Sunday, April 29, 2018
First Congregational United Church of Christ
Washington, D.C.
A.
So James and John are all amped
up. And really, who can blame them? When was the last time you were all amped up
in a movement? James and John are
totally engaged. These are heady days in
their movement; Jesus’ message is gaining traction among all kinds of
people. And James and John can taste it.
And this is exactly what they signed up
for. Exposing the powerful. Beating swords into ploughshares. Inaugurating the kingdom of God.
But then Jesus questions
whether they get it, whether they really get him and where he’s going with all
this. Are you prepared for the
suffering? he asks. Will you welcome the
losses, embrace the defeats? And, of
course, James and John are totally engaged.
Of course, they say. Of course,
we’ll suffer with you. Just put us in
charge. Just keep us close when the
tide’s turning and the new world’s at hand.
We’ll take responsibility.
And it’s interesting, isn’t it,
that this matter of leadership, this matter of leadership in the movement,
occasions conflict in the beloved community.
Interesting and inevitable. For
instance, what does leadership mean—really—in the context of liberation and
resistance? How should Jesus’
disciples—folks like you and me—how should we practice leadership in
transformational moments and settings? Which gifts are the necessary gifts? I imagine these are First Church
questions. I know they are. And the questions themselves provoke
conflict. The questions themselves test
friendships and priorities. And it’s
always been that way. All the way back
to Moses and Miriam. The disciples are
just following the ancient script. It’s
what we do.
So what does leadership mean
(what are the necessary gifts) in the context of liberation and resistance? This is where Jesus goes to work. This is where Jesus gets down to business. And here’s what he says:
“You know,” and this will be my
translation. “You know that among the movers and shakers of the world, the
players throw their weight around, and the powerbrokers are like tyrants
leveraging their privilege.” My
translation, right, but you get the point.
“Among the movers and shakers of the world, the players throw their
weight around, and the powerbrokers are like tyrants leveraging their
privilege.” Something like that. “But it’s not so among you,” Jesus says, “but
whoever wishes to be great among you must be a servant in the movement, and
whoever wishes to be first among you must humbly serve the common good.” In other words, the liberation project
requires a different kind of leadership.
This is where the rubber hits the road for Jesus; it really is. The liberation project requires a different
kind of leadership.
Years ago, at Union Seminary in
New York, my teacher Cornel West was talking about hedonism on Wall Street, and crushing poverty in
city neighborhoods, and a spirituality of resistance. And I’ll never forget the way he put all
this: “Nihilism,” Cornel West said, “is not overcome by arguments or analyses;
it is tamed by love and care.” Still
preaches, right? Nihilism is not
overcome by arguments or analyses; it is tamed by love and care. Which isn’t to say that arguments are
unimportant, or that analysis has no place.
Not at all. But the prophetic
task of the church, the gospel task of the church is different. We practice leadership the way lovers make
love: as generous partners and humble servants. Now I know this is way, way out there; but
it’s gospel I think. We practice
leadership the way lovers make love: as generous partners and poets of the
flesh.
Now it’s not an easy thing,
clearly. And this kind of leadership
takes a lifetime to learn. But there is
no other way. Nihilism is not overcome
by arguments or analyses. And then Cornel
West punctuates the teaching, he puts an exclamation point on it in his book Race Matters: “A love ethic must be at the
center of a politics of conversion.” If
conversion is the turning of hearts and systems towards justice, there can be
no meaningful turning without love. Daring
love. Daily love. Durable love.
A love ethic must be at the center of a politics of conversion!
What Jesus is doing, then, in
the text this morning is embracing the conflict in his inner circle, teaching
off it, and suggesting a love ethic for his movement. And with that in mind, I want to tell you
another Union Seminary story that illuminates the ethic and puts the ball
(squarely) in our court.
Now the great thing about Union
in the 80s was this: liberation wasn’t a vague ideal, an option, it was a very particular
mandate. I like to say liberation was
something like a contact sport at Union.
And I’ll be quite honest and say that, in a lot of ways, I wasn’t
prepared for that. And the first time,
the very first time I stepped into Union’s old chapel—for a noontime communion
service—the whole thing nearly swallowed me whole.
That first week, chapel
services were facilitated by students in the Black Students Association. And that first day, two black students
presided at a communion table stacked with silver trays and those little shot
glasses of grape juice. At the start, it
was everything I expected at Union: a multiracial community of Christians,
gathered from all over the country, at the intersection of Harlem and Broadway. It was an exhilarating scene: ancient
sacraments contextualized in contemporary settings; activists and pastors
mixing and mingling in worship. I
remember thinking to myself: “Bring it on, Good God! Bring it on!”
Kind of like James and John, really,
I was all amped up!
But I underestimated seminary, at
least for a day or two. Truth be told, I
probably underestimated Jesus and the gospel too. Turns out that worship—when it’s honest
anyway—is risky business. What’s that
Annie Dillard line? We should pass out
crash helmets, not programs, at the door!
And in no time, those two students at the table had skipped any kind of
prayer or small talk and were instead denouncing seminary administrators, the
same administrators who’d welcomed us the day before and moved us in. One or two of them were sitting just then in
the front row. The two students were calling
them out—in chapel—for a series of summer lay-offs, extensive lay-offs devastating
dozens of support staff and their families.
And almost every employee fired
that summer—in what the seminary had called a cost-cutting necessity—almost
every one was a person of color, with a family of color depending on them. “So welcome to Union,” one of the two said to
us that day, in chapel. “And now what are
you going to do?”
And that was just day one. Instead of a predictable communion service,
two black students invoked a New Testament text (First Corinthians, if you’re
keeping score), counseling a church divided by injustice to step away from the
table, to refrain from celebrating the feast.
Until such time as the injustice was addressed. Until such time as the beloved community
recovered its heart and healed itself.
And just as abruptly, the two
men took off their stoles, and their robes, right there in front of us, and
walked out of the chapel. Just like
that. No communion. Said they were on their way, directly, to the
President’s office to register their protest there. Some in the chapel clapped as they left. Several followed them out. And others of us—and I have to confess that
this included me—the rest of us just gasped.
An opportunity, a call that I missed that day!
Now thankfully, the advisor to
the Black Students Association that fall was the great historian of the black
church Jim Washington. And Jim was a
great big man with an equally big heart and deep roots in the civil rights
movement. On top of all that, he was a
Baptist minister, with a keen sense of timing, and he rose after a moment and
spoke quietly and persuasively about the power of anger, the importance of
protest and the integrity of worship.
“Perhaps we should continue with our communion,” Jim said. “But we should meditate, as we do, on the
broken body in which we participate.” And
you could have heard the proverbial pin drop.
“And we should meditate,” he said, “on the crucified Christ who is too
often black and brown, and the burden of the gospel in this place.”
And with these words, Jim
Washington took the bread in his huge hands and blessed it. And then he consecrated a cup of sweet juice,
and invited a grateful but chastened community to serve one another in the
traditional way. Which we did. And we lingered after that service, deep into
the afternoon, sharing perspectives on the summer’s lay-offs, naming aloud
those who’d lost their jobs, and strategizing around addressing this with
administrators in days that followed.
C.
Now in the many years since, I
have remembered Jim’s ministry every time I’ve come across Jesus’ teaching on
humility and the servant spirit of leadership.
“You know,” Jesus says, “that among the movers and shakers of the world,
the players throw their weight around, and the powerbrokers are like tyrants
leveraging their privilege.” Something
like that. “But whoever wishes to be
great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you
must serve the common good.” You can’t
just memorize this stuff and be done with it.
You’ve got to live this gospel to get it. And Jim Washington got it.
Jim wasn’t just humoring a
hostile crowd that afternoon, or placating a peeved people. He was insisting on communion, yes, but
holding us accountable for racism and its nasty hold on communities we
loved. The liberation project requires a
different kind of leadership. In Jim’s
eyes I saw vulnerability, but integrity too, in a hyper-charged environment. In his body, in the way he stood physically
among us, I saw Christ-like compassion—for idealistic students, and angry
agitators, and the invisible poor. For
all of us. Jesus is looking for servant
leaders, and his gospel is not for the faint of heart. “Whoever wishes to be great among you must be
your servant.” When the moment came, Jim
Washington was ready and available and unintimidated.
In the text this morning, Jesus
is talking about a kind of fearless devotion to community—and to communion—even
when that same community is shaken by doubt, disappointment and even rage. And what is fearless devotion? Watch him moving across the Palestinian
landscape; watch him building a multicultural movement of souls whose only
weapons are love and prayer. Watch him
washing his friends’ feet as their hearts are breaking. Fearless devotion is
Mother Teresa insisting that every dying 10-year-old in Calcutta be touched and
treated like an angel. Fearless devotion
is the priest in the barrio who cries with his displaced people, and honors
their passion for justice. Anger is
necessary, rage is appropriate. But fearless
devotion is the language of liberation. Like
Moses singing to Pharaoh: “Let my people go!”
Or Mavis Staples to the riot police: “We shall not be moved!”
But Jim Washington, you see, is
just one part of this story. Servant
leadership does not always mean sitting still and staying put. I know you know this; and I want you to know
that I know it too. I’m persuaded now
that those two students who walked out that day were also exercising leadership
(even Christ-like leadership) in their willingness to disrupt the status quo
and enact solidarity through coordinated action. I’ve had a lot of years to think about
this. Sometimes injustice is so
entrenched, and racism so well baked into the American loaf that sitting still
and staying put is nothing more and nothing less than complicity. A love ethic, a true love ethic, shakes us
loose.
In leaving worship that day, those
two students were exercising their own fearless devotion to community: to a
community that included dishwashers and secretaries, janitors and librarians,
invisible perhaps to the rest of us, but very much alive in the minds and hearts
of those servant leaders and that beloved community.
So no, Jesus isn’t kidding
around. And I know you know this. I came 3000 miles to be with you this
morning, because I know you know this. This
gospel, Jesus’ gospel, has an edge. “The
Human One,” he says this morning, to you and to me, “the Human One came not to
be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.” In other words, without embodied solidarity,
leadership amounts to something like complicity. And without disciplined commitment to the
common good, leadership misses its mark. But not so among you, Jesus says. Not so among you.
And isn’t this what Alicia
Garza and the women who inspired the Black Lives Matter movement have taught us
over the last several years? Isn’t this
what Emma Gonzalez and her classmates at Stoneman Douglass High School in
Parkland have taught us just this spring?
Servant leadership does not always mean sitting still and staying
put. Not so among you, Jesus says. Not so among you. Sometimes, oftentimes, servant leadership
means getting up and walking out. And
this isn’t easy for most of us: we’re going to have to help one another with
this. Embodied solidarity is the road
less traveled.
But Jesus doesn’t blink. Blessed are you when you hunger and thirst and
ache for justice. Blessed is your
discomfort. Blessed are you when you’re
willing to go to jail, willing to face persecution for the common good. Blessed is your distress. Sometimes you have to jam the gears of the
machine. Sometimes leadership means
getting up and walking out. And that too
is a love ethic: a love ethic that resists bitterness, a love ethic that moves
us to action, a love ethic that clears out cynicism and sarcasm for courage and
creativity. Blessed are you when you
hunger and thirst and ache for justice.
Just ask Alicia Garza about that, or Emma Gonzalez, or Jesus if you
dare.
D.
I’m guessing a good many of you
have read the work of Ta-Nehisi Coates, whose recent collection (called We
Were Eight Years in Power) is a deep dive into issues of race and white
supremacy and the legacy of Barack Obama.
Ta-Nehisi pushes back against the notion that white America was somehow fooled
into electing Donald Trump in 2016 and insists that we knew exactly what we
were doing and who we were anointing that fall.
And he suggests that our task now—our progressive, political task—is
disruptive. Fearless, honest and
disruptive.
I’d like to read just a couple
of sentences from the last pages of his book:
“...there
was nothing inevitable about Donald Trump’s election,” he writes, “and while
great damage has been done by his election, at the time of this writing it is
not yet the end of history. What is
needed now is a resistance intolerant of self-exoneration, set against blinding
itself to evil—even in the service of warring against other evils. One must be able,” and I think this is
Ta-Nehisi Coates at his best, “one must be able to name the bad bargain that
whiteness strikes with its disciples—and still be able to say that it is this
bargain, not a mass hypnosis that has held through boom and bust.”
So here’s what I want to say
about leadership in the church. Here’s
where the rubber hits the road for us. If
we’re going to take Christianity seriously in 2018, if we’re going to inhabit
this tradition prophetically, you and I have to deconstruct whiteness in
America and expose the bargain whiteness continues to strike with its American
disciples. Make sense? The project of building a beloved community
is a disruptive project. We want to do it
with love in our hearts. We’re called to
do it with love in our hearts. But the
project of building a beloved community is a disruptive project. At every level. In every dimension.
And this is the primary task
for servant leaders in the American church.
For any of us who take Jesus’ love ethic to heart. And it’s a collaborative task, I think, and a
relational challenge.
And here’s what that means to me. As a white man in America, as a white man in
the church, I’ve got to deconstruct my own whiteness—debunk it, raze it to the
ground and start from scratch. But I
need the rest of you to help me do this; I can’t do it by myself, relying on my
own wits, apart from your passion and your pain. It’s a relational challenge. And then, and then, I’ve got to live into a
whole new way of being in the church, a whole new way of neighboring in my life,
a whole new way of collaborating in America.
I’ve got to do this work, and we’ve got to do this work, together. A multiracial, multicultural church!
Now Ta-Nehisi Coates isn’t
particularly concerned with the church or religion for that matter. But he’s spot-on, I think, about this bargain
we’ve accommodated in all too many ways.
And the thing is, we cannot and must not tolerate this bargain. Not in the church. Not in the Body of Christ. Again, Jesus isn’t particularly vague. Our mandate is a single circle, an
interdependent body, a beloved community.
Our mandate is the gospel church: no longer Jew or Greek, no longer rich
or poor, no longer male or female. Being
a Christian—being “in Christ” as we say—means “a resistance intolerant of
self-exoneration, set against blinding itself to evil.” We’ve got to be brave. This isn’t a project you finish in a weekend,
or a decade, or even a lifetime. But
it’s the way of the cross, the disciple’s journey, the vocation of churches
like ours. And it brings us, if we
follow, if we persist, if we open our eyes, it brings us to the threshold of
Easter and the promise of resurrection.
Where we can see who we are and who (by God’s grace) we can one day
become.
So this is my commitment to
you, friends, and my promise to Jesus too.
If you wish and if you choose, I will partner with you to build a gospel
church right here at 10th and G.
We will not rest, we will not sleep, we will not settle for anything
else. We will take up Jesus’ cross—and
we’ll take it up together—trusting in God’s love to see us through seasons of
bewilderment and despair. We will pray
together and laugh together and weep together, and together we will deconstruct
whiteness and patriarchy and heterosexism and every other expression of bigotry
and division on this planet. That’s what
we’ll do. Right here at 10th
and G. First Church will mean fearless
devotion.
Because, here’s the thing: our
mandate in the church is liberation. And
our mandate in the church is love. And
our mandate in the church is courage.
And we will not rest, we will not sleep, we will not settle for anything
else.
