inflict,
beyond the guilt and grief embedded in my heart,
yet still I shout – Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
So let that guilt as I watch from afar,
powerless and protected,
let my guilt be turned to gratitude,
not the saccharine, sickening survivor’s platitude –
“there but for the grace of God were I.”
But rather the recognition that by that grace,
here I am,
vibrant and alive.
Hear, hear, O callous world
my full-throated acceptance of divine demand:
By the blood of my people – of your people – shed by the evil one,
by the blood of my people – of your people – that yet courses in your veins,
do not be silent, O my daughter, but insist on JOY.
Carry it inside you, nurture it by all the good gifts I will give
and bring it forth into the world, rejoicing
to work my transformation of what is broken into the beauty of righteousness and truth.
All their suffering and sorrow, and all their pain,
I give to you, says the Lord.
And through you it will be redeemed.
Here am I, O Lord. Send me. |
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