This letter was sent to the White House last week — the death toll has since risen and the humanitarian crisis continues to deepen. I share this today on Christmas morning when we rejoice in the birth of Jesus whom Christians call “Immanuel” (God with Us) and “Prince of Peace.” I hope to encourage all of us who follow the Prince of Peace to lift up our voices for the sake of peace. May our lives contribute to the building of peace in our communities and in our world for the sake of all people.
Dear President Biden,
I write to you as one of many U.S. citizens, and one of many global voices, pleading with you to call for a ceasefire in Gaza. I urge you to give stronger ethical leadership in bringing the current bombing and destruction of Gaza to an end.
The horrific massacres of October 7th were and are rightfully condemned. The stories from survivors and devastating details that continue to come to light are heart-wrenching and horrifying. Bringing hostages home should be a priority, and I am so thankful that many, particularly children, were freed during the temporary ceasefire.
However, the United States cannot support holding an entire population hostage as a response. With over 18,000 civilians killed in Gaza, and over 7,000 of them children, as well as a continuing siege with no place to flee, it is time for the President of the United States to demonstrate the ethical leadership to which he is called and for which he was voted into office. It is an affront and a threat to the American values we claim to provide political, diplomatic, or monetary support to this continuing scale of violence.
As a Christian pastor, I will soon be celebrating the birth of Jesus, a Palestinian Jew, whose life began amid a massacre of innocents and under the threat of violence. “Blessed are the peacemakers,” he told us. “Blessed are the merciful.” Following his teachings, I am compelled to seek the peace that he proclaimed. In doing so, I am joining with many people of many faiths, including many of my Jewish and Muslim siblings, in crying out for mercy.
We must demand a ceasefire, work to bring hostages home, and condition aid to the state of Israel’s adherence to international humanitarian law and cessation of continued illegal settlements and violence in the West Bank. From there, I hope we support a path to a more complete peace between Israel and Palestine with safety and justice for all.
“The beginning of wisdom is the fear of the Lord. The knowledge of the holy one is understanding.” (Proverbs 9:10)
The last year was both drought and flood. A drought that left me parched. A flood that left me adrift in rolling waves, sometimes slow and steady, other times sudden and fierce – water that came, but was salty, and left me only feeling more parched.
I’m not trying to be a buzzkill. Just honest. From start to finish, 2021 kicked my ass.
In the transition from old to new year, I did what I do at the start of every year: I searched through the pages of my writing (no, very little posted on the blog) in search of wisdom to reflect on. Little could I find, except that more and more, I am settling into the wisdom of clinging.
Sometimes that is what crossing the finish line of a year looks like – clinging. Like roots stretching as far and as deep as they possibly can, clinging to the earth, searching for water. Like the woman overboard, clinging to her raft or whatever she can grab. Clutching in glorious desperation.
The beginning of wisdom is knowing that sometimes you have to cling.
So, Lord, I’m clinging.
To you, Creator, Of galaxies and supernovas, of black holes and what I cannot see, Of wind and rain and snow and cloud, Of earth and all her inhabitants, Creator of me.
I am clutching to the hem of your garment, To promise, to the hope that pain is transformed,
and that when in drought, trees planted by the Lord bear fruit.
So, hello, new year, you may kick my ass, too. But I will still cling.
Once while I was volunteering at a church community meal in Columbus, OH, two women began screaming and fighting each other. I was cleaning up on the other side of the busy church basement when the shouting started. I had no idea how it all started and I still don’t. As the women began to push at each other, it quickly became clear that someone needed to intervene. I jumped in, attempting to de-escalate and separate them, trying to talk them down and redirect their attention. One of them began reaching into her purse, clearly about to pull something out to add to the fight. My heart began racing, my adrenaline pumping – Was it a weapon? A gun? A knife? Throwing punches was one thing, but whatever she was reaching for could potentially make this a far more dangerous fight – for them, for me, for everyone in this room. My body was in between the two women and I reached for her hands. I grabbedfor her purse. Anything I could do. “You don’t need that. Whatever it is, you don’t need that,” I repeated over and over.
It turned out to be pepper spray (if you’ve ever experienced pepper spray, you know what a shitty experience it is, so I was relieved, but not thrilled). I managed to take it from her before she could use it. I turned to the other woman, blocking her path towards her opponent, and told her emphatically, repeatedly, it was time to go. She left. The encounter was over. But – in what was a learning experience for me – I accidentally re-escalated the remaining woman whose pepper spray I held and she began screaming at me. She did not calm down, but she left. Everyone in the room took a collective breath.
Not too long after, as I was finishing up cleaning in the kitchen, she returned and came to find me. She apologized. “That wasn’t me. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened,” she said. “That wasn’t me. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” She repeated it over and over. “I don’t know what happened.” We talked. We hugged. I understood what she meant. I was pretty sure that what happened was a trauma response. During the fight, I could see in her voice, her eyes, and her body that something had triggered her and she went into fight mode. In that moment, she became overcome by the fear her body was experiencing and reacted. When she “returned” to herself, she saw me differently. We could talk, and the times I saw her again, she always greeted me enthusiastically and with a smile.
When I got home I recognized my own trauma response. Safe in my living room, I realized how terrified I had been – scared for the unknown, scared for the safety of these two women, scared for even my own life. This experience had also triggered my memory of other life-threatening situations. I noticed how numb I felt and how little I felt present in my own body. I was distant from myself. So, I called my sister and talked. I practiced yoga and returned to my body, allowing myself the time to acknowledge all that I had felt, allowing the tears to flow.
I returned to myself, and I was grateful. And I was grateful that I had been able to witness this woman returning to herself again as well. This is life in community together.
✤
This memory came flooding back as I read about the death of Ma’Khia Bryant. Arguments will be made that her death was justified. Or, that it was inevitable. She had a knife. She was swinging towards someone she was fighting. The officer saw a threat to the other girl’s life and shot Ma’Khia, a 16 year old girl, four times.
But perhaps the debate should not be about whether the officer was justified in the eyes of the law, but whether we are justified in the world we created for Ma’Khia. A world where a person, especially if they are a person of color, cannot trust that the police officer who answers their call will respond with compassion, restraint and the wisdom to de-escalate. A world where, on average, three people die every day by police violence. A world where we require a 16 year old to have the presence of mind not to respond violently to violence, while failing to require trained adults to do the same.
The last year has been an overdue reckoning on the world we have created. In order to produce change, we cannot only respond to individual cases, but must imagine a world different from the one we currently live in. Imagine policing differently. Imagine responses to violence, conflict and trauma differently. Imagine a world where black and brown teenage girls, who may be acting from traumas unseen, are valued and every effort is made to preserve their lives. Imagine that there is a scenario in which an officer breaks up a fight without using his gun. Imagine that this world already exists for most white individuals and then ask, why not for others?
To engage in the work, in the change, in the imagination, we must recognize that every case need not be cut and dry, clear and obvious. Not every case needs 9 minutes of video for us to still imagine that maybe, just maybe, we as a community and a country still got it wrong. That maybe, just maybe, there is a world in which Ma’Khia lives and prospers and returns to herself.
I have this knot in my left shoulder. More like a rock. Or a boulder. Actually, it might be both shoulders and my neck. We can call her “2020.”
I would like to say that you will make it all better – the artificial human marker though you are – and that I will do better for the sake of that shoulder. More yoga. Eating healthier. Sleeping well. And maybe I will. But chances are I will also cozy up in my sweats, order a pizza, and not move for 4 hours while Netflix asks me, “Are you still watching?”
I wish that I could say my first “official” writing of the year will share wisdom and meaning and echoes of last year’s post (“For 2020, with all my love”…whew, what a title), but I am tired.
Here is what I do have:
I love the person who wrestled and struggled and persevered through 2020.
I love the person who is exhausted because of it.
I love the person who found ways to take good care of herself. And I forgive her for the ways she did not.
I love who she is becoming, alongside a world who is becoming, too.
The truth is the knot is not named “2020.” She is just me. Living a human life. So, welcome, 2021. It’s March already, but I’m finally ready to say “hello.” Plus, I have an appointment with a masseuse to work the hell out of that shoulder.
“They have treated the wound of my people carelessly,
saying, ‘Peace, peace’,
when there is no peace. They acted shamefully, they committed abomination;
yet they were not at all ashamed,
they did not know how to blush. Therefore they shall fall among those who fall;
at the time when I punish them, they shall be overthrown,
says the Lord.” (Jeremiah 8:11-12)
They have treated the wound of my people carelessly. As if it were nothing.
They say “Wait and see,” but the waiting never ends and the sight never comes. They say “Trust the process,” but justice fails again and again and again. They say “We love our neighbor,” but follow their neighbor, accuse their neighbor, judge their neighbor, refuse to acknowledge the wounds of their neighbor, kill their neighbor. They say “peace, peace,” but there is no peace.
They will not listen.
So, I will exile them to their denial and deceit. They will be consumed from the inside out until they are an empty shell of themselves. They will not know why their old no longer dream dreams and their children no longer have visions. They will stumble and falter and fall, a stumbling block to each other. They will cry “peace, peace,” but there will be no peace.
Because they have treated the wound of my people carelessly. As if it were nothing.
an act of discovery 