don’t catch fire as you rise

Wax dripped onto my fingers as I gripped a candle in the midst of hundreds. I stood in Washington Square two nights ago, catching snatches of the speakers’ declarations, a litany of “Stand up, fight back”s and “This is what America looks like”s and “No ban, no wall”s. The memory of the press of people at my shoulders bolsters me now as I consider the past few days of controversial Executive Orders and the resulting protests.

It is a complicated day to be an American. It gets even more labyrinthine when you are a woman of color and a Christian. I find myself caught between multiple communities, affirming some words, hesitating with others, all the while trying to be consistent in where I stand. I must contend with the condemnations of the Women’s March that I walked in as well as the constant charges from other Christians to “give Trump a chance” and “wait and see.” I understand their reluctance to judge Trump’s actions–it can be perceived as an exercise of grace for a new leader.

Yet Trump has had more than a year-decades in fact-to demonstrate what kind of man he is and what he values. Words reflect the orientation of the heart, and I take his words seriously, as well as those from the constituents he surrounds himself with, many of whom at the worst have ties with nativist, neo-Nazi, and other discriminatory organizations and at the least offensive are unqualified for their positions of influence.

One hand grips this understanding. Then there is this:

Do I believe in a God big enough to transform Donald Trump’s heart, lead him in paths of wisdom and mercy? Yes. The answer will always be yes, as much as it was for Paul, as much as it was for me. When I align with Michelle Obama’s stance that “When they go low, we go high,” I choose to believe in God’s boundless ability to cultivate love in any person and use their life for good purpose–I refuse to doom them to eternal depravity, and it’s not my role anyway. Out of this, I choose to refrain from attacking Trump’s family, from engaging in aggressive actions against those who voted for him. Even if he doesn’t change, I still choose this. Going high means we don’t get to satisfy our desire to hurt others who have hurt us, no matter how justified it may be, and only God can enable that kind of grace.

I want to do the hard thing: acknowledge the imago dei in others AND hold them accountable for their actions–especially when those actions carry so much weight for communities already facing intense marginalization. There is a way to do both, and that path leads to the Cross. “We have the privilege of loving our enemies,” a friend told me yesterday. “And God’s like ‘You weren’t able to do this before. Not without me.'”

I had never thought about it in that way before. I get the privilege of loving my enemies. Before Christ, there was NO reason to do this–it makes no sense, it feels wrong even. Unfair. That is the Gospel though: the unfairness of Jesus’ sacrifice for us because how dare He choose to love the unlovable. How can I stand before God and reject the humanity of another person He created when I have been reborn through this Gospel?

I think it becomes harder to receive this message when others have co-opted it to silence you and soften the edges of horrific realities. I have witnessed too many white Christians appropriating the grace of the Gospel to dispel the pain of their sisters and brothers of color. I went to a Christian college and felt the sting when me and other black students were criticized for “creating more division” and “being too angry” when we talked about the racial problems on our campus. By the time a blatant incident of racism happened and no one at school could ignore it, the chimes of forgive forgive forgive forgive from our white classmates pricked at calluses built over years of dismissal and apathy.

Looking back on that experience, I’ve realized that the barriers became so thick because I felt like we were being asked to extend a hand, extend trust, extend grace, with no assurance that the other students even acknowledged our pain or would take steps to stand by us in the future. Some of us had been burnt too many times to risk it.

I’m sharing this now because I want to emphasize how hard Jesus’ teaching is when he tells us to love our enemies–and it may not even be our enemies! It could be loving our friends and neighbors and co-workers-and even family-who have committed microaggressions against us, who have offended us with their words spoken out of ignorance, who have perpetuated a passive acceptance of the world as it is because they haven’t seen it for the specific challenges we experience–or have been unwilling to. Where we locate the resistant tension in our hearts when we think of these people in our lives, that is where all the implications of “do good to those who hurt you” becomes a serrated truth, cutting deep.

I get the privilege of loving others when it feels impossible to do so. That is what Christ enables us to live out in our everyday interactions with others, whether that be on Facebook, in the work room, or at the dinner table. But what does this love look like? Does it look like holding hands and smiling at each other, pretending that our houses aren’t burning behind us? Does it mean we wave off Trump and get over it?

Well…no.

There is grave injustice at work in our country, and there are forces actively spurring the flames of disunity and fear. We shouldn’t diminish the wrongness of that. I am furious, and every time I see another Executive Order, I feel like screaming to the sky “Come, Jesus come!” Our church is in a fractious state, our conversations with neighbors brittle with unspoken grievances. We must stand where are and look around; this is where we are starting. Loving each other within this space of tension and uncertainty and breaches of understanding means that we choose to wrestle with the pain, with the current division and still face the Cross together as we do this.

We call out evil when we see it. We humbly challenge each other to consider experiences we aren’t familiar with (I’ve been learning a lot about the experiences of my low-income white sisters and brothers lately). We mourn the pain of others even as we invite them to enter our own. We speak out when we’ve been sinned against and repent when we sin against others, individually and as a community. We say NO to any laws and actions that harm our neighbors. We resist racism and sexism and xenophobia and persecution of any kind that grieves God’s heart. We acknowledge unbalanced power dynamics in our relationships, in our systems, and we dismantle them, guided by those who have been disempowered. That is love that rises to survey the mess and embraces the incisive truth-telling and white-knuckled dialogues that form the foundations for bridges.

Exposing the pain, exhaling it, tangling and untangling it with another person willing to work through it with you, as equals, is one of the most terrifying and healing choices you can make. I had one of these conversations with a friend, a white woman I love dearly, and I’ll never forget what she told me, or the validating balm it was for my grief and outrage:

I’m sorry that in the great gamble of history, for some reason, people who look like me, people with my color skin, came out on top. I don’t know why that is when it could’ve have easily been the other way around. I’m sorry for the ways me and my people have hurt your community. I’m sorry for the ways I’ve oppressed you or silenced you and your community–especially unintentionally…The greatest injustice is that you were made to feel guilty for doing the things to survive, to feel safe…I don’t have a right to your trust. I have to earn it…Will you forgive me?

I did. And she forgave me for all the times I’ve painted her with a broad-brush, dismissed her as another white person I struggled to trust, failed to empathize with the suffering she has seen and experienced in the South. We’ve had a lot more of these conversations in the past year–and it’s hard. It’s confusing and tense and cathartic and vulnerable. We have found communion within burning wreckage and discovered ways to build a friendship that allows us both to rise without blistering.

In some ways it’s easier and harder to do this with a friend–what about with a stranger? Someone on the Internet? That person at church whose politics make you grit your teeth?The politician who makes himself an dart-board for mockery? Can we pursue this type of radical, counter-cultural, Gospel-seeded love with them too? I am asking myself this question now as I struggle between the reflex to pile insult and indignation and the awareness of how my actions testify to Christ whom I claim dwells in me. There is a difference between the righteous outrage that illuminates wrong and the bitter rancor that can warp our vision. We cannot shame and demean another person and face the Cross at the same time. Neither can we go high and still grip stones to throw.

the inaugurating call

We woke today in different frames of mind. Some celebrate. Some weep. Some lack the words to capture the complicated thoughts twisting inside them. I wonder how history will look back on this day. Will it mark the day as anything memorable? Will this day take up a corner in the national tome, only a blip on a grander scale? Will it signal a great quake or a tiny tremor, unworthy of notice by later generations?

But I don’t live 5 years from now, or 15, or 50. I can’t predict how these coming years will benefit or damage us, and neither can I tell you that this will all blow over when I have no assurance it will.

I am present in this moment, and in this moment, I feel grief. Those who boycott the inauguration or speak out against the man coming into office are being told to “get over it.” Through some eyes, to be critical is to denounce our democratic system or exacerbate the divisiveness in our nation. I acknowledge that there is always this danger of demonizing others or lapsing into a sense of self-righteousness when results don’t turn out in the way you expected or desired. I realize that our system as is elected this man, and I support a peaceful transfer of power. I choose not to ignore that reality. Donald Trump is our President.

He is my President, but I will not normalize his words or other actions. I will not affirm the contempt and vilification he has thrown upon my Latinx family, immigrants and daughters and sons of immigrants. I will not say it is okay when he compares Black Lives Matter activists to terrorists and supports further aggressive police measures to “keep order,” even when it may lead to more dead black bodies on the street. I will not get over his dismissal of my LGBTQA friends as they struggled  to be seen, his neglect of my indigenous neighbors when they have fought so hard to gain notice of the abuses they face. I will not stand alongside his consistent demoralization of my sisters of all colors.

John Piper shared a message today that acknowledges the challenges of living under an unqualified leader. I resonate with the words he opens with:

Today we will inaugurate a man to the presidency of the United States who is morally unqualified to be there. This is important to say just now because not to see it and feel it will add to the collapsing vision of leadership that enabled him to be nominated and elected.

Not only that, but if we do not see and feel the nature and weight of this sorrow, we will not know how to pray for his presidency or speak as sojourners and exiles whose pattern of life is defined in heaven, not by the mood of the culture.

I appreciate the attention he gives to the “weight of this sorrow,” the difficulty of knowing how to respond to this presidency when it has aggravated so many existing divisions and grievances. Yet his later point that followers of God have been able to flourish under problematic political regimes echoes the words of my father, who reminded me that, “God allows the rise and fall of good and bad kings.” We see this to be true in the Old Testament when the Israelites experienced slavery, conquest, exile under pharaohs and kings. We see this to be true in the New Testament when the growing numbers of Christ followers were threatened by torture, execution, public humiliation under the law of Roman rulers. We may not understand why, but bad kings are allowed to take power, even as they ultimately fall under the sovereignty of God.

Now, no President can be cataloged as wholly good or bad, but we can acknowledge that with the rise of some leaders comes higher stakes for certain communities. I urge you now to consider who bears the cost of the inauguration today. Who is feeling fear today–who is grieving?

I will not dismiss these concerns as petty or over-sensitive when their weight drags me to the margins where we should all rightfully be. Yes, there has been a measure of bitterness and pettiness on multiple sides, but these do not diminish the legitimate concerns many carry in regards to this incoming administration. People worry about their healthcare, the education of their children, their citizenship status, their ability to walk to the store and not have to see racist or homophobic slurs scrawled on the walls.

I can engage these anxieties yet still point to the eternal reality that Jesus is Lord and, as he declared in John 16:33: “But take heart! I have overcome the world.” Whatever our circumstances are, He transcends them, and He equips us to navigate the difficult periods where we have few clear answers. I lean on that strength now and answer to him as Master.

Jesus is Lord, and we have work to do.

If you voted for Trump, defend and lift up your neighbor, similar and different from yourself.

If you did not vote for Trump, defend and lift up your neighbor, similar and different from yourself.

None of us can claim exemption from the type of empathetic listening, humble heart-wrestling, and perseverant bridge-building the years ahead require of us. We entered the election already divided in so many ways. Do not call for unity unless you are truly willing to answer to what it will ask of you, because as someone once told me, “Be careful of what you pray for, because God will surely answer.”

If you truly seek to be one united family, it will cost you your assumptions. It will cost you your pride. It will cost you your comfort. It will cost you homogeneity and familiarity. It will cost you the satisfaction of hurting those who hurt you. Much must be cast down for a new foundation to be built.

My indigenous sisters and brothers, you have work to do. This work includes allowing God to bring you rest and comfort. Let Jesus reach those deep wounds in your communities and bring healing. Confront the forces that try to shrink you, make you feel forgotten or abandoned. Our Heavenly Father loves you so much, and He hears your cries. Continue to protest the injustices done against you, and know you do not stand alone. Nurture your children and remind them of the beauty and strength and resilience seeded in your stories. Please share your stories. I need to hear them, need to be convicted by your words, and I submit to you now. Challenge the rest of us past silences towards action. Lead us as we untangle our country’s sins and reconcile our peoples.

My black sisters and brothers, we have work to do. Many of you have already been engaged in the rebuilding of your communities. You have reached out to our poor, empowered our children and reminded them of how exceptional and worthy they are. You have engineered more just local and national policies. You have been relentless in making visible what has been invisible to privileged others for too long in our country. Continue that work and do not grow weary of doing good. Pray for our country and allow God to use you in the transformation of our churches, our workplaces, our homes, our streets. When you are tired, rest and know that your anger and sadness are warranted. But do not allow our Enemy to manipulate that anger into resentment and condemnation towards our white brothers and sisters. As believers, we don’t get to write them off and stop talking to them. We are called to draw close, to love, to share, to seek to understand, and to hold them accountable. This is hard work, and other voices may take advantage of our compassion and demand more from us. Some may label us appeasers and warn us that by choosing to love people who have the potential to hurt us, we are weak. But that is not the mercy we have been shown by the Cross, and it is out of the grace given to us that we keep striving to bring the unified Kingdom of Heaven to our soil.

My white sisters and brothers, you have work to do. Many look at the statistics of white evangelicals who voted for Trump and doubt the relevance of the church in its lack of social justice literacy. Some of us people of color have wondered how many of you in the safety of your homes espouse Trump’s beliefs, depicted powerfully in this comic. The hesitation and lack of trust this engenders has hurt our ability to commune together as one family. Now is an opportunity to approach those confused and hurting with gentle hands and compassionate hearts. Listen without seeking to defend your identity as a good person. Ask God what your role is to be in the lives of those oppressed right now, whether that means protesting, deepening friendships, reading books outside your comfort zone, joining efforts that address injustice, or teaching other white people from what you are learning. But do not be silent; do not be still. Out of the grace that has been shown to you, extend that now to those you may not understand right now. I assume nothing of who or what you voted for, but I invite you now to communicate with your choices, your actions how Christians love within the tension, within the adversity, within the existing divisions. Solidarity involves sacrifice. This is a grueling journey, and there are times when you will feel chastised and guilty for being white or hurt and frustrated when you are dismissed as a hater or ignorant when you just want to help others.  You are joining with others who have been in this struggle for far longer, and there will be clashes, but hold firm. You have much to gain when your sisters and brothers of color are finally treated as equals and we eat together at one table. Stake your identity in Christ and not the reputation you can craft and preserve. He loves you, and he will show you the way forward.

My Asian sisters and brothers, you have work to do. Our country may try to whiten you and widen the divide between our communities, but do not submit to that temptation. You are not foreign; you are family. Take ownership of that truth and share your stories. Bring light to the things I don’t see as a black woman. Know that God shaped you and cherishes you. I invite you now to step up and actively join conversations concerning justice–it’s for all of us, and the problems of the most vulnerable of us are ALL of our problems. You have a unique point of view, and we all need to hear it. Please let others’ lives matter to you in the personal made political. Declare that black lives matter to you and practice that. Protect immigrants, whether they speak Spanish or Quechua or Cantonese or Malayan. Our struggles become woven in one thread, and we petition God on behalf of our community, knowing He has created us to belong to each other. Out of the grace you have been shown, reach out to those outside your walls and may your love make them tremble.

My Latinx sisters and brothers, we have work to do. Our communities grow, and we are perceived as a threat in too many spaces; like our Asian neighbors, we are are Othered. But we treasure family, and when we accepted Christ, our family expanded to include thousands of all colors and backgrounds. Let us model that value and be unshakable in our desire to see all people welcomed. We get tired too, and it is tempting to isolate ourselves in our hurt and cling to what we fear to lose, whether that be loved ones, homes, languages. Cling to Christ; He will not forsake you. His love knows no boundaries, no walls and we have the privilege of allowing that love to permeate our interactions with others. We represent so much beautiful diversity, and our country needs exposure to that gift. We can act as curanderas at the cracks and bring paz even as we resist policies and crimes that inflict harm upon the marginalized peoples around us. We may be pulled in many directions, we may pass as many things, but we know where we come from, and we are at home in the arms of our Savior. Out of the grace we have been shown, let us welcome the stranger and make them our family, and may we stop any who dare make them feel less than lovable.

My sisters and brothers made Other, you have work to do. The racial binary was not designed for you, and neither did our Founding Fathers consider you when they created the laws of this land. You have come from many shores, and yet have not been assured a place here. I lament that reality with you. You are ethnic, ambiguous, biracial, mixed, unlabeled by human measure, but God designed you with intention. He will use that inherent resistance to fit into categories to break down barriers. He will use you to reflect His kingdom in its diversity and limitlessness. Loosen your hands so your story can be released into the world, and it will be a tide that sifts out what is broken and soothes seething rifts. Let no one silence you; speak out from where you stand. Mentor and lift up those struggling with their identities and remind them of the worth endowed them by Jesus. Draw out the truth from misconceptions and stereotypes, and make the unknown and alien real and personal for those of us who do not yet know you. Out of the grace you have been shown, take your place as ambassadors and bring about the flourishing of all peoples.

Be encouraged today. Jesus has overcome the world, and He has set aside works for us to do, with patience, with faith, with love. I see you, and I pray for you. I pray for our new President, that he is granted wisdom and compassion. And I pray that we all do the hard work of contending with our racism, our sexism, our pride, our prejudice, our silence, our suffering and inaugurate a season of repentance and reflection in this nation. May the world be changed by what we start today, and may we never falter as God guides our steps.

hidden fences and tripped syllables

Awards season is here–whether you foam at the mouth at the mention of “Oscar” or start to yawn instead. Regardless, now is the time when critics and audiences sum up the highlights of the cinematic year. We start hearing more and more about “Oscar bait,” a reference to the period films and historical biopics and somber dramas that usually garner the acclaim of the Academy. This is when we reap the so-called best of the harvest–the films that enter the pantheon of essential films introduced to later generations. For Americans, these films are meant to reflect the peaks of our cultural and creative endeavor.

So I was irked when a reporter interviewed Pharrell Williams at the Golden Globes for his work on “Hidden Fences.” The ire flared again when Michael Keaton later announced Octavia Spencer (a notable black actress) for her nomination in…again “Hidden Fences.” There is no “Hidden Fences.” There is the movie Hidden Figures and the movie Fences, both of which:

a) came out recently

b) contain predominantly black casts

c) have received much praise from audiences and critics alike

But it’s a simple flub right? Shouldn’t I let it go and simply move on–after all, people make mistakes when on-air all the time. However, to simply dismiss it would be to forget #OscarsSoWhite. Last year’s awards season controversy centered on the startling dearth of people of color featured in film and critical attention…at least startling to many white Americans. When the gap finally become too wide to miss, suddenly you saw this outpouring of indignant articles and tweets confronting the Academy.

Black Twitter and other spaces where POC congregate have been tackling this subject for years.

I find myself less trusting of mainstream awards shows when it comes to representation of minority groups–and for good reason. When an actor or actress of color becomes a media darling, the result can be a double-edged sword: while their performance or film receives deserved recognition, the awareness of their race also heightens with it, and it can lead to some painful “flubs.” I still remember how people cooed over child actress Quvenzhané Wallis a few years ago for her performance in Beasts of the Southern Wild, and yet few took the time to pronounce her name correctly. Her otherness took form in the syllables of her name, which became unwieldy steps tripped over by white announcers and reporters and late-night hosts.

She was not the only person of color to have her non-whiteness pointed at by Hollywood, and she was not the last. White Americans do not have a great track record when it comes to celebrating people of color in cinema. The African-American blog MadameNoire has a great tongue-in-cheek article that highlights just how many black celebrities have been mistaken for each other over the years. The gaffes turn into a joke on SNL and then the public moves on–but we haven’t moved forward. That two major films like Hidden Figures and Fences can be confused for each other when this doesn’t happen to the La La Lands and Allieds underlines the need for more media spaces opened to people of color. It also underlines just how desperately America needs re-education on how white privilege functions both on the screen and off.

If two black films getting popular is such an anomaly that they can be treated as interchangeable, even though they focus on different subject matter, how indistinguishable are black people in everyday life?

I’m not talking about friends and neighbors–I’m talking about what happens when the rich diversity of darker-skinned peoples becomes subsumed into Black (for more on the history of racial labeling, check out The History of White People). There is so much awkwardness and tension surrounding the use of the labels “White” or “white people,” and weirdly enough, a nonwhite person could be written off as a “reverse racist” for using them. No one bats an eye when you start talking about black people. The facile use of “Black” implies that those connected to that category as normalized as part of a collective while “White” is associated with the individual. Black can be collectivized, blended and stereotyped on that level while White has the option of remaining safely unique and independent (no, those jokes about “white people can’t dance” are not equivalent in this conversation). White people don’t actually have to be white or a people, but black people will still ping on the radar in relation to their racial group first.

This isn’t even a phenomenon exclusive to black people–I’ve observed many times when a Korean and Chinese person are confused for one another, when blanket statements about “those Hispanics” pop up in conversation, when a Indian friend is asked if their “English name” can be used instead because their actual name twists the tongue. It stings. Not only are people of color defined first by a group status, reducing our singularities, our identity is implied as “forever foreign” (as Mia Tuan points out in her book Forever Foreigners or Honorary Whites?: The Asian Ethnic Experience Todayor, simply, alternative to the norm–not white. When you are not the implicit norm, less time and space is allocated by the mainstream to examine those nuances that craft the complexity of your personhood.

Lack of exposure to diversity and a lack of effort to make those differences matter in personal practice cultivates this kind of latent indifference that slips into daily interactions. It may not be intentional, but it casts people of color in the role of the perpetual Other, and the reality is reinforced when our varied cultural ways of being, even down to the way we worship, can be construed as a deviation from standard–or worse, superfluous enough that it’s optional to learn our histories. That is why I took African-American Literature only as an elective in college–because we didn’t read black stories in the required core English classes. That is what it looks like to be on the margins: even your stories aren’t easily accessible.

In his speech on racial separatism, Malcolm X critiqued some contingents within the Civil Rights movement for over-emphasizing assimilation into American society as the ultimate goal of the movement. He stressed that the push for integration had not benefited black people–it just gave a new shape to their marginalization. He pointed to the white flight that occurred after neighborhoods were integrated, the economic disparities black people faced even as the color line by law appeared to dissolve. His words challenged listeners to think critically about whether assimilation signified true equality or a buttressing of whiteness as the ultimate aspiration for all Americans. I wonder if he feared what would be lost if black people were assimilated but not embraced on their own terms.

While I disagree with his conclusion that racial separation is the answer, I resonate with his frustration. Sometimes it feels like for all the self-congratulating speeches our nation gives itself on our progress, the otherness of our communities has been sharpened in the process. For instance, Black and Asian and Latinx persons shouldn’t be treated as exceptional only when they represent the exception for “their people,” framed in a triumphalist narrative that is palatable enough to be celebrated. When that happens, they are still being defined by their otherness and how well they negotiate it in white-dominated spheres of influence like Hollywood.

We shouldn’t need to be reframed or renamed to be welcomed as equals. We are allowed to be individuals, God-created persons who embody a mosaic of taste and talent and experience. And yet we should also avoid diluting our ethnic differences away to replace them with an antiseptic type of colorblindness that misses the richness of our individual and collective histories and cultures. There is a way to honor that variety without crystallizing it as atypical. Unity emerges from differences valued rather than tolerated.

We celebrate MLK’s birthday today, and it’s vital that we don’t romanticize the man and the injustices he noticed and challenged during his lifetime. MLK was a controversial figure who didn’t just speak of dreams–he spoke about the alienation of black people in a society not designed for our flourishing. He was the man who preached:

“History will have to record that the greatest tragedy of this period of social transition was not the strident clamor of the bad people, but the appalling silence of the good people.”

MLK framed inequality as not only the result of these silences, but also as a reflection of our estrangement as a greater American community. We are still not one people when some members are accepted as American without a second thought while others clamber over the -dash.

When even the names of people of color cannot be pronounced correctly, the American story contracts a little more, and the walls press against the backs of those who rarely enter the center of the action. We (people of color) are here. Our stories already indent this land. So maybe it is not the belonging associated with assimilation that we seek. I don’t want to be melted away into a pot of progress, my blackness, my Latinxness ceasing to matter. Neither do I want that diversity casually stumbled over, glanced at, treated as alternative and alien instead of beautiful and right and utterly normal.

Maybe we simply want the freedom of visibility, to be acknowledged, not as beacons of racial progress to indulge or emblems of the exotic and unpronounceable to tease, but as equals. What is hidden and held back can be hurt; when those hidden step into the light, they are human, bodied, and lovable. MLK was one such person who mirrored Christ in the way his actions clothed once-invisible bodies so they would no longer be ignored or diminished. He helped dignify marginalized peoples and champion the worth already inherent in their creation. So now when our names are spoken, when our stories are shared, when we join with our brothers and sisters of all colors and take up more space in the fabric of America, we honor that legacy and carry it forward.

“I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made straight and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together.” – Martin Luther King Jr. 

a million things I haven’t done

My life has never settled into the rhythms of all I wanted. A year ago, anticipation thrumming under my skin, I thought I would be in a very different place by this point. Half-pieced visions of finished poems, a set stage for speaking out, a romantic relationship in bloom beckoned me to hope for things I yearned for and to reach out for what God could have in store for me.

When the last day of the year arrives, sometimes you can’t help the shame and disappointment that trickles in when you realize all that has been unfulfilled. I know I am tempted to sort out my life into the should’ves, could’ves, and the little good eeked out that offers marginal comfort. I could easily view this year with the same lens. Where is that book I said I would write? Those people I was supposed to reach out to? That guy who was supposed to show up? Wasn’t I supposed to be braver, bolder now?

That strain of thinking represents remnants of an old life, before the Gospel took hold of me, before Jesus. It re-emerges in the vulnerable moments when I still wonder if I am enough, but as this year has reminded me, it no longer has to dominate my vision. It is easier to feel like God has denied me what I desire; it is also easier to blame myself for how paltry my movements forward feel, but God does not view my year with those eyes.

He does not view my days as a waste to be winced over and eagerly left behind. Neither does he pin an evaluation of them on my estimation of my goodness. How grateful I am for that!  I live no longer as a summary of milestones like marriage or job promotions or great good acts I should do, but instead as a beneficiary of Jesus’ actions at the Cross. The performance anxiety ebbs in the face of my Savior, who sustains me with what has eternal resonance: His love.

This does not absolve me of the responsibility to continue taking steps of obedience to serve the communities I am part of, to love all the peoples God created and cherishes. We have witnessed great losses this year, not just of iconic celebrities, but of black women and men bleeding out from police brutality, Syrian families caught in the crossfire of war, LGBTQ individuals gunned down. We saw the devastating loss of trust between racial communities in the U.S. as this past election ripped away the curtain of pretense and revealed how deeply the wounds of racism affect each of us. These stand as the stark realities of 2016, and I am still accountable to my neighbors.

But there is a verse I keep coming back to–the other 3:16, this time in Philippians:

Only let us live up to what we have already attained

The verse follows Paul’s declaration to press on to take hold of what Jesus has for him, to strain toward what is ahead and run the great race. Through these words, the Past becomes a coach spurring us into further action instead of a colossal relic halting our progress. We get a glimpse of God’s eternal gaze and realize that we have journeyed farther than we knew and must keep going, even as we trip and hurtle forward.

We take into the future all the little realizations, the invisible turning points, the conversations that shifted the gears of our thinking, the tears we wept over every death we witnessed, the steely words of our mothers and fathers who warned us not to stop caring, not to stop fighting, even if all we can do in the moment is exult in our next breath.

That is living in its unfettered dynamism, and every single moment of it matters. Nothing is wasted, even our trembling in the face of giants.

Our lives cannot be a cosmic To-Do List where we needle ourselves for not doing enough or loving enough. That thinking helps no one, and it is too feckless and feeble to confront injustice or even face our own demons. We enter each day trundled in a grace outside ourselves, captive only to Jesus, author and perfecter of our faith. Our expectations may waver, our entitlements sour, but He does not change. Our actions on Earth are framed in that grace He extends, and we act on behalf of others because He demonstrates to us each day what love looks like. That is the hope of the Gospel that extends past Christmas morning, past New Year’s Day, and vibrates in every new year to come. It’s the grandiosity of God, not our ambitions, that we must abide in. We move with conviction, not guilt.

Now, we show up and follow Him. That is all He asks, and He will not shame us when we stumble, nor mock us for the yearnings yet to be realized–for ourselves and for our world.

There is much still wrong with the world to be reconciled, and our arms are able to reach that much farther than those before us reached. Not only that, but when I look at my life with the words of Philippians 3:16 mantled on my shoulders, I do not see failure; I see promise. So let us live up to what we have already attained. 

There’s a million things I haven’t done

and I may never do them all

but they are not a weight

compressing me small

I wait on my God

eyes forward

He calls

aurora

There are the moments that the words don’t reach… – Hamilton

It is easy to write when the sun shines. All is well, the Muse descends, and the words sparkle into being. It is even easier to write when it rains because each drop startles you into alertness; in that moment, you are vividly alive and aware of each one pressing into your skin. Even when the rain is undesirable, threatening, relentless, at least you know where you stand and react accordingly.

But when a darkness creeps over you, heavy yet hollow, with no rain, no slice of lightning even to illuminate the trees, the ground, the people around you, words seem to fail.

Suffering can carry that sort of darkness. We are human, and because of that, we exist within boundaries of how much pain we can bear before our consciousness cracks under the weight. When unchecked, it swells and swells until the pain both drowns our senses and eviscerates us, abandoning us to a cavity of grief.

We try to grasp the meaning of it, the lessons propelling it, but when no answer emerges, the jaded darkness draws in greedily, ready for our surrender. It’s too much, too much to handle or manage, so why not feel nothing? Numbness is an addictive alternative.

I don’t why know why hundreds of innocent people are getting murdered in Aleppo. I don’t know why black men and women are getting gunned down every week in the United States. I don’t know why some people get cancer and others like me never see illness.

There are “logical” reasons underlying all of these, but that’s not the why we seek. We want to know why THEM, why US, why is OUR world allowed to be so horrendous and heartbreaking. Maybe knowing the why lessens the weight of it all.

I sat in a dark hospital room with a friend as she lay sick, and I asked myself why. Her eyes could not handle the light, and I hated seeing her in pain. I couldn’t do anything to fix it. I couldn’t free her veins from the insidious force that had clamped around them. Clunky machines crowded her bed, beeping and buzzing, and I could do nothing. She didn’t deserve this, didn’t even know she was sick…so why was this happening?

I fought my tears and failed, and I prayed.

Sitting with her for over a week in the darkness, a slow understanding began to kindle. See, I am always looking for some new revelation, some explosive encounter with God that will make everything clear, draw thick lines that edge the paths I should follow so I won’t get lost. I am always seeking the big mountaintop experience that will throw everything hidden into relief. But as I huddled in the shadows, thoughts straining to reach some cognizance about pain and death and suffering, God did make something clear: I don’t need anything new.

I don’t need a new book or theological discipline or spiritual revelation. I need to be re-awakened to what I’ve already been given.

As a follower of Christ for years, I know the Bible stories, the Gospel message. Yet this past year has grounded into me the realization that I have dulled their power in shaping my reality and daily life. These ideas have become like well-worn jeans so I have forgotten that I was once naked and in need of covering. I once needed a Savior…and I still do.

I have taken these fundamental stories for granted, and this neglect constrains my vision. I miss out on the Great Story that transcends my pain, my loved ones’ pain, and points to the only One who can offer relief. When a crisis hits, the power wielded by that story fades into the periphery when it should define everything.

Christmas is part of that Great Story, and we either round its edges or fashion it into whatever tool we need to justify our cause. A pastor of mine described this action as us trying force Jesus into the mold of who we desire him to be, whether that be our therapist, our social justice warrior, our political revolutionary. We want Jesus’ power over death, over sickness, over injustice–and that’s not a bad thing. But when I look at the Christmas story again, I’m struck most by this: Jesus came to us weak and vulnerable and small.

Our world was lost in the dark, mired in war and grief, and it would have been washed out by a Sun. We expected a mighty king but might have cowered had he arrived in that form. Instead, the Son descended like a glimmer, cradled in frailty. This did not negate the power he wielded as God, but that power manifested itself in the way he demonstrated weakness when among us. He knew what it was like to live as a refugee, to cry when friends died, to experience persecution for his ethnicity, to toil at a low-income job, to face rejection because what good could come from Galilee? And then he died in the most horrific way, broken and mocked and tortured. With every shaking, choked breath he could have tipped his finger and saved himself, but he suffered to save us. He took ownership of all suffering so suffering could no longer own us.

When we say Jesus is Emmanuel, we declare to the world that he not only chose to familiarize himself with our pain, but he also conquered it. This awareness does not dissolve the reality of pain, but instead places it into a framework where we see and acknowledge Jesus’ sovereignty over pain and His love for us experiencing pain. He paved a way for us to know comfort and peace in Him even as our world lumbers towards the ultimate healing he promises. We haven’t reached that end yet, but as I wrote in my previous post, the Gospel truth we cling to illuminates our steps as we struggle together through the evils that remain and the hurt they cause.

Light has always been associated with Christmas (as dozens of sweetly bland Netflix holiday films testify to), but that light holds weight to me in a way that it didn’t before. Not the twinkling lights strung along fences and rooftops, but I think of the brilliance and warmth of a light that shoves away the shadows and reclaims Earth simply by touching it again. A star in the East, a moon hovered over a cramped cave. God drew down to Earth in the form of a weak, tiny baby, and light followed.

Fixing on that light brings clarity to my surroundings, tenebrous as they are in physicality. Cliche as it sounds, I am re-discovering that at the heart of Christmas lies a light that eclipses all suffering. This is not an opiate, but rather a way to endure and allow Jesus’ love for me to define the way I engage with pain. I move forward into this season with the certainty that Christmas introduced the changing of the world, a massive upheaval where sickness no longer reigns, death no longer conquers, and suffering no longer dictates our destinies.

I did not expect to feel peace in that dark room with my friend. But this indescribable peace emanated through the blank walls, and I knew her pain did not go unnoticed by her Creator. I didn’t need the answer to why; I just needed to know that it wasn’t the end all–and it isn’t.

Our words lack the ability to reach and minister to our pain. But John 1 names Jesus the very Word of God, the one present at the beginning and the source of all beginnings, and that Word reached us. We do not see all the whys or hows, but we see Him, and that is enough.

There is a grace too powerful to name

We push away what we can never understand

We push away the unimaginable

May God bless you this Christmas and remind you that Jesus knows weakness, vulnerability, and pain. He is with us when the darkness threatens to swallow us, and He draws us close to the light of His love, a fierce, unyielding love that no sickness or weapon can touch. He came down to us because He loves us, and despite all the unimaginable horrors around us, we know hope by knowing Him. That hope will ground us in the days to come. I leave you with one of my favorite passages from Lord of the Rings, and I pray that you too will see the Christmas story with new eyes:

There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach. – The Land of Shadow, The Return of the King 

 

birth pains

I think we are ready for 2016 to be over.

The quick succession of high-profile deaths (Florence Henderson, Muhammad Ali, Prince, Alan Rickman, David Bowie), the mass shootings and weekly reports of unwarranted police brutality, the fallout from the recent election has us stretching out for some invisible remote, fingers thumbing for the fast-forward button.

“Doesn’t it feel like the world is getting worse?” my roommate asked me as we drove through my hometown, the sun’s rays fading on our shoulders. The question hung in the air, heavy from days of red-rimmed headlines and dried tears.

“Maybe…” I answered. “I try not to think about it.”

Try is the word of choice here because I, we feel the strain of how unutterably difficult our world is. Every generation experiences a little of its falling apart and grapples with the question of what to do as we sit watching smoke rise and night fall.

When I think of this year, of the intensification of #BlackLivesMatter and the refugee crisis and increasing Islamophobia and the Pulse nightclub shooting and Standing Rock and the further litany of tragedies and injustices strung along this year’s timeline, I feel the ache Jesus alluded to when he responded to his disciples’ question about “the end of the age”:

And Jesus answered them, “See that no one leads you astray. For many will come in my name, saying, ‘I am the Christ,’ and they will lead many astray. And you will hear of wars and rumors of wars. See that you are not alarmed, for this must take place, but the end is not yet. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom, and there will be famines and earthquakes in various places. All these are but the beginning of the birth pains.Matthew 24:3-8

Birth pains. I’ve never experienced labor in regards to babies, but I resonate with the kind of labor involved in struggling through daily life in a world wracked with conflict and suffering. The signs Jesus describes…I’ve seen them. I’ve seen such darkness in human hearts–including my own. I’ve sensed the contractions of division within our families, within our communities. Yet where I might view all this as harbingering one colossal downward spiral to the End, Jesus names what I see as…a beginning.

Beginning of what? Jesus encourages his disciples to not be alarmed, but I can’t help but imagine their faces as he told them this, and it’s easy to picture because the same expression has crossed my face. How are you supposed to face all the pain around you, in you, without surrendering to the temptation to hide, build higher walls, and curb your gaze to the little havens you create just to survive?

As humans, we are accustomed to anxiety driving us rather than hope. Anxiety is a familiar frenemy (using contemporary parlance here) that keeps us hyperaware of the flaws in our foundations, dragging us through each day with gritted teeth because the alternatives it poses are too terrifying for us to handle. Hope is reserved for Hallmark cards, the kind that blare out in high-pitched harmonies when opened and get cut off the moment you clamp the pages closed. It’s inevitable, so why prolong the music when it won’t last?

This type of thinking probably sounds melodramatic, fatalistic, forlorn…and you’re right. But I also think that each of us struggles with this deep-knit anxiety over the future that nice words can’t dissolve. Even those of us laboring to make this world better despite the obstacles have these moments where we are just floored by the breadth of suffering around us. We can’t comprehend the amount of pain that slips through the grooves between our fingers; we can’t cup the devastation in our hands and see it all at once.

If this is supposed to be the beginning of birth pains, leading to some great Good, how do we begin to abide in that reality?

My pastor once shared with me a diagram of the Gospel story arc: Creation, Fall, Redemption, and Consummation (or Restoration). He explained that each of us views our world and areas of our lives through these lenses at different points. Sometimes we luxuriate in the newness and innocence of what we see and experience; sometimes all we can see is the brokenness around us. Then there is the lens that allows us to acknowledge both the debris and the efforts to build up and out of it. It doesn’t diminish the weight of pain and how complex it is, and neither does it blanket systemic injustices like racism. It offers no pert, simplistic answers to the question of suffering. Instead, the lens of Redemption encompasses a “living hope,” as another pastor recently described, a hope founded on certainty for the future, the assurance of what will come.

For me, I cling to the certainty is that Jesus is Lord, and this incoming Advent season reminds me of that. This is no opiate, nor a velvet-edged platitude. The Jesus story is radical, and it should rattle our routine to the core. Prophecy preceded him, social upheaval followed him, and Death itself died with him. Then from a three-day dawn came the greatest riot our world has ever seen as Jesus rose from the dead and declared that we are a people on the road to restoration. That is our identity–not a global bruise of still-bleeding communities trying to fight evil but doomed to languish, but a people of hope. We are people of a hope renewed daily when we choose to trust Jesus with our individual futures and the Future of our world. The fullness of that restoration has not arrived yet, but the process has begun.

I could allow the lens of the Fall, of everything that is screwed up, to overwhelm my eyes…and sometimes it does. There are depressed and raw, smarting days. But again and again I re-learn how to rest in the truth that God is good–and not only when my circumstances are good. In response to that truth, my sight gravitates towards the healing already in progress, already at work among us. Rather than getting consumed with the question of pain management and pain containment, I find myself enabled by God’s love to both see the good taking place in my environment and do good. The hope ringing in the Jesus story invites me to join in on a movement of renovation greater than any HGTV project could aspire to: We are invited and equipped to participate in no less than the renewal of all things for the good of all.

The aftermath of the election has triggered anxieties about our future. There are so many people I love who are angry, scared, confused, and estranged from those they used to call friend and neighbor. The more I read and watch, the more I hear bleak whispers in my mind coalescing, speaking of a congealed pain at the heart of my nation that cannot be fixed. They tell me, Keep fighting if you want, but if things are this bad now, what can truly change? 

It may feel like this election only points to how broken we are.

A scene comes to mind, one from the Disney movie Zootopia which, rather fittingly, came out this year. Zootopia surprised a lot of us by examining a wide span of issues like xenophobia and prejudice, but I want to highlight one scene that I think sums up the crux of the story. The rabbit police officer Judy Hopps has just thrown her city into frenzy with her thoughtless suggestion that once-predatory animals are biologically-engineered to be savage. She watches her community unravel as fear of the Other takes hold, and animals pit themselves against each other, convinced that this or that group must be the enemy. Not only that, but her prejudice-tinged words hurt her friend, the fox Nick. Overwhelmed by the painful repercussions of her actions, Judy approaches her boss with the intention of resigning her police commission:

Judy Hopps: I came here to make the world a better place, but I think I broke it.

Chief Bogo: Don’t give yourself so much credit, Hopps. The world has always been broken, that’s why we need good cops. Like you.

The words of a heavily-muscled animated bull may seem like a strange place to find wisdom, but I think Bogo’s point merits reflection, especially in these times. The world did not get more broken with Trump’s election to President. The election did not break us. The election revealed what we have been wrestling with as a country all along and heightened the urgency to engage it. No one person can take credit for the space of tension and hurt we inhabit.

But remember, we’re in birth pains–not death pangs! Jesus’ words in Matthew 24 remind us of this reality, and we cannot let ourselves be defeated by the sheer heft of wrongs when they have the potential to galvanize us into actions that contribute to the healing God is already pressing into motion. Healing is at work in our economic system, in our local and national policies, in our racial divisions, and we are to be active participants in it. We are to constantly seek ways to cultivate justice and empathy and community through our relationships, our jobs, and any other use of our time.

However, we don’t just need “good cops.” We need cops braced by this living hope, judges informed by it, teachers inspired by it, activists sustained by it, politicians challenged by it, doctors guided by it, pastors ignited by it, social workers comforted by it, and all of us, ALL OF US living out of it. As Evelyne Reisacher, professor of Islamic Studies and Intercultural Relations at Fuller Theological Seminary, put it: “We are not people of despair. We are hostages of hope.”

The kind of hope based on the certainty Jesus represents, the certainty that God is redeeming our world and delights in us working with Him towards that end, will not fail. As much as we may beg for this year’s ending, we can’t stay in that pleading place. Each of us has work to do, a space we uniquely fill when we see smoke from the world’s wreckage rise to choke us. We tell it Not today. Here we echo TV personality April Daniels’ declaration: “First they came for the Muslims and we said ‘not today motherf****'”. Let us stand in the unrelenting spirit of those words today. We will not allow existent divisions to define the totality of our future. We will not commit to a downward spiral while God gifts us breath in our lungs and hearts with the divine capacity to love against all odds. That is hope with teeth, and let no one wrest us from the future we are building today.

 

i chase the line until it bends

“People are making preparations for Thanksgiving while the North Dakota police are using water cannons and rubber bullets on Native Americans.”

This message braced me yesterday morning on Facebook, and the tension it ignited has not left. For months we’ve been watching the deadlock at Standing Rock between water protectors and the militarized police forces. Now that it is flaring out into disturbing levels of violence, the horror is palpable for those watching from the outside.

I hear people cry out, “It’s 2016! This shouldn’t be happening!” I think this mentality is part of the problem–we assume that we have progressed so much as a society that these blatant displays of discrimination and aggression against marginalized people groups shock us this much. We assume we left this type of atrocity in our past. We were wrong.

Look at the living conditions of many indigenous reservations. Those existed before Standing Rock. Look at the poverty rates and health disparities (more stats here). Those didn’t spike within the last few weeks. Look at the accounts of trauma. There are histories underlying them–and they are harrowing. The past presents the future.

I wrote in an earlier post about our need to collaborate on a common historical narrative for our country because the realities shaping our lenses are so vastly disparate. We’re not all talking from the same starting point, but in moving forward we must prioritize the inclusion of voices that didn’t make it into the foundational narratives of our nation: the voices of those whose rights are being threatened. We must allow them to challenge our understanding of American history and re-work it because they know the ins and outs of their oppression better than the outsiders writing about it.

The images of Standing Rock grip my gaze. The stretched, shivering grief won’t leave. This is happening…and the guilt presses into my shoulders. My ancestors never broke bread with and betrayed the Sioux, the Lakota, the Iroquois, and the other First Nations. But I am an American, and the paths I tread were not always named Washington and Broadway. The government that sets the framework for my daily life uncoiled out of knuckled ambition and promise and innovation…but it was also born of blood–indigenous blood.

What do I do with that? How do I watch Moana and remember afterwards what our country did to many Polynesian peoples–how it colonized Hawaii and deposed her queen? How do I eat Thanksgiving dinner in a warm house when I know water protectors are freezing at Standing Rock as they defend their land?

This is the tension that awakens when the innocence that pieced together Pilgrim hats and feathered Indian bands in elementary school crumples. Our story is not an idyllic table of blended peoples but a war zone reaching for resolution.

When you learn the story of the land, you map it differently. You no longer see Inwood Park but Lenape fields. You no longer see Capitol Hill but a graveyard. You no longer see Mount Rushmore but mountains that once watched its peoples of the Lakota Pahá Sápa, the Black Hills, with faces of stone–not the stony faces of their conquerors.

What do I do with that tension? 

The indigenous peoples of America don’t need my guilt. They don’t need me to make them objects of my pity. They need my prayers. They need my phone calls to my government, my petitions, my paper bills marked with the faces of presidents like Andrew Jackson who forced them into containment zones far from home. I never thought of the strength it takes simply to receive those bills when you know the collective grief that men like Jackson provoked among your people. As a black and Latina woman, I sense some of those vibrations within my own body, but this remains: I will never know what what it is to be an indigenous person.

Thanksgiving is coming, but as an iman pointed out at an inter-faith gathering I recently attended: “We don’t look at Thanksgiving the same way.” Some do not have the luxury of disentangling the theme of gratitude from horrific accounts of genocide and broken treaties.

The passage that comes to mind is Isaiah 24, particularly this part:

The earth mourns and withers;
    the world languishes and withers;
    the highest people of the earth languish.
The earth lies defiled
    under its inhabitants;
for they have transgressed the laws,
    violated the statutes,
    broken the everlasting covenant.
Therefore a curse devours the earth,
    and its inhabitants suffer for their guilt;
therefore the inhabitants of the earth are scorched,
    and few men are left.

The stark scene this part offers us is heartbreaking. Here the Israelites have broken treaty with God, defiled their  land, and their neighbors suffer because of their actions. Jerusalem has been destroyed, and the people are scattered. You would think this apocalyptic vision signifies that the end has come–they are paying the price for injustice.

The book of Isaiah doesn’t end there. There is promise lying in wait within the smoke from the burning wreckage. Undeserved deliverance will come, and joyful songs will the people raise to their Lord. They will rebuild their cities, they will defend the oppressed, the immigrant, the poor. The Messiah will come, and the land will be renewed.

The Gospel message fulfills that promise of restoration for all things broken. The hope offered to Israel is what I pray for my country, that we too will experience and take part in that movement of renewal. We are no chosen land, but we have the choice to align with how God is already moving and rise above the wreckage of our country’s past. Christ has now come, so now we attend to our land. If a pipeline will divide us and poison the waters of our brothers and sisters, we must halt it. If that metal line defies the cries for justice, we must chase it until it bends.

I don’t have the answers–I’m still struggling with the same tensions of many of us non-indigenous folks. I’m a privileged American who could walk away from the struggle, but because I choose not to, I must grapple with twin truths: the suffering and the blessing. There is suffering beneath the veneer of pumpkin spice and gleaning plates piled with turkey. There is also blessing beyond human endeavor and the gratitude that blessing engenders.

I bring these truths, like all things, to my God. The founder of thanksgiving, giver of what things in my life are Good, He is the one I turn to when I can’t make sense of the suffering. He is the one I fix my eyes on during Thanksgiving, and God clarifies my vision so I can better demonstrate how grateful I am to inhabit this Earth with my indigenous brothers and sisters. He planted imago dei in the indigenous peoples who received starving refugees from Europe and fed them. I want my life to evidence the kindness laid out on the table Samoset presided.

As a rabbi explained to me, another lesser-known definition of shalom is, “I see God in you.” This definition intimates both the soul-connections between us and each person’s inherent and equal worth. I see God in these indigenous nations. I see Him through the care and mercy they have shown to those who later took advantage of it. He has not forgotten that example, and He works already to restore their dignity.

The shadow beyond that Thanksgiving feast table remains, like the shadow of the valley of death behind the great feast in Psalms 23. The shadows, past and present, cannot be forgotten, but neither do they define the totality of our lives. We can hold both the mourning of injustice and the morning where we step out of the wallows of our tears and act on behalf of our indigenous neighbors. We will take nothing we have for granted, but instead we will strive to grant others what they need to flourish. If they need security from violence, we will ensure it. If they need shelter, we will offer it. If they need laws that preserve their sacred areas and autonomy, we will rally together to demand them. We can do no less for those we recognize as kindred.

I will sit down with my family on Thursday and cherish my time with them. I will thank God for the food on our table and the faithfulness He has shown us in this past year. And I will leave room at the table for my brothers and sisters of the First Nations because they are my family too. Until they can join me in a land where they are no longer persecuted, my table will lay there, incomplete.

May we walk forward with hope and courage and defend those our Lord loves. I leave you with the vision of restoration from the end of Isaiah…

“Rejoice with Jerusalem, and be glad for her,
    all you who love her;
rejoice with her in joy,
    all you who mourn over her;
that you may nurse and be satisfied
    from her consoling breast;
that you may drink deeply with delight
    from her glorious abundance.”

For thus says the Lord:
“Behold, I will extend peace to her like a river,
    and the glory of the nations like an overflowing stream;
and you shall nurse, you shall be carried upon her hip,
    and bounced upon her knees.
As one whom his mother comforts,
    so I will comfort you;
    you shall be comforted in Jerusalem.
You shall see, and your heart shall rejoice;
    your bones shall flourish like the grass;
and the hand of the Lord shall be known to his servants,
    and he shall show his indignation against his enemies.” Isaiah 66:10-14


Resources to support those at Standing Rock and other indigenous peoples: