Grieving for the Lost

As a young girl in Houston in the 60s, my exposure to racial unrest was minimal, as the kinds of events that occurred in other southern cities were not as widespread in Houston, Texas. I recall just a couple of years ago, Rev. William Lawson, Pastor Emeritus of Wheeler Avenue Baptist Church, explaining in a sermon that paralleled the civil rights struggle with the Old Testament struggle of the children of Israel, that there was some kind of negotiated agreement between local Black leaders and others of the paler national about desegregation. I do not recall demonstrations in Houston where people were assaulted with fire hoses or beaten or spat on or killed.

That is not to say there were no racial injustices; there were plenty, but not on the scale of Selma, Birmingham, Little Rock or other places. I can cite instance after instance of my own personal experiences, but this writing is about something so much larger than I; it is about all of us. Still, I have to get personal. Because observations, experiences, feelings and impressions are first personal. What one sees, takes into the mind, and filters through knowledge and past experiences, and, hopefully, objectivity, still has a tinge of "it’s personal." So the accumulation of stuff that one sees, hears and experiences day after day – the good, bad, positive, negative, indifferent, ugly, outlandish, vile, unspeakable, disrespectful, encouraging, savage and uncivilized – can be overwhelmingly depressing. And that is personal. Did you notice that the bad outweighed the good? It was so easy to think of the negative stuff. And that is depressing.

So, what does all of that have to do with weeping for the lost? I’m glad you asked. Fast-forward to the present, remembering a bit of what has happened in the past.

I do not believe in coincidence. While leaving Birmingham I took the wrong exit and found myself on the wrong freeway. Getting off at the next exit, I happened to look at my gas gauge which showed I had about a quarter of a tank of gas. Even a Prius can’t get very far on that, so I pulled into the first gas station I saw and filled up. Getting back on the street I began to make my way to the right entrance, and observed a sign – "16^th Street Baptist Church." Not yet realizing the significance of that sign, I headed toward 16th St. I cannot describe how strange this was. It was one of those funny feelings I get when something is about to happen and I have no explanation but just know the funny feeling means something. I turned right onto 16^th street, drove a couple of blocks, and there it was – the 16^th Street Baptist Church. I took advantage of parking on the street in front of the church and I got out of my car and looked at the building, taking note of this post

with painted messages that was just to the left. Then it hit me: this is the church that was bombed in the 60s, the church where the four girls were killed one Sunday.

As I walked up the steps that funny feeling was overwhelming. As I stood at the door of the church I knew I was looking at different doors and windows but it really hit me that this is where something painfully significant happened. This is where a house of God was attacked by people who claimed to believe in Him. This is where four young lives were destroyed and the lives of their families were changed forever.

My imagination ran wild, and in my mind’s eye I could see horror and violence — vicious dogs, men on horseback wielding clubs, others with fire hoses, people posing around bodies burned beyond recognition, hanging from trees, men behind bars whose only crime was an aspiration to be treated with basic human dignity and have the same rights as others. Tears streamed down my face, streamed freely as I stood there struggling to compose myself. Why is this happening to me? Why can’t I stop crying? Part of it was deep sorrow, part was gratitude and part of it was prayer.

I grieved for the loss of life. Only the Giver of life should take it.

I grieved for those girls who would never grow up and experience the joys and sorrows of having done so.

I grieved for the families who lost their precious, priceless treasures.

I grieved for the unjustifiable hatred.

I grieved for the senseless destruction and damage to God's house

I grieved that such evil existed in the first place.

I grieved that it still does.

Even while I grieved for the past, I grieved for the present –

That decades later racism still abounds.

I grieved for the hatred that still exists and for people who want to conserve a way of life that would stifle opportunities and rights of some so they can perpetuate their false sense of superiority.

I grieved for their ignorance.

And even harder, I wept for the lost, those who now take for granted what decades ago others fought so bravely and endured so much, even death, to obtain for themselves and their progeny. Those who do not vote. Those who refuse to go to school and get an education. Those who waste opportunities to improve their quality of life. Those who refuse to take responsibility for themselves.

And being keenly aware that the sacrifices made there and in other places by people I will never know, have impacted the quality of my life. I am grateful beyond words.

And I prayed. I prayed for the peace that we still don't have.
I prayed to see that peace before I breathe my last. 

Theology and Politics

Perhaps this piece is mistitled.  It should probably be Christianity and Politics, for I was raised by Christian parents, in a Christian home, baptized at the age of 6 - having accepted Jesus The Christ as my Savior, and came to really understand the need to rely on Holy Spirit for guidance and the need for a one-on-one relationship with God at the ripe old age of 28.    

Oh -- what's that?  You ask why am I posting this little note in my Coming Out of the Closet blog?  So glad you asked.  Actually, I will post it here and in my Oh My God blog.  I had a time deciding where it should go and since I couldn't choose I decided to do the next best thing.

I broke bread today with a wonderful young woman whom I rarely see.   It was an intentional meeting, requiring advanced scheduling, but well worth it, at least for me.   For the 11 years I have known her she has remained steadfastly herself in all ways that matter.  She has been a blessing to my family.

As usual, when folks haven't seen each other for awhile, a lot of time is spent catching up once they sit across from each other.   Aside from the usual family stuff, there was a new twist, which prompted this writing.  My young friend is an Obama-like creature.  She was raised by her paler-nation mom without the presence of her darker-nation father.  (Note to do piece on fathers of the darker nation who play active roles in their children's upbringing, lest some think it is an anomaly.  Further, note to start with my own darker-nation dad.)    

My friend (hereinafter "Samantha" -- [though fictitious, it alleviates the need to keep writing my friend]) now finds herself in a dilemma.   The current political climate has removed the masks from folks with whom she not only has daily contact, but with whom she and her fine family worship.   She has learned that her 50/50 hands are not allowed to tie the 100/0 shoes of children at her church.  Her 25/75 child has been warned by a schoolmate that her parents must vote for the white man or we will be in big trouble.   Yes, from the mouth of a babe is reflected the influences of his environment.  From school?  Church?  Home?  Who knows?  The source is known only to him and God.

Speaking of God:   I wonder if folks -- of whatever race, creed, color, etc., pause in sufficient time to soak in the reality that He is the Creator of all, including us?  Okay -- everyone doesn't believe in my God.  Fine (actually not fine, for my heart yearns for all to believe; still God does not force Himself on any of us, and while I seek to introduce Him, will not force Him on anyone either).  For those non-believers, the question is:  By what means did you derive the color of your skin and eyes, and the texture of your hair?   Before conception did your mom or dad choose one with whom to copulate in such a way as to create the person that is you?  Or while you were in your mother's womb, did she check off a list of available options and -- voila! -- after an appropriate gestative period you popped out just as ordered?  Perhaps you were visited by the Creator who asked you to choose:  skin (chocolate, caramel, vanilla), eyes (blue, brown, green, gray, other), hair (coarse or fine, wavy or straight, slow-growing and short, fast-growing and Lady-Godiva-long), lips (wispy thin or ultra thick -- or somewhere inbetween), nose (skinny, pointed, flat, wide).  And let's not forget the really important stuff to choose:  feels rhythm on beats 1 and 3, or beats 2 and 4?  Short, tall, chunky, skinny, legs long or short?  Plays basketball or bassoon?  Football or foosball?  Tennis or baseball?  Swimming or soccer?   Alright -- enough of that.

Back to Samantha.  The poor thing is being reminded in all kinds of subtle, and some not so subtle ways, that she is not 100%.  As a management type she's stuck in the middle, dealing with superiors and subordinates.  Hostility on both fronts.  Can you imagine such a sandwich?  A Samantha sandwich is not a wonderful snack.  It's kind of like a peanut butter sandwich.  You know how it is, when you put a glob of Peter Pan in the middle of a slice of multi-grain bread, top it with another slice and then mash it together?  It spreads out to the breads' edges, and the more pressure applied during the mashing process, the more the peanut butter tends to ooze out -- beyond the edges.    The resulting sandwich is just not as pleasing to look at -- or to eat.  That's what happens when folks are threatened; the pressure breaches their protective barriers, threatening the loss of their energy and substance, and they ooze, they leak.

The tragedy of this unmerited negative attention is that Samantha, like many regardless of origin, is a valuable commodity who contributes to the positive vitality of the organization for which she works, and more importantly, her immediate family, including her 100/0 mom.  When any of us is put upon in this fashion, we all lose.  Why should Samantha be punished for an outcome of which she has no control???  Why should anyone -- regardless of race, creed or national origin be irresponsibly held in contempt for not having control over those characteristics, just as you -- or you -- or you -- or I have no such control???

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.  He spoke everything into being.  And God saw all that He had made.  And it was very Good.   (Genesis 2:31, The Holy Bible, NIV.)  And in case one cannot relate to the Creation, please state any and all processes performed by you to make you the human being you are, including without limitation, the time of your conception, the man and woman who came together in such a way as to cause that conception, the color of your skin, shape of your nose, and texture of your hair, etc.  And finally, if still not convinced, consider this:

One day a group of scientists decided that they could do anything God could do, and confronted God with their foolishness, challenging Him.  So God reached down, scooped up dust from the ground, formed it into a man, and blew into him the breath of life, and man became a living soul.  The scientists were unimpressed.  They knew creating a man was a cakewalk.  One of the scientists bent down, and just as he was about to gather some dust, God stopped him and said:  Wait a minute; get your own dust.

So what does this have to do with politics?  As usual, I'm glad you asked.   When we free ourselves of narrow, short-sighted mindsets and realize that the people who are sufficiently intelligent, educated, qualified and positively motivated to fill a position -- public or private, political or otherwise -- for the betterment of the organization or government -- local, state or national -- come in all colors, shapes and sizes, and are not limited to people who look like you -- or you -- or you -- or me, we will all be better for it.   And a question to those who claim to be believers:  How can you say you love God, whom you have never seen, but hate any of His creation -- including Samantha -- and me?  

The theology of politics:  God allows stuff to happen.  He even allows people of mixed heritage to aspire to unite a nation of people whose origins (except for the disenfranchised natives) are rooted in other parts of the world.  He allows people who don't look like you to try, just as He allows people who look like you to try.  When He created you He did not breath into you a breath of privilege -- or of prohibition.  Those are traditions conceived by our foreparents.  It is the choice of each of us to continue those traditions of privilege and prohibition -- or let them die.