Gates, Structures, and Alternative Economies

I wrote the following sermon for Easter 4 of 2020, just a few weeks into the global pandemic. It’s one of the sermons I have felt most called to preach. Given that I explicitly named the violence of capitalism, I also received a good deal of criticism. Yet, two years later, we are living with the tragic hindsight of COVID’s disproportionate impact on the poor, communities of color, and other targeted groups. It didn’t have to be this way.

I returned to this sermon this week while preparing to again preach on Good Shepherd Sunday. Though the lectionary text this year is a few verses deeper into John 10, the question raised earlier in the chapter is vital to consider at this time: What structures and systems do we enact that prevent us and others from hearing and responding to the voice of Love?

“Very truly, I tell you, anyone who does not enter the sheepfold by the gate but climbs in by another way is a thief and a bandit. The one who enters by the gate is the shepherd of the sheep. The gatekeeper opens the gate for him, and the sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow him because they know his voice. They will not follow a stranger, but they will run from him because they do not know the voice of strangers.” Jesus used this figure of speech with them, but they did not understand what he was saying to them.  So again Jesus said to them, “Very truly, I tell you, I am the gate for the sheep. All who came before me are thieves and bandits; but the sheep did not listen to them. I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture. The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” — John 10:1-10 (NRSV)

Every year on this fourth Sunday of Easter, we read about shepherds, first in the beloved 23rd Psalm, and then in John’s Gospel. The metaphor of God as shepherd is a beloved one in the church, and with good reason: it offers us a comforting image of the Divine as One who tends to us with lovingkindness. We learn of the God who guides us to places of abundant flourishing, the God who, through the moments in life that most frighten us, does not leave our side, but walks with us every step of the way. 

However, it’s worth noting that in our Gospel reading today from John, Jesus hasn’t yet referred to himself as shepherd. He will shortly, and next year’s reading will highlight that metaphor. But today? Today, Jesus is the gate. 

Gates aren’t exactly a warm, endearing image, as metaphors for God go.  We might prefer to pass over the gate so we can get to the Good Shepherd. I get it. The comfort of the Good Shepherd is really appealing, especially right now.  But I think if we’re willing to spend some time with the strangeness of Jesus the gate,  there’s something vital for us to apply to this season in which we’re living.

On the lectionary blog Spirituality of Conflict, the Rev. Alex Wimberly writes this about Jesus the Gate: “The conflict in this passage...isn’t just about whose voices we instinctively respond to or who it is we can trust; it is also about whether we have the right structures in place to keep all of us safe and to keep each of us in reach of what we need to thrive.  In this initial analogy Jesus isn’t presenting himself as the better choice for people to follow; he is stressing everyone’s need for basic security and his desire that all might enjoy the fullness of life.... [T]his passage pushes us to ask questions that shouldn’t need to be asked. Does our sheepfold have a gate? Are our structures adequately protecting the folk they should serve? Can everyone expect basic securities and access to basic needs? Check again. Gates are important.”

Friends, I can’t think of a better moment for us to encounter Jesus the Gate than right now. Entering through the Good Gate is about discerning between those systems that are glorifying to God because they promote abundant life, and those systems that are death-dealing. And we desperately need structures that preserve life and promote flourishing.

As compounding factors, including poverty, racism, and lack of sufficient healthcare, are resulting in much higher COVID-19 mortality rates for already vulnerable groups, there are those people who would have us maintain the broken systems that have exacerbated this crisis.

Now is not the time to listen to the voices that seek to lure us outside the gate with false promises of stability and normalcy.

Now is the time to listen to the voice of the God who calls us to care for the vulnerable; to care for one another; to move toward a world where all can thrive.

There are some voices -- thieves and bandits, as Jesus would say -- insisting that if we aren’t willing to sacrifice some people to this virus, the economy will suffer.

“Whose economy?” we must ask.  

The economy of thieves who exploit vulnerable communities in order to expand their own absurd wealth? The economy of bandits who feign pity for the plight of the poor, in order that they might keep the poor working in minimum wage jobs without healthcare in the midst of a pandemic?

The economy we have is not an economy that ensures the flourishing of the flock. It’s an economy where children go hungry without vital school feeding programs; an economy in which it’s easier to buy a gun than to vote; an economy in which one in four families lives paycheck to paycheck; and an economy in which just three men own as much wealth as the bottom half of Americans.

Surely, this is not the sort of structure which Jesus, the good Gate, envisions for the beloved children of God.

Such systems will not lead us to the green pastures or quiet streams of the divine imagination! We must reject such exploitative economies. We must refuse to go back to a way of life which causes harm to so many. We must run from those who promise us security at the cost of others' well-being. We can imagine something better.

This will be hard. But it is not impossible. 

We know this because we have the story of the first-century church in the Acts of the Apostles. We read this morning about how the followers of the Way created something radically different in the midst of a deeply inequitable and oppressive society. The Roman empire in which they lived had a slave-based economy which grew on the basis of brutal conquest and colonization.

Bravely walking through the Good Gate, these early Christians recognized Caesar and his allies as thieves and bandits, whose extravagant lifestyles depended upon keeping the majority submissive within a hand-to-mouth system. They took seriously what they had learned about Jesus from the apostles:

They got together as a community, and devoted themselves to sharing all they had, putting in practice the beliefs that the poor are blessed, and that the last will be first and the first, last. 

Those who had assets sold them, pooled them and distributed them, in order to provide for those who had none.

The bread was broken, and all were fed.

This was a strange society, completely antithetical to the Roman way of life. Theirs was a subversive solidarity economy that posed a direct threat to the empire’s existence. And ultimately, this community contributed to the fall of that oppressive regime. 

Right now, we are in a unique position to begin a no-less radical reorientation of our communal life. We are being invited to make moves toward the Good Gate, leaving behind those systems that have killed and destroyed God’s beloved, for the sort of structures that provide all of God’s children with what they need to live full and healthy lives.

This begins with valuing the work we are doing together.

Staying home is hard work. It’s important for us to name that. Our current capitalistic system fails to value the work of caring for one’s own children, cleaning one’s home and cooking nourishing food. It utterly ignores the importance of maintaining a deep prayer life, tending to one’s mental health, and staying physically active. 

But all of these things are work. Real, hard and good work. If no one else has said this to you, please hear from me: I see you working hard to stay home, and I am thankful for your efforts.

As we do this work let us keep in mind that the loving boundaries we are holding right now are intended for the flourishing of our elders, those with preconditions, the homeless, and so many who do not have the option of staying home.

We are staying in for the sake of nurses, cleaning staff, doctors, social workers, and other frontline folks who are daily exposing their bodies to a dangerous virus in order to prevent greater suffering.

As the early church discovered, the call of Jesus to be in solidarity with the vulnerable is in constant conflict with the exploitative systems of our world that throw people away. But the work we are doing right now can be the foundation of beneficial structures that last beyond this crisis:

Let us build a world in which abundant life is a birthright, not something to be earned, hoarded, or stolen.

Let us build a world that prioritizes care for the most vulnerable. 

Let us come and go through the Good Gate, as together, we follow the Good Shepherd to green pastures.

Amen.

A Victory Song of Joyful Hospitality: A Sermon on Luke 1:39-45

The following is a sermon I preached at Christ Church Cathedral, Indianapolis on Advent 4, 2018. After more than three years of regular preaching, it is one of the sermons of which I am most proud, as it was a chance to highlight the stories of refugee and immigrant mothers. Three years have passed, we will again read Mary’s Visitation of Elizabeth this Sunday, and little has changed for our refugee siblings, who continue to face great suffering. Luke’s account invites us to consider anew: how are we extending hospitality to those who are in harm’s way?

Sculpture of Mary and Elizabeth at Church of the Visitation in Ein Kerem, Jerusalem

Sculpture of Mary and Elizabeth at Church of the Visitation in Ein Kerem, Jerusalem

Fleeing the threat of violence in her homeland, María makes a lengthy journey to a place of sanctuary. Craving respite from the omnipresent dangers that a woman in her situation faces, she carries in her heart the hope of safe haven from the many forces which pose harm to her.

She travels on foot for days on end in treacherous terrain, navigating rocky ground and dodging duplicitous dealers who would be more than willing to take advantage of a young single mother.

And then, when her destination is in clear view, she is met with teargas and rubber bullets. The image has become iconic. Perhaps you have seen it. María Meza clings to the hands of her twin toddler daughters, pulling them to safety, as together they flee a smoking teargas canister launched by agents of the United States Customs and Border Patrol.

The girls are in diapers. One is barefoot, having lost her shoes in the haste to escape. To gaze at the faces of this Honduran family is to almost hear their cries.  The image pierces the heart.

On Monday, after a month of waiting, María and her daughters were finally permitted to file for asylum. But in many ways, Maria’s challenges are only just beginning, as she seeks to make a life for her family in a country that failed to welcome her and lacks the vision to see the good she will contribute. 

Like our Blessed Mother -- who faced the threat of being stoned to death for having become pregnant outside of her marriage, and who quite literally headed for the hills -- migrant women like Maria leave behind dangerous circumstances to carve out a new future for themselves and their children. They risk the hazardous journey al Norte in hopes of finding freedom from domestic violence and gang violence, poverty and war.

But where Mary was received with warm enthusiasm, the women who arrive at our southern border are met not with songs of welcome, but with weapons and walls. Some have had children snatched from their arms, while others are forced to wait for months in order to apply for asylum, living on the streets with no protection to speak of.

Elizabeth’s welcome offers a radical counterpoint to the fear-mongering tactics daily employed by our government. The old woman greets the teenager and her unborn child with joyful hospitality at the threshold of her home.

I imagine her enveloping Mary in a comforting embrace, their pregnant bellies pressed close together. Then Elizabeth, with a loud voice -- the Greek is where we get the word megaphone... this woman is powerfully excited! -- she exclaims, “God has blessed you above all women, and God has blessed the child you carry.”

What a welcome! What a relief for the travel-worn María. What acceptance from a beloved friend and family member. The message is loud and clear: 

Come in! Come in! You and your child are welcome here. 

Put up your feet and rest a while.

Mi casa es tu casa.

God is clearly with you, and you honor me with your presence.

I admire you. You are so strong. You are so brave.

You are safe. You belong.

Isn’t this the sort of welcome we all long for? To know that we belong? That we are wanted? That God has made a place for us? Would that we offered such a welcome to those who seek sanctuary among us.  

Now, Elizabeth is not naive. She is a mature woman who knows how cruel the world can be. She knows life from here on out is not going to be easy for her young cousin. But right here, right now, she can play a part in God’s justice by being Mary’s safe-haven. And her faith tells her that the victory already belongs to God!

She is living a powerful sign of God’s favor that attests to this ultimate reality. Long barren, she’s now in her 2nd trimester w/ the baby who will grow to be John the Baptizer. She takes seriously these seeds of hope that she and Mary carry within, trusting that they bear future promise.

Elizabeth is a woman of vision. She sings over Mary the truth of God’s enthusiastic and ultimate YES to Mary’s belongingness in God’s good story of setting the world aright. In the face of insurmountable obstacles, she sings in solidarity with her young cousin. In a world where the forces of violence rage against people like Mary and her unborn child, Elizabeth’s jubilantly defiant song anticipates the victory that is to come:

“There will be fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord,” she sings.

Elizabeth’s song contains echoes of the victory songs that were sung over Yael and Judith, those bold female warriors who took matters of justice into their hands, by killing enemy generals whose armies were attacking Israel. In the book of Judges, Yael is celebrated by the judge Deborah as “most blessed of women.” (Judges 5:24) And of Judith it is said,  “O daughter, you are blessed by the Most High God above all other women on earth; and blessed be the Lord God, who created the heavens and the earth, who has guided you to cut off the head of the leader of our enemies." (Judith 13:18)

With her prophetic words, Elizabeth places Mary in the company of these powerful, strong warrior women. She gives her a warrior’s welcome,  celebrating her as a bold agent of God’s justice in the world.

It bears saying that those women who leave their homes seeking a better life belong to this same warrior lineage. So it should be of little wonder that Mary’s strength and courage have so captured the imagination of our Latin American neighbors. 

The beloved Virgin of Guadalupe, patron saint of Mexico and the Americas, is often depicted crushing the head of a serpent. 

Of this Mary it is said,

“Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb. 

It is an empowering welcome which lays the ground for Mary to pour out her heart in her Magnificat, sung so beautifully sung by our choir this morning. Together, these women mutually empower each other to participate in God’s work of turning the world rightside up again.

It’s an exchange grounded in hospitality and focused on God’s good future.

It calls to mind a moment at our Visioning Retreat this fall. We’d been asked, “How would life be different in 10 years if God’s vision for us were realized?” After some pondering, one participant raised her hand. Her voice brimming with emotion, she spoke with conviction about what life would be like for the immigrants among us:  

“They are here to stay. And they are safe.”

This vision resonates with the vision of ultimate belonging Elizabeth and Mary dreamt about,  and which Elizabeth, with her welcome of Mary, participates in bringing it into being.

It’s a vision which I see taking hold in our community. Just this week, a number of cathedral families have opened up their homes for las posadas. They’ve welcomed dozens of people to remember in song the Holy Family’s search for shelter. With tamales and tacos, beans and barbeque, the hosts of las posadas offer the sort of gracious and joyful welcome with which God receives us. 

In these spaces of hospitality, we strengthen ourselves for the work ahead, reminding each other of our belongingness in God’s story. And with particular attention to those who have experienced the violence of inhospitality, we might even sing:

You are a sign of the world to come, 

where God will set all things right. 

You are blessed,

and we celebrate the glorious things God is doing through you!

Amen.


Permission to breathe

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Yoga has been one of the practices that has most sustained me throughout the pandemic. While I had occasionally practiced yoga prior to a November pulmonary embolism diagnosis, the practice took on new and urgent meaning in the aftermath of that health crisis. I needed to rebuild my cardiovascular endurance, and thought yoga would be a gently loving way to do so.

When a dear friend invited me at the beginning of this year to join her on a 30-Day yoga journey, I decided to give it a try. Dozens of downward dog, mountain, and child's poses later, this practice has become an anticipated part of my day; an opportunity to put on pause whatever I am doing to focus my attention on my breath.

Yoga uses various breath techniques to ground the body in the present pose and the mind in the present moment. My favorite technique, and the one I find most helpful, is called ujjayi —ocean — breath. This breath mimics the sound of waves cascading onto the shore and then slipping away.

In. And out. In. And out.

When I practice ujjayi, I can feel my whole nervous system begin to settle. Then my muscles relax. My face softens. And sometimes, often when I least expect it, my spirit lifts, and I can sense God's presence. It is such a simple and wise practice: even a few deep ujjayi breaths can set me aright. I return to myself, and from that centered place, I become more attuned to the divine, and to the people around me (in person or otherwise!)

My practice reminds me that Spirit is always there, closer than our own breath, waiting to encounter us in every single moment. Sometimes all it takes is a pause. A stilling. A return to our beloved bodies and the sacred breath.

I wonder, this Lent, how God might be inviting you to return? What practice might be helpful for paying attention to the Holy in this moment? Can you give yourself permission to breathe?

The Summons: Direct Action in the Gospel According to Mark

This is an excerpt of a sermon I preached on Jesus’ calling of Simon, Andrew, James and John in Mark 1 on January 24 at St. Tim’s Episcopal Church. You can watch the whole thing here, starting with the reading of the Gospel at the 39:00 mark.

Jesus’ arrival in Galilee coincides with the unwelcome encroachment of an aggressive power, which looms threateningly over Galilee like an ominous storm cloud.


A study by Old Testament and Near Eastern scholar K.C. Hanson reveals just how thoroughly the Romans occupiers had taken over the Judean fishing industry:

Every body of water was owned by Caesar, and the state regulated all fishing.

Jewish fishermen were a lot like the people whom we refer to as day laborers:

they could not fish independently, but had to work for a syndicate.

The grand part of their catch was exported, 

at which time there were taxes, levies, and tolls to be paid on each and every fish.  

Jewish Galilean communities starved -- economically and literally -- 

as their natural resources were extracted to pay tribute to Rome. 

And the empire didn’t stop there -- 

Rome made it illegal to catch even a single fish outside this taxing system.

Fishing police were tasked with making sure that “no one was fishing illegally or selling to unauthorized middlemen.”


These are the conditions in which the not-yet-disciples are living, day in & day out.


To make matters worse, John has been arrested.

Mark doesn’t name names, though the other Gospels writers blame Rome’s puppet king Herod.

To think that John, living his alternative lifestyle way out in the desert, 

would be considered a threat to Rome, must have come as a wake-up call;

his arrest was surely meant as a warning to the Jewish people not to underestimate the extent to which empire would go to quash social deviance. 


There was to be no free thinking, no proclamation of liberation from the oppressor. 

One can almost hear the Orwellian refrain buzzing through the air:

“War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.”


Yet, on the tails of the trauma of John’s incarceration, 

Jesus steps into ministry for the first time. 

It’s is a remarkable thing to do -- 

the impact of the prison industrial complex of our own day has shown us how common it is for those traumatized by the incarceration of a loved one to end up locked up themselves. 

We also know how quickly a movement can crumble when its identity has been built on a charismatic founder.

Fortunately, Jesus knows who he is and the mission he has been given, 

and he has the courage to keep swimming upstream against the current of exclusion, abuse, and neglect.

He has a revolutionary message to proclaim:

“The time is fulfilled,” he preaches, “and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.” 

What’s more, his message is made real by what he does.


When he sees Simon and Andrew, James and John,

he sees their dignity and worth. 

They are not worthy based upon their utility to an imperial project,

but rather they matter because of who they are:

beloved children of God, purposed for freedom.

They are not simply given another job to do. 

The action phrase “fish for people” is better translated, “fishers of people.” 

This is about who they are. 

Their worth is inherent, incontestable.

The invitation Jesus offers is a pathway to freedom,

an opportunity to leave behind an exploitative system that extracts resources from the poor to enrich the ruling class, a chance to chart a new course toward a vision of justice and joy for all of God’s children. 


Political theologian Ched Myers calls this Jesus’ first symbolic direct action.

Jesus invites his would-be followers to participate in a defiant act of disinvestment from the current economic system.

It’s an act that calls to mind those courageous poor who responded to Gandhi’s call to defy the British, 

marching by the thousands to the sea to illegally collect its salt. 

That moment, and this one, are the rumblings of nonviolent revolution.


Those who are called know full well the risks -- Mark has made that clear. 

Repression comes swiftly to those who dare to color outside the lines.

Still, they respond immediately.

I think it’s hard for those of us who do not know the constant threat of state violence breathing down our necks to understand this level of enthusiasm.

Why leave behind one’s family and friends, and a paycheck, however meager, 

to follow an itinerant rabbi, who may not be far from arrest -- or worse -- himself?

Dr. King’s “Letter from a Birmingham Jail” is instructive here. 

Describing the constant presence of state-sanctioned violence, 

he wrote to his white clergy colleagues:

“There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over, 

and [people] are no longer willing to be plunged into the abyss of despair.” 

Jesus notes the urgency of his own moment:

“The time is fulfilled,” he proclaims. In other words, “NOW is the time to ACT!”

And the fishermen do.

They choose hope over fear; 

direct action over passivity.

What is happening here is about freedom: 

“I will make you,” Jesus says. 

Here is the joyful possibility of becoming actors in God’s story, 

no longer cogs in the crushing wheels of empire.

Vulnerable, yes. 

But expendable no longer.



Finding God in the mess

This piece first ran in the St. Tim’s Episcopal Church newsletter on September 15, 2020.

Yesterday I met with my spiritual director, a Jesuit priest whose gracious listening and thoughtful questions have made him a lifeline for me during this season. I had just laid out what I thought was an awfully strong case for despair at the state of the world, when he stood up from his office chair and invited me to take a seat in front of his computer. "I want to show you something," he said with a gentle smile. My spiritual director, who is himself a photographer, showed me a talk given by Dewitt Jones, a former National Geographic photographer.

 

If you are able, I invite you to go watch the talk now. Don't worry, I'll still be here when you get back!

 

...cue hold music...

 

Hi there.... welcome back!

 

OK, so here's what got me about Dewitt's talk. The photographer testifies through compelling stories and stunning imagery to the power of changing our perspective. His guiding mantra as an artist and in life is:

 

"Celebrate what's right with the world."

 

Celebrate?! One could easily retort that celebration is a terribly tall order in these challenging times. I mean, c'mon, we're facing COVID and racial injustice and political upheaval and... and... and...

 

But Dewitt invites us to pause. Time to take a breath and stick around long enough to notice what is good. He asserts that just the tiniest shift in perspective can change the way we engage with the world. When we adopt the lens of wonder -- which children certainly remind us to use, as one child earthsshakingly did for Dewitt -- things fall into their right order.

 

Beauty pulsates at the center of the universe. Mystery beckons us to leave our right/wrong, good/bad dichotomies behind. Love binds it all together.

 

Jesus lived and taught this wisdom too. Jesus, who had every reason to despair as a member of a violently persecuted religious minority living under the thumb of the colonizing Roman Empire, claimed what was right in the world by paying attention to... birds.

 

"Look at the birds of the air," Jesus says to his anxious followers in Matthew 6:26, "They neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?"

 

In the midst of injustice and suffering, Jesus looks up to the sky, sees a flock of birds, and goes, "Right. Time to celebrate that God provides."

 

What can you pay attention to today that will remind you of what is eternal? What can you celebrate that will help you trust that God continues to permeate everything -- even that which is most painful, anxious, and difficult? Indeed, those are the very places where God is most present with us.

 

Despair is easy. Joy asks us to linger just a moment longer. Joy asks, as my spiritual director so frustratingly and wonderfully delights in asking me, "Can you find God in the mess?" And while we may come up short (I generally do), Jesus is there, looking with us.

 

See him now? He calls you by name, and then points his finger in the direction of something beautiful. With the eagerness of a child discovering the world for the first time, he exclaims, "LOOK!"

Taking refuge in God during pandemic: an utterly un-American activity

“Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful, for I have taken refuge in you; in the shadow of your wings will I take refuge until this time of trouble has gone by.” Psalm 57:1

To take refuge in God is an utterly un-American thing to do. 

I was reminded of this two weeks ago, when I found it incredibly difficult to make the decision to cancel my flight plans for a trip I was eager to take. My grown-up self knew that cancellation was the responsible action to take. After all, I co-pastor a parish with a large number of vulnerable members -- seniors and folks with preexisting conditions. These folks would be highly susceptible to the coronavirus or any of the other assorted bugs I might manage to bring back with me from airports, planes, or my destination. 

Nevertheless, canceling the trip was like prying an iPad out of the hands of an infatuated toddler. My inner child was screaming, “This is MINE, you hear me? I want it, I planned it, I am going to make it happen.” 

As I wrestled with whether to clip my wings, I was unsettled by the force of my emotional reaction. Put simply, it doesn’t feel good to stay grounded. I’ve grown so accustomed to flying whenever I feel like doing so. I felt frustrated, with no one towards whom to direct my frustration. It does little good to get mad at a virus, even as it painfully reveals my self-serving tendencies and childish entitlements.

As someone who regularly preaches about how we ought to take up our cross, be servants of all, and love our enemies, I would have hoped that curtailing my freedom of flight for the sake of others’ well being would have come more, well, naturally. But I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. Like many Americans -- especially my fellow white Americans -- I’ve been nurtured my whole life to react badly to the elimination of choices.

The dominant American culture has taught me that as a middle-class white woman, I should be able to fly freely wherever I’d like to go, without a care in the world. Growing up in this society, I absorbed the message that I’d be able to go anywhere and do anything on which I set my heart. I was taught that freedom is about removing the limits and boundaries placed on my choices, regardless of the cost to others. I was taught that I was the master of my fate.

This narrative is at odds with another story that has captured my imagination since childhood. It’s the story Jesus tells about costly discipleship. This is a story about solidarity with the vulnerable, and the ultimate sacrifice which such solidarity can demand. It is a story about choosing a countercultural commitment to love our neighbors as ourselves, over the soul-crushing individualism of our world. It is a story with prophetic values: Do justice. Love mercy. Walk humbly with God. 

It’s clear that America’s flight path isn’t characterized by justice, mercy and humility. On the contrary, our airspace is dangerously crowded by obstacles like inequity, oppression, and pride. With each decision that values the individual’s whims over the good of the whole, we careen closer to communal catastrophe. 

As we face a pandemic, we might find ourselves praying for God to be merciful. Yet we are hypocrites if we pray this way while remaining passengers on the plane of self-satisfaction. The mercy of God bids us recognize our own vulnerability, and our responsibility to our fellow fragile beings. We are invited to release control and fall from soaring self-importance into mercy’s embrace. 

Mother God waits for us with wings outspread, ready to gather her whole brood to her breast. In the shadow of God’s wings, we can take refuge from trouble. Here we find that each one of us is only safe insomuch as all the others take seriously the sacred charge to care for the wellbeing of the whole human family. Here, we can be still, as we cease our endless, frenetic indulgences which are hurting those who are most vulnerable. 

Together in God, we can nurture the health of our communities by slowing down, staying home, only buying the food and supplies we absolutely need, and checking in on those members who are alone or especially vulnerable. We can practice interdependence as we pray for those who are sick, for medical professionals, and for those who are caring for loved ones. We can interrupt injustice as we financially support those who stand to suffer most because of the inequity in our healthcare and economic systems.

Taking refuge in God is an utterly un-American thing to do. And it is what will save us.