400 Years….
Tomorrow marks the 400th year since the first ship carrying Africans docked on these shores.
Tomorrow is also the last Sunday in August 2019. This era, this week, has been a ... dumpster fire. The world is burning. Literally, on fire, because a racist government lost a court battle to commit genocide legally. Children are running for their lives at football games. A Kappa has to remind us that police are still killing Black people ... while cops make plans with Nazis to keep them safe. Beyoncé’s husband is getting richer and demanding action instead of protest ... and that action looks like owning part of an NFL team and giving implicit license to other owners to abuse their players.
Black bodies. Torn. Broken. Bleeding.
And there’s joy in the midst of it. Joy over chicken sandwiches.
Someone, somewhere will walk through the doors of a church tomorrow. And someone’s pastor will be wokier than thou. Someone’s preacher will condemn the joy as a lack of consciousness. Someone’s preacher will demand an end to the laughter and merriment in the midst of the pain. Someone’s preacher will recap the 1619 project.
And folk will shout.
Folk will holler.
And they’ll walk out still confused about how to live in THIS present time, about where Christ is NOW, about how to not give in to the death dealing coming from blasphemous political leaders on every side.
And their pastor will pat themselves on the back for addressing history.
Their pastor will self-congratulate for the way in which they condemned the present age.
Their pastor will look in the mirror and declare that they did what they were supposed to do.
But Jesus...
Luke 13:10-17 has a Jesus who looks upon the current situation of the people around him. He sees the real-lived experiences and lifts that up over and beyond the historical, the traditional. Jesus doesn’t play Holy and Woke for the shouts and amens while the people are standing in his face suffering. He doesn’t demand they stay melancholy and release the little bit of joy they’re afforded. Jesus offers healing and hope ... in the moment.
Listen, I’m just a loud-mouth little girl from Denver whose people are from Arkansas. But imma say this: ain’t no one coming to church to hear what they can read in The New York Times. In this age of vipers in high places - and low political places and on police forces and in people’s schools - what folk need is to hear of a God that sees them in this moment, has hope for them in this moment, has freedom for them in this moment.
And, frankly, unless you’re well-prepared to explain how and why God allowed that ship to dock and chattel slavery to thrive on these shores for 200+ years, for the decedents of those African people to still be demanding just the right to live, to be free, and to be happy; unless you are capable enough to explain who and where God was then without making God sound like a white racist, leave that alone. If you haven’t wrestled with “well, why does oppression exist if God is a God of the oppressed” beyond “Cone said,” or “so God can get the glory,” preach anything but the 1619 project. You don’t have the range. And people will shout ... and still be oppressed and have no clue who and where God is for them.
I’m saying exactly what I said.
#WokeOlympicsAndPulpitsDoNotMix
