A reflection for our church’s brief, online Watchnight Service.
Imagine a gathering of enslaved women and men, collecting in secret on any given December 31st. New Year’s Day was often when enslavers settled their accounts; should they find themselves in debt, it was likely they would sell some of those they had bought and abused
What do the conversations of those gathered sound like? What do the songs feel like? What do the prayers look like?
Imagine now a similar gathering on New Year’s Eve, 1862. Three and a half months earlier President Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation and word had reached this community that the new law would go into effect at midnight
What do those conversations sound like? What do those songs feel like? What do those prayers look like?
A Watchnight service is a sacred occasion, though not because we find it in Scripture or practiced by the early church. No, this service is holy because those who first gathered to mark the passage of one year to the next – first under the most extreme duress and then in anticipation of liberation – they sanctified it with their worship, praise, and prayer; with their songs, tears, and shouts; with their theologizing, organizing, and self-emancipating; they made holy this service of watching and waiting, of remembering and anticipating, of praise and petition by their refusal to renounce Habakkuk’s promise: “For the revelation awaits an appointed time; it speaks of the end and will not prove false. Though it linger, wait for it; it will certainly come and will not delay.” (2:3)
Coming precisely one week after Christmas, on this night we turn our attention again to the Word made flesh. In him there is no separation of the spiritual from the physical, the spirit from the body, spiritual freedom from holistic liberation.
Many of the women, men, and children who gathered in hush harbors to speak and sing the truth away from the enslaver’s deception and violence, these saints held seamlessly together the God who saved soul and flesh, who restored sin-tattered spirits and bodies burdened by white supremacy, whose salvation could not be withheld by plunderers or exploiters.
2022 has been another long year. But let us not make the mistake of thinking ourselves unique in this regard. 1862 was a long year. Every year, as we await the revelation of our Savior, is a long year.
We come tonight with our burdens, laments, and petitions. They are each of them valid. Our Lord has heard and will hear our cries. He sees the desires of your heart, the ones you’re barely able to utter to yourself.
But tonight is a place for praise as well. You are still here. We are still here. There is breath in your lungs, blood pumping through your body, synapses firing with feeling and emotion. You have been kept this year. You have not spun apart. There has been manna enough to eat, water-turned-wine enough to drink. Your God has been a strong tower and a fortress surrounding your vulnerabilities.
So we gather tonight in a spirit of praise, alongside the saints who’ve gone before us. We gather in that most Christian of way: the night of sorrow has been transformed into the daybreak of redemption. What had been a practiced grief has become the site of good tidings of the greatest possible joy. Our mourning has been traded for a dance, our sackcloth for garments of joy.
In an article published twenty-two years ago, theologian James Cone reflected on the often ignored relationship between white supremacy and the “exploitation of animals and the ravaging of nature.” Why has the connection between environmental destruction and racism been overlooked? Towards the end of the article Cone offers one suggestion. He writes, “To be sure, a few concerned white theologians have written about their opposition to white racism but not because race critique was essential to their theological identity. It is usually just a gesture of support for people of color when solidarity across differences is in vogue. As soon as it is not longer socially and intellectually acceptable to talk about race, white theologians revert back to their silence.”
While Cone’s insight about environmental racism are worth reflection, I want to draw our attention to his critique about the shallowness of much white anti-racist solidarity. Cone differentiates between being generally supportive of solidarity and understanding such solidarity as essential to one’s theological identity. His focus is on theologians but I think the lesson can be applied more broadly to include each of us.
Perhaps we can think of the “gesture of support” expressed by white people in response to racism as compassion. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with compassion. We could make the case that the Good Samaritan was moved to intervene on behalf of the battered traveler – despite the many reasons he shouldn’t have – because of compassion. And nobody would say we need less compassion in our world today. But I think the point that Cone is making is that compassion is not enough. And it’s especially not enough when it comes to a white supremacist status quo because the time will come – it always comes in this country – when showing compassion toward the racialized and marginalized “other” is no longer, as Cone writes, in vogue. For example, we’ve watched over the past two years how compassion for Black lives has been warped into a threat against white people. To suggest that a gesture of support is enough is to entirely misread our country’s baseline which bends toward racial antagonism, not compassionate solidarity.
The alternative, according to Cone, is to make solidarity across the racial hierarchy “essential to one’s theological identity.” I take his meaning to be that white theologians must make sacrificial solidarity of the kind which disrupts the status quo central to their theology. Now, some will hear in this a suggestion to reduce theology to an ideological or partisan agenda but any such interpretation misses two important truths. The first, which I mentioned above, is that the existing conditions for many people in this country are not the same as those experienced by most white people. To ignore the persistent and systemic nature of racism and white supremacy is to massively downplay the sin which so offends God and which his Son gave his life to defeat. Those who only offer the occasional “gesture of support for people of color” betray a too-small understanding of sin and its impact in our world. It follows that their view of Christ as Savior and the salvation he accomplishes is also too small.
The second truth which gets missed by those afraid to make racial justice central to their theology is the basic Christian understanding of the imago Dei. Christians of most varieties have long believed that to be created in the image of God is to be made for four flourishing relationships: with God, one another, ourselves, and the creation itself. Race interrupts each of these God-ordained relationships: it claims the divine authority to name and ascribe value; it pits communities against one another; it distorts how we see ourselves through lenses of self-hatred and superiority; and, race severs us from creation, imposing a social construct as the most important source of our formation. By reducing our engagement with race and racism to a theological sub-discipline or to a couple of Sundays during Black History Month, we are missing the truth of what race acutally is and what it does to desecrate the imago Dei in each of us.
To my white readers I ask, is solidarity with your kin of color primarily an act of compassion or are your commitments deeper? Making sacrificial solidarity essential to your discipleship will not water down our theology. Instead, we’ll discover just how much we’ve been missing.
I wish I could remember what I was reading when the stay-at-home orders reached Chicago in March. It may have been Ghosts in the Schoolyard, Eve Ewing’s devastating look at the closures of public schools in our city – mostly in Black neighborhoods – a few years back. I might have been deep into the new Dorothy Day biography. I don’t remember, but what I won’t forget anytime soon was how faithfully the stacks of books on my desk and beside our bed played their conversational role during these months of distance and isolation.
Aside from immediate family, almost all of my conversations since last winter have been mitigated by screens and WiFi signals. Which isn’t to say they were bad: I got to talk with some of the people I most respect in the days following my book’s publication and Maggie and I have had a few Zoom date nights with friends. But it’s different, isn’t it? Different than sharing a meal together or leaning over a table in a noisy coffee shop to hear what your friend is saying. Earlier this fall I sat in a friend’s backyard until we were both shivering but, man, it was good to share space and conversation together.
Books have always been conversation partners to me, a fact that can be more than a little frustrating to the person vying for my attention when my nose is buried between some pages. But more so than previously, this year I reached for books that could satisfy the hunger for conversation. Eddie Glaude’s Begin Again exemplifies the way certain books can provoke good discussion. Glaude’s previous book, Democracy in Black, provided some of the important scaffolding for my understanding of racial discipleship. In this new one, Glaude walks alongside James Baldwin and leans on the imminent author and critic for help understanding these strange days. “We should tell the truth about ourselves,” Glaude writes about Baldwin’s persistent demand of his country, “and that would release us into a new possibility.”
Ida B. Wells, as some of you will know, has assumed an authoritative presence in my imagination. I sometimes think I hear her asking, Really? You’re discouraged because of that? This year I finally got around to her unfinished autobiography which is endearing for the quotidian details she chose to include, and for what she left out. (I wanted a lot more about her friendship with Frederick Douglass.) Reading her account of her life left me with the impression that, while aware of the significance of her anti-lynching work, Wells was the sort of person who simply couldn’t help doing the righteous thing she found in her path, no matter how small or how impossible.
I read Howard Thurman’s classic Jesus and the Disinherited and My Grandmother’s Handsby Resmaa Menakem around the same time. Thurman’s famous question toward the beginning of his little book is one that demands a response: “What was the word that the religion of Jesus says to the man with his back against the wall?” It’s the question Thurman wrestles with while inviting his readers to do the same. Menakem is concerned with the trauma inflicted upon those whose backs have been forced against the wall, as well as the kind experienced by those of us who’ve done the forcing. The author is interested in trauma- its origins, impact, as well as what healing can look like for all of us. In a year with so many moments of racial violence and protest, these books helped me grapple with questions I wouldn’t otherwise have thought to ask.
This summer our family drove about five hours north to camp for a week in the Manistee National Forest in Michigan. On the way we stopped into a bookstore and I picked up Aldo Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac. This was required reading in college, probably for one of my environmental studies classes. It was the first nature writing I read and I was curious how it held up. Reading Leopold’s careful observations about his Wisconsin farm twenty years later, this time from the proximity of our own years in the Midwest, was a treat. Like other great nature writes, Leopold equips the reader to see what they might otherwise miss.
(A few years ago we visited the Chicago Botanic Gardens and found they were having a used book sale. I picked an illustrated edition of A Sand County Almanac; sections from the original are interspersed with photos from Leopold’s land. As with the original, this version proceeds through each month of the year and a non-Midwesterner might start to get an idea of why the naturalist found so much beauty on his sand farm and the bits of prairie that remained along roadsides and in ditches.)
I gravitate to the kind of writing that reckons tenderly and honestly with the natural world; Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass (a gift from some knowing friends) fit the bill as did English Pastoral by James Rebanks and David Allen Sibley’s delightful What It’s Like to Be a Bird(another thoughtful gift). Much of my reading tends toward the messy intersection of race and theology, but I’ve come to believe that these books about creation are in some ways related. Listen, for example to Kimmerer, a member of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation, as she wonders about our collective future. “For the sake of the peoples and the land, the urgent work of the Second Man may be to set aside the ways of the colonist and become Indigenous to place. But can Americans, as a nation of immigrants, learn to live here as if we were staying? With both feet on the shore?”
The question about a future in which the dehumanizing power of race is diminished by the generative power of creation is one that won’t leave me alone, and books like these help me imagine what might – might – be possible.
We kept pace through this strange year with short drives over to the Indiana National Lakeshore for hikes through forests and over sand dunes along with many afternoon walks through our beloved Jackson Park. In a way I couldn’t have anticipated at the beginning of the year, we have spent more time outdoors this year, beginning in early spring when the pandemic reached our city. We’ve watched the seasons change, felt the temperature of Lake Michigan rise and then drop again, and noticed when the little snakes and frogs appeared along the trails. We saw our first Sandhill Cranes this year. I think that, when we remember 2020 years from now, these regular walks and how they kept time for us will be one of the things we recall gratefully.
Since the publication of Rediscipling the White Church in May, I’ve had the chance to speak with many white pastors and ministry leaders around the country. Most of these women and men are interested in the role they and their churches can play in the ministry of racial reconciliation. The killings of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd among with too many others seem to have pushed them to the brink; no longer is the racial homogeneity of their settings a reason to keep quiet. Often these sorts of leaders are told to diversify their reading. They are asked to notice how many of the authors on their shelves are white (men). And this is good advice; there’s a world of literature that has existed beyond their awareness. But more than simply reading authors of color, the real possibility lies in how books like the four in the preceding paragraph can open up the scriptures imaginatively. For example, it will be hard for me to preach any of the narratives about the exodus or the conquest without taking into account the perspective of the Canaanites after reading a couple of the essays in Native and Christian. This, I think, is where the real hopeful possibility lies when we diversify our bookshelves.
Aside from a few outdoor worship services that our church was able to organize safely this summer, the only times I’ve been with groups of people of any size has been at protests against racial injustice. For a period of a few months this summer, these protests were taking place nightly in our city. One evening I walked a few blocks from our apartment to observe a tense standoff between protesters and Chicago Police; it was gratifying to watch the young organizers defuse the tension and lead the crowd away from the threat of tear gas and God-knows-what else.
The protests I participated in were all, as best I can remember, led by local clergy here on the South Side. On New Years Eve I again joined a march; this time we were downtown, on the Magnificent Mile, passing shoppers looking for post-Christmas deals. We remembered the almost-800 people who lost their lives to homicide in our city this year, a fact made less visible by the pandemic and the handful of spectacularly brutal instances of racial terror that broke into our collective consciousness. Mothers held portraits of the children who’ve been snatched from them. We heard their testimonies and their rage at so many unsolved murders. According to our local NPR station, homicides involving Black victims are solved 25% of the time compared to 47% when the victim is white.
In Caste: The Origins of Our Discontent, Isabel Wilkerson argues that we need to understand disparities like these, and the protests that regularly erupt in response to them, by recognizing this country’s caste system. “Race, in the United States, is the visible agent of the unseen force of caste. Caste is the bones, race the skin.” Wilkerson is a beautiful writer – if you’ve not read it, drop everything and pick up The Warmth of Other Suns immediately – and she makes a compelling case for adopting the language and assumptions of caste to better interpret our American circumstances. People have been marching and protesting for racial justice in my city and yours for a very long time. Perhaps, as Wilkerson suggests, there is something deeper and uglier that we’ve yet to account for.
Here’s to the strange and grievous year that was and to the many different books which helped us make our way through it. And here’s to a new year. It will certainly be just as unpredictable as the one we left behind save, I hope, for the the presence of the books we will reach for, the books we will think about, and the books we will – Lord hasten the day! – talk about in one another’s company.
These were the looks on our faces 20 years ago, about an hour after we’d made our marriage vows in Montreat Chapel. We were both 21 years old and this snapshot is a decent representation of at least a part of what we were feeling that day: Wait, we’re actually married? OK… and now what?
Actually, all these years later, this is probably still a good visual of my experience of marriage much of the time. Wait, what?!
What I mean is that there’s nothing static about marriage. I’m not the same person as the guy in that photo who’s wearing those J.C. Penney pleated slacks and trying to act like he knows what’s going on. Thankfully I’m not. Neither is Maggie.
In hindsight, it’s a strange thing to think of all of the build-up and planning for our wedding, though I don’t regret any of it. It highlighted the significance and permanence of our vows. It’s as though the occasion itself was an answer to the reasonable questions, Really? Till death do you part? Are you sure?
The thing we didn’t know, not really, and which was maybe foreshadowed in our deer-in-the-headlights expressions, was how regularly we’d need to answer those same questions again. In some ways marriage is simply one year after another of making the same vows – as a different person than the one you were the year before, to a person who’s a little – or a lot – different than the one you made promises to in previous years.
People sometimes laugh when they see our wedding pictures. How old were you, 16? But here’s the gift of having been married for half our lives: I’ve had the chance to grow to love the many stages of the same woman. That’s the impossible and wonderful thing that we could only barely imagine on that warm North Carolina night 20 years ago.
I can imagine a tradition in which each anniversary the same people gathered, along with new ones picked up along the way, to witness the same two people make the same vows. The vows would remain the same; the wife and her husband, now differently constituted and configured, would be the changed parts of the annual ceremony. In this alternative universe we’d all recognize that no person should remain the same, that change is evidence of life even when the changes are frightening and surprising. We’d affirm the grace that holds together this couple who, on any given anniversary, is becoming acquainted with the person they’ve each become.
If I could whisper anything to those two as we prepared to cut the cake it’d be something like this: Relax. You don’t have to know what you’re doing. Enjoy each other today for who you are. And hold each other loosely so that you’ll be ready for who you’ll each become.
Happy anniversary Maggie. I can’t wait to see who we’ll be in the next 20 years.
The realization of creation’s inclusion in God’s reconciliation project should disturb us, for we have done great violence to the earth and its inhabitants. By assaulting creation we have assaulted ourselves and thwarted God’s will for the world. Based on a fault theology of dominion, the church has helped to perpetuate the idea that the earth and its nonhuman inhabitants are primarily “natural resources” to satisfy humanity’s needs and fancies without caution or compassion. misinterpreting dominion as domination, broken humanity has cleared forests, blown off mountaintops, dumped waste in oceans, hunted animals for sport, created factory farms, and experimented cruelly on monkeys and rats. Such violent crimes against creation describe not just the distant past but the tragic present… I find humanity’s assault upon the earth and its fellow creatures nearly unbearable; the thought of the church participating and even sanctioning it pushes me right over the edge.
– Al Tizon in Whole and Reconciled. I won’t say much about this book now as I’m writing a review to be posted elsewhere, but Al’s wisdom is what the church urgently needs today. I was so impressed by how broad and holistic he could be – this passage comes in a section about reconciling with creation – while always remaining specific and applicable. I hope a whole bunch of American Christians and their pastors read this book carefully.