Tag Archives: hope

Not All Is Lost.

The news today felt like a tidal wave. Like that time I stepped on a yellow-jacket nest and they swarmed me from all sides. Yet, despair could not seem to find a good spot to land on me. I just kept hearing her words: “Not all is lost.”

Driving from El Paso to Tornillo with a woman directly impacted by our cruelty towards immigrants from Central America, she looked around at my car full of white folx and her response was, “Now I know that not all is lost.” 

This week, of all weeks, when it feels like the whole world is crashing down around us, this is the week she decided that not all is lost?

“After the election,” she explained, “everyone was saying such hateful things about us. It felt like nobody loved us. It felt like everyone wanted to get rid of us. But now I see you are all here willing to risk everything with us. Now I know that not all is lost.”

Not all is lost. If she can believe that, then so can I.

Not all is lost, because all it takes to change this is enough of us to get up and actively refuse to let it happen. All it takes is a Rahab living at the wall and shielding the servants of God from the wall patrol that was searching for them. All it takes is a Ruth binding herself in solidarity to a Naomi of another land, refusing to let her walk through struggle and uncertainty alone. All it takes is an Esther, saying, “I will go to the king, though it be against the law, and if I perish, I perish.”

All it takes is one person to say, “You are not alone.”

All it takes is you. You, creating a ripple in your neighborhood, that joins with all the others making ripples in their own, that turns into “justice running down like a river, and righteousness like a mighty stream.” That is what can push back this tide that feels like it will crush us all: you. 

Not all is lost, because we are not alone. If she can believe that, then so can I.

When we arrived at Tornillo, we planned to send up a balloon into the air, with a banner hanging down from it that read, “No estan solos” (You are not alone). We wanted the kids imprisoned in tents at Tornillo to know that there were people that cared about them, and that were fighting for them on the outside. It was simple, it would not have changed the world, but it would have given them hope. It would have reminded them that not all is lost. For us, that was worth the risk. 

Unfortunately the balloon never got up high enough for them to read. A local rancher, who had been encouraged to feel free to engage in vigilantism by CBP, interrupted and eventually pulled a revolver out, waving it around and threatening to shoot down the balloon. 

Despite the fact that he oversaw the alfalfa field next to where the kids were held in tents, where the crop duster had passed over the day before, he believed that all of this was fake news. The control of those who seek to undermine the truth was so strong upon him, that he believed what he heard from the administration on Fox News rather than what he saw with his very own eyes. The pressure from CBP was so great on him that he was waving a revolver around a bunch of people simply holding a big balloon. 

As she stood in front of his gun, her previous words echoed in my mindp1080645.jpg, “You are all here willing to risk everything with us. Now I know that not all is lost.”

Eventually through peaceful dialogue, he was deescalated, and perhaps began to realize how foolish he was being. He put his revolver in his front pocket. But that did not stop him from saying, “Well, I’ll let you do it if you pay me $5,000.” I wondered how much, if anything, CBP was paying him to outsource their intimidation. 

Eventually the balloon was deflated, as were our spirits, and we all went our separate ways. 

Still, not all was lost.

Not all is lost because she is not alone, because we are not alone, because you are not alone. 

As we wanted to tell the kids, “No estan solos.”

We will stand together, and we will stare directly into whatever threats come our way, and we will endure them as a people united. Like Ruth chose Naomi over her country. Like Rahab shielded the spies that climbed over the wall. Like Esther broke the law for a people threatened with obliteration. 

We will love one another and we will tell the truth, no matter how many lies and how much hate come our way. In order to stop atrocity, there just has to be enough people to say no – you are one of those people. We need your “No.”

Today I called my mother, and I told her that for the third time since the election of Donald Trump, I had stood within range of the weapon of a white man who was willing to do harm in his name.

And I do not stand here alone. The truth is that there are already so many people who already stand in the range of harm, regardless of what they do or say, but simply because of who they are. Simply because of the religion they practice. Simply because of the language they speak. Simply because of the country where they were born. Simply because of the color of their skin. Simply because they came desperate for help, and trusting we would aid them rather than kidnap their children. 

I’m not asking you if you will stand with me in the way of harm, I’m asking you if you will join me in standing with those who have no choice in the matter. Those who do not have the privilege of walking away. 

There is someone in your community who is tempted today to believe that all is lost. They cannot avoid the danger and fears they face by simply refusing to “talk politics” or trying not to “make people uncomfortable.” Their reality is discomfort, and there is no escape. They need to see that they are not alone. They need to see that you will stand with them. They need to trust that you will stay. 

Not all is lost. If she can believe that, then so can I. 

“Do not press me to leave you

    or to turn back from following you!

Where you go, I will go;

    where you lodge, I will lodge;

your people shall be my people,

    and your God my God.

Where you die, I will die—

    there will I be buried.

May the Lord do thus and so to me,

    and more as well,

if even death parts me from you!”

Ruth 1:16-17

*Conversation quoted with consent.

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Hope In Labor: A Parable

“Hope has two beautiful daughters: anger and courage. Anger at the way things are, and courage to make sure that they do not remain the same.” – Often attributed to St. Augustine

Prelude to a parable:

It had been a time of great loss in my life, that day in May of 2016, and I had hoped to slip into the back of the sanctuary of Hope AME unnoticed. Yet, my friend, the Rev. Sean Nickleberry had seen me and called me to the front to be the preacher of the hour. Suddenly, I found myself mid-way through my first extemporaneous sermon, and at a loss for words.

Turning to the second pew from the front, I looked at the matriarch of the church, Sister Jackson, and asked, “Why did you name this place Hope? I can’t go any further in my sermon without knowing that, and I don’t have the answer. Help me. I cannot tell the people what I do not know.”

With a slight quiver of emotion in her voice, Sister Jackson replied, “We named it Hope because we needed Hope. We named it Hope because we didn’t have anything else. And now you have brought Hope back to us.”

You was Sean. Was me. Was Mirissa. Was Jonathan. Was Sandra Bland.

Without the words attributed to St. Augustine, however, you will never understand…

“Hope has two beautiful daughters: anger and courage. Anger at the way things are, and courage to make sure that they do not remain the same.”

Yes, but there was more.

Hope, that long-suffering mother, had been alone. Her children had been ripped from her grasp, and without them, she could not live. The nation had built a monument to her and upon it they had heaped their offerings, naming their gifts reconciliation and peace. Yet, those were the names of children not yet born. Children that Hope had dreamt of but had not yet seen. Children that would not be born – could not even be conceived – until the child still growing in Hope’s womb had been born. That child’s name was Justice, and its sisters waited by their mother’s side, trained and prepared to be her midwives.

Yet, Justice had never been born. Justice had never come.

The birthing pains had come, most assuredly, and Anger and Courage had taken their places on either side of their mother, holding her up and helping her to push.

Yet, as the contractions came closer and closer and the day became nearer and nearer, The Empire feared the baby child, as Saul had feared David, as Pharoah had feared Moses, as Herod had feared Jesus. Conspiring with the Pharisees, the Empire sent its forces to destroy the threat to its power. They arrived together, those entrusted to enforce the power of the Empire accompanied by those entrusted to enforce the respectability politics of the church.

They interrupted Hope mid-contraction and tore Anger from her side. Hope stumbled, and slumped against Courage. Yet, without her sister’s help, Courage could not bear the weight alone. With horror, she watched her mother slip from her grasp and slump to the ground. The unborn child Justice remaining in her womb.

Taken away in handcuffs, Anger was tried and convicted, just as Jesus had been before her, for deceit and heresy; he for claiming to be the Son of God, she for claiming to be the daughter of Hope.

It was written down in the law, history, and theology of the Empire, that Anger was a bastard child, parentage unknown. The only place you could find the truth was outside of the courtrooms and cathedrals where the artists in the streets sometimes whispered and sometimes shouted the truth of who Anger was.

Anger languished in custody, while her mother wept in the streets for her stolen child, locked out of the rooms of power and unable to set the story right. Without Anger by her side, Courage became silent, for it had always been Anger that had helped her see. Without her sister to guide her, Courage did not know where to go or what to do. So she sat down in the street, and those respectable people who passed her looked the other way, averting their eyes from her face.

Robbed of her daughters, Hope went into hiding to protect the unborn child Justice. With her true face out of sight, the Empire built a monument in her image and called it Hope. They made her features soft and tender, and her form weak; they placed this monument inside the church. Into her arms, they carved the image of the unborn child Justice. With claims that Justice had been born, they taught the people that the unconceived children that Hope had dreamed of, Peace and Reconciliation, were even now in the birth canal itself.

With Hope’s only living children missing, Anger convicted and locked away, and Courage silenced without her sister, there was no one to tell the world otherwise.

Until one hot Texas afternoon, when Courage heard her sister Anger’s voice and cried out!

They silenced Courage quickly, and took her into custody, without knowing they were taking her to the very place she needed to go. They thought that by throwing Courage into custody they would silence her as they had Anger. But it was too late. The world had heard her.

More importantly, her mother, Hope, had heard her, for they had taken Courage into custody upon the very doorstep of her house. As Courage cried out, her mother Hope’s water broke, and the labor pains of Justice began again. Reunited, Anger and Courage burst from their cell to be at their mother’s side. At that moment, the monument they had named Hope with the false child Justice in her arms began to crumble. Those who rejected Anger and Courage believed this to be the end of Hope, but those who knew their worth understood the truth.

Even in the midst of her birthing pains, the greatest pain she had ever known, Hope stood tall beside her daughters as they held her up in the manner used by women for thousands of years. In their solidarity, grasping one another once again, Hope declared to the world that Anger was her child. She declared that Anger was wrongfully convicted. She declared that Anger was free to roam the sanctuaries of the church once again.

She spoke woe to the church if they handed her daughters over to The Empire again. For only with their help would Hope be able to give birth to a living child. Only with their help would the church see Justice come. Only with their help would Peace and Reconciliation finally be conceived.

As their mother Hope reclaimed the daughters that the world had stolen from her, her strength returned and the earth began to tremble in the wake of her mighty birthing pains.

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Dedicated to Sister Jackson and Sister Green, faithful, long-suffering midwives.