On Drought and Activism: A Reflection on Violence and Lament

Vigil for Orlando shooting, June 13, 2016.

It has been difficult to add words to what has already been said about the last few weeks. Surely, the silence of the Christian community regarding the tragedy in Orlando a few weeks ago has been painful for many of my LGBTQ friends. Each time gun violence claims another brother or sister of mine I, too, break down and retreat into the catatonia of survivor's guilt. Orlando's gay community is still shell shocked by this event, but the ripples will extend outward for many more, much longer into our shared consciousness.

The thing is, my response didn't surprise me. I shut down and retreated because I had seen this before and, as the actions of our legislature show me, I have no reason to believe that this won't happen again. Sure, satirical periodicals may post their repeats of the same story over and again, but it does little now to assuage the pain that seeps from the open wounds of our nation's psyche. Is this cynicism or admitting defeat to the forces of evil that bubble up from the diversity of our brokenness? There is a system of oppression in place that continues to allow this type of evil to flourish, and unfortunately preys on the vulnerable in our midst. The people of color. Women. Gay and queer brothers and sisters. For all the times in my life I've railed against the systems that treat people like garbage, I cast my votes for the right candidates, and show support for the causes that will advance the human rights and dignities of these brothers and sisters, I still collapse in the face of the trauma that we see when we turn on the news and witness yet another death, brutalization, or beating of marginalized bodies.

Still, as my despair veers dangerously close to hopelessness, the voice of author and wisdom teacher Christena Cleveland rings in my ears, with words spoken at last year's CCDA conference in Memphis, a city iconically shaped by violence inflicted upon the voices of opposition to white oppression:

Hopelessness is a mark of privilege. Privilege is an enemy of hope. (...) My privilege, my access to power, influence, and agency due to social location -- clogs the pipeline between me and God, reducing my ability to receive the always present, always powerful flow of hope, comfort, and empowerment. 

This is so true, and is equally important to remember in times such as this, when the onslaught of violence and the shame-filled silence that so destructively continues to wound people created in God's image.

I return to the words of today's scripture reading, screaming across the ages from the prophet Amos:

The Lion roars! Who will not be afraid! The Lord God speaks--who will not prophesy! (...) So now I will deal with you in my own way, O Israel! and since I will deal thus with you, prepare to meet your God, O Israel. (4:11-12)

The shards of the broken covenant are not forgotten, and serve to fuel the righteous fire of YHWH's anger against Israel. When God is personified as angry lover, spurned by the unfaithful Israel, we are reminded of the deep seriousness with which the Lord treats the justice of his people. When Israel forsook the treatment of widows, orphans, and immigrants as commanded in its law, God promised that his vengeance would rival that of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, an image central to the nation's foundational mythology. Should we, too, not lament that broken covenant that we reinforce every time we retreat into our protected coverings in the face of horrific acts like Orlando? My lament is written in my very tear ducts, where the strain of coming to grips with the way that I, for the outside world, a straight, white man, contribute to the systems that continue to do this. Can I leverage my privilege to turn the momentum against the juggernaut of oppression? If so, who are the leaders and elders on this journey that have forged a path for me to follow?

Still, the depths of my being cry as a descendent of peoples who were marginalized for much of their history. As a grandson of Polish-American immigrants, I recognize that I am not far removed from the genocidal sweep of two modern empires (the Nazi and Soviet states) that crushed many, including some of my family not so lucky to escape to these shores, under their wheels. Neither am I immune to the suffering of my ancestors from New Mexico, the Chiricahua people, of whom I have reflected upon and continue to learn from today. And today, with the rise of a tyrannical demagogue to the foot of power in this country, my Mexican-ness is again put into harsh relief against the explicit racism that this country is built upon. It does not surprise me to see how my people are denigrated and screamed at whenever this man rallies supporters to his cause. We are called illegal, we are called unwelcome, we are called thieves. Did not our nation wage an illegal war to wrest the territory that we now build our shopping malls and temples to our chief god, the great Whore Mammon? Did we not burn treaties, previously legally binding documents, to "annex" a sovereign nation where we now desecrate sacred places to build instruments of exploration? Even with our best intentions, we cannot ignore this checkered history any longer.

Corporate lament and repentance are necessary steps for the Spirit of God to renew and transform his people, a reality that we need to strive towards with each passing day that these bodies grow cold beneath the ground. Islamist extremism is to be guarded against, yes, but not at the expense of caring for our Muslim neighbors who desire to work and build lives peacefully in this country. How can I show hospitality in a way that heals and builds relationship, instead of reinforcing ancient and festering hatred? The love of Christ compels me to reach out with a firm resolve to see His liberation break through for all peoples, especially those suffering under the yoke of institutional sin. As Richard Rohr points out in The Naked Now, it took a long time for the leaders of our churches to even acknowledge this reality. Can our future be different? Can we teach our children tolerance, interdependence, and celebration of diversity, instead of the sinful suspicion that perpetually creates otherness? Such are the tasks of my time.

I was asked a few days ago if I wanted children. In my most desperate moments, I question that desire. I see a world crippled by consumerism, materialism, racism, and the horrific consequences of a society built on unsustainable growth. Surely our creativity can address some of these issues. But I am skeptical of a quick technological fix that will ease our climate woes, or address our needs for resources as our population burgeons beyond our ecological limits. Surely caring for our future means looking towards the kinds of solutions that address not only our physical well being (and in a world where Syrian and Iraqi refugees flood our shores, this is a real concern), but also our societal well being and consciousness. It is time for me to take the perspective of those who have suffered for so long, and, like Cleveland says, allow their stories to lead me not into despair, but rather into deeper, fuller, and more lasting hope.

May it be so.