Four weeks ago, I wrote this post.
I have to take it back. The election results proved me wrong.
I’m grieving. Not because I have policy disagreements with the winner. Not because the lady didn’t win. Those things matter, but it’s so much bigger than that. I’m grieving because a person who rode to power on a calculated surge of hatred and bigotry, who dishonors women and brown people and any kind of Other in myriad ways—I’m grieving because only half the country rejected that. The other half rewarded it, or at the very least, thought the bullying and vulgarity and incitement to violence was unimportant enough to ignore.
I know I know. People voted for Trump for many reasons. I know that white working class people (men and women) are in pain, that they are angry, that they feel left behind and misunderstood. I know. But are straight white men entitled to their pain, anger, and fear, while everyone else’s pain, anger, and fear comes second, or is dismissed? That would be a pretty good definition of patriarchy. In fact, that’s not a bad definition of white supremacy.
A full half of America, unconsciously or not, has signaled their continuing investment in it. I just don’t see any excuse for that. No, not even abortion.
It’s been crushing this week to see my students grieve. It was the first election where they could vote. They were envisioning an America where we fully honor women, where we include everyone. It was a beautiful vision; they were ready to grow up into it.
Now they feel slapped in the face. If they hadn’t felt that slap before, they feel it now. Those who have been slapped many times, for being different in one way or another, are just weary to the bone.
They’re afraid. So am I. We have reason—already.
I am not one bit comforted by white people assuring everyone that “Jesus is Lord.” Instead, I am grateful for those who speak words of encouragement, faith, and defiance out of their painful history of receiving the blows of hatred and suspicion. There are words we ought to say, and many people are saying them well. Still, for me right now, it’s hard to receive them.
Steven quoted Lear on Thursday in his beautiful post. I’ll quote Lear, too. Here are Edgar’s final, devastated words in the play:
The weight of this sad time we must obey;
Speak what we feel and not what we ought to say.
Today, that is all I have to say.
Speak What We Feel
Four weeks ago, I wrote this post.
I have to take it back. The election results proved me wrong.
I’m grieving. Not because I have policy disagreements with the winner. Not because the lady didn’t win. Those things matter, but it’s so much bigger than that. I’m grieving because a person who rode to power on a calculated surge of hatred and bigotry, who dishonors women and brown people and any kind of Other in myriad ways—I’m grieving because only half the country rejected that. The other half rewarded it, or at the very least, thought the bullying and vulgarity and incitement to violence was unimportant enough to ignore.
I know I know. People voted for Trump for many reasons. I know that white working class people (men and women) are in pain, that they are angry, that they feel left behind and misunderstood. I know. But are straight white men entitled to their pain, anger, and fear, while everyone else’s pain, anger, and fear comes second, or is dismissed? That would be a pretty good definition of patriarchy. In fact, that’s not a bad definition of white supremacy.
A full half of America, unconsciously or not, has signaled their continuing investment in it. I just don’t see any excuse for that. No, not even abortion.
It’s been crushing this week to see my students grieve. It was the first election where they could vote. They were envisioning an America where we fully honor women, where we include everyone. It was a beautiful vision; they were ready to grow up into it.
Now they feel slapped in the face. If they hadn’t felt that slap before, they feel it now. Those who have been slapped many times, for being different in one way or another, are just weary to the bone.
They’re afraid. So am I. We have reason—already.
I am not one bit comforted by white people assuring everyone that “Jesus is Lord.” Instead, I am grateful for those who speak words of encouragement, faith, and defiance out of their painful history of receiving the blows of hatred and suspicion. There are words we ought to say, and many people are saying them well. Still, for me right now, it’s hard to receive them.
Steven quoted Lear on Thursday in his beautiful post. I’ll quote Lear, too. Here are Edgar’s final, devastated words in the play:
The weight of this sad time we must obey;
Speak what we feel and not what we ought to say.
Today, that is all I have to say.
Refugia Podcast Episode 35 Peacemaking at the River: Doug Kaufman and the Anabaptist Climate Collaborative
Doug Kaufman directs the Anabaptist Climate Collaborative, an organization that leads climate justice initiatives from an Anabaptist faith perspective. Doug and his team support Mennonite and other Anabaptist churches, helping to build networks, train leaders, and empower climate-related initiatives. Doug describes environmental work as a form of peacemaking, a way of countering the slow violence of actions that cause and exacerbate climate change. Thanks to Doug for geeking out with me on theology and offering some glimpses of Mennonite climate work.
Refugia Podcast Episode 34 A Parable of Redemption: Dave Celesky and Redeem MI Land
Today I’m talking with Rev. Dr. Dave Celesky, pastor of Unity Reformed Church in Norton Shores, Michigan. I’ll be asking Dave about the nonprofit organization he founded called Redeem MI Land, with “MI” spelled “M-I” for Michigan. The idea is to have churches or faith groups purchase a piece of degraded land, and, with community partners, redeem and heal it. Dave speaks eloquently about how this work can serve as an embodied parable for redemption and create vital community connections through a shared project.
Refugia Podcast Episode 33 The Garden Became the Steeple: Heber Brown and the Black Church Food Security Network
Today, I’m talking with Rev. Dr. Heber Brown, founder of the Black Church Food Security Network. Beginning with a small congregation, a 1500-square foot garden, and a divine calling, the Black Church Food Security Network now connects 250 Black churches and 100 Black farmers in the Mid-Atlantic states and beyond. Reverend Brown’s story weaves through issues of health justice, food security and climate resilience.
Refugia Podcast Episode 32 It All Started with Styrofoam Cups: Judy Hinck and Mount Olive Lutheran
It All Started with Styrofoam Cups: Judy Hinck and Mount Olive Lutheran