Community Church of Durham
Luke 19 (The 1st Sunday in Incarnation)
1.
 |
| Peter Makari and Zoughbi Zoughbi in Atlanta |
For much of that meeting, I sat at a big round table, alongside two UCC colleagues and four South African pastors. Veterans of the anti-apartheid movement in their own country; prophets of possibility. One of these bright lights was the Reverend Nontombi Naomi Tutu, the third child of Archbishop Desmond and Nomalizo Leah Tutu. We talked just a bit about her journey into Christian ministry, and she told me that she never in a thousand years imagined she’d follow her father in this vocation. “I have my father’s nose,” she said. “I did not want his job.” But her work in educational reform and advocacy led her, again and again, to a realization that social change requires spiritual revolution, and that spiritual revolution emerges in beloved community. So…there she was in Atlanta, an Anglican priest, a cross around her neck, a collar to match, and all the rest of it. The Reverend Nontombi Naomi Tutu. Committed to sharing her experience, and offering her unique blend of strength and wisdom, to Palestinian partners and friends. For such a moment as this.
 |
| The Rev. Nontombi Naomi Tutu |
And it was what happened next that affected me most. For in that moment, as Zoughbi said his “Amen,” the Reverend Nontombi Naomi Tutu—daughter of Archbishop Desmond Tutu—stood up from the table, just beside me, mind you, and cried out (to Zoughbi and to that whole heartbroken gathering of activists), “Ashe!” “Ashe!” And then, from others around the room (South African friends, African-Americans too): “Ashe!” “Ashe!” “Ashe!” And when Naomi Tutu sat down, making eye contact with Zoughbi on the stage, my Palestinian friend placed his hand on his heart and nodded. Just that. A hand to his heart. And a couple of gentle nods. It seemed to me that his prayer had been actualized, even activated somehow; that the Holy Spirit had infiltrated what might have been just another meeting in Atlanta and made it something else. Something like holy resistance. Something like inspired worship. Something like beloved community.
2.
So what is this “Ashe”? Where does it come from? And why have some of us stitched it into our prayers and liturgies over the past five, ten years? You’ll note, I know you will, that we have done this almost permanently: it’s a weekly feature of our congregational prayer life. “Amen and Ashe.” Why is this?
Well, as I understand it, “Ashe” is a Yoruban word, a West African concept, that indicates human awareness of power: power conferred upon us by the Creator, power to make things happen, and to do good for one another, and to effect change for the blessing of all.
When Naomi Tutu stood up then, in Atlanta, and responded to Zoughbi’s prayer in this way, she was celebrating their friendship—a South African priest and a Palestinian organizer—and naming the power of God that flows through friendship, and across the church, and into the broken, violent and lovely world. When she cried out “Ashe!”—she was offering her own witness to the resurrecting spirit of God who will conspire with us, and resist with us, and rejoice with us, and stand with us until war is no more and all of earth’s children find peace and abundance, everyone beneath a vine and fig tree. The chill that ran up and down my arms in that moment signaled this, insisted on it. Invited me to be part of it. With Naomi and Zoughbi and a worldwide community of love and faith. And that, my friends, is power. And a faithful interpretation, I think, of the biblical tradition itself.
3.
So I want to suggest that our reading this morning is a story about just this kind of power. The power to make things happen. The power to effect change. The power conferred not only upon Jesus, but also upon Zacchaeus, and then upon every one of us and our communities. Zacchaeus has for most of his life been oblivious, it seems, to the concerns of the poor, the suffering of children, even the humanity of those he’s cheated. And yet, and yet, there’s still that spark of the divine in his heart, still that yearning for something deeper, something wiser, something kinder in his life. So he climbs the sycamore tree to get a look at the Teacher passing through.
When joyfully Zacchaeus brings Jesus back to his own home, this simple practice of hospitality reveals between them their capacity for mutual empowerment and celebration. When then they share big bowls of hummus and warm rounds of pita and lively conversation at the table, their communion suggests practical change and new commitment and shameless repentance. And then—when Zacchaeus commits to giving half of his wealth to the poor and paying back those he’s cheated—divine power is manifested anew in a most surprising way, in a most unexpected man, in a tax collector’s home. “Ashe!” Liberation! This is the biggest, boldest, biblical word of them all. Liberation! “Ashe!”
The great 20th century poet Audre Lorde once said that, “The true focus of revolutionary change is never merely the oppressive situation we seek to escape, but that piece of the oppressor which is planted deep within each of us, and which knows only the oppressor’s tactics…” What’s so stunning about the story of Zacchaeus and Jesus is the way their relationship transforms Zacchaeus from the inside out! The way their communion speaks directly to Zacchaeus’ soul, and liberates him from the fears and abuses once planted deep within; but now wholly transformed as commitments to justice and reparation. “Lord, I am giving half my possessions to the poor, and whomever I have cheated I will pay back four times what I took.” Revolutionary change! A life now redeemed in a community repaired! “Ashe!” Possibility and power at the very heart of the gospel.
And this power, let’s not be fooled, it’s is a good thing. Divine power. Collaborative power. Liberating power. Power hidden in practices like hospitality, communion, conversation. Power inspiring partnership, friendship and solidarity among Palestinian organizers and South African pastors and American activists. Power disciplined by humility and grace. Power accountable to beloved community. Power to make things happen in a good and godly economy. “Ashe!” “Ashe!”
4.
In her own remarks to that gathering in Atlanta, Naomi Tutu insisted that, and these are her words, “despair is a luxury of the privileged, a luxury the oppressed cannot afford.” And her words pierced my heart in a good kind of way, reminding me of the fundamental calling of my faith. To choose love, to pursue healing, to speak truth—and resist cynicism and despair as temptation and distraction. To find and treasure powerful partners.
So it was, on Thursday, that I sat with six colleagues and our own U.S. congressman, Chris Pappas, at a conference table in his Dover office. Remember: “Despair is a luxury the oppressed cannot afford.” So we were there to challenge the congressman’s steady support for horrific weapons, used to destroy Gaza, terrorize Palestinian families and kill innocent children by the tens of thousands. Our little group was well-prepared, deeply grounded in shared values, and interested mostly in the congressman’s human capacity, his spiritual capacity for change. Even conversion. We were not there to shame him, or to rant. We were there to challenge him, and invite in him a change of heart.
In my own visit in Palestine last Spring, I heard one refrain over and over again, from Israeli peace activists and Palestinian organizers alike. Were it not for American weapons, American technology, American money and American blessing (from Democrats and Republicans, alike)—Israel could not have sustained its assault on Gaza and killed tens of thousands of civilians in gruesome and deliberate violation of international law. “Only America,” they said, over and over and over again, “can bring this genocide to an end.”
My friend Bob Sanders was first to speak that day. At nearly 80 years old, Bob is a founder of the Jewish network, Not in My Name (New Hampshire), and a longtime advocate for human rights around the world. And he rode his own bicycle across the country this summer, calling on communities across the continent to reject genocide and challenge American complicity. He’s an amazing, if sometimes understated hero, Bob is. And when he speaks, I tend to lean in.
And in a very quiet voice Bob told Congressman Pappas that we were meeting Thursday on Yom Kippur, perhaps the highest and holiest day in the Jewish calendar. He noted that he was fasting, that he’d eaten nothing all day as is his community’s practice; and he said that he really shouldn’t have been driving a car at all. But genocide has broken his heart. And addressing his congressman was too important to miss. Even on Yom Kippur. So he’d driven two hours, across the state, to make the meeting in Dover.
I have to acknowledge, that in that very moment, I whispered “Ashe!” to myself. It was a moment of profound witness and powerful possibility. And a moment of disarming vulnerability. And a moment of urgency, human and divine. “It’s got to be an American thing.” And there was, around the congressman’s table, an awkward and almost holy silence. His aides scribbling in their notepads. For about a minute.
In my Christian practice these days, “Ashe” has everything to do with profound witness and powerful possibility, everything to do with God’s confidence in our capacity for change and conversion. Despair is not an option. Jesus does not (and would never) give up on Zacchaeus’ soul: on Zacchaeus’ God-given capacity for repentance and meaningful change. And because he doesn’t, because he insists on visiting Zacchaeus in his own home and breaking bread at his own table—Jesus becomes something like a midwife for Zacchaeus’ rebirth. A very practical rebirth—that is made plain in his generosity to the poor and his reparations for the harm caused by his own actions.
In Christian practice, “Ashe” means anticipating, expecting and then embracing the Spirit’s arrival. And then trusting in her gifts of courage and imagination. And then refusing to give in to unholy despair.
Now it’s obviously impossible to know whether Thursday’s meeting will turn out to be a kind of Zacchaeus moment for our congressman. But I’m confident that we expressed the right mix of pain, grief and respect for his position and responsibility. We offered—from our hearts—the names and experiences of Palestinian friends; and the hopes and grief of Israeli allies too. We spoke to our commitment to international law and human rights—and our disappointment in American disdain for such things over many years, and around this conflict in particular.
And then we were specific in asking that Congressman Pappas co-sponsor The Block the Bombs Bill (H.R. 3565), sponsored by Representatives Ramirez, Tlaib, Lee, Pressley and 50 others in the House, which would prohibit the President from selling, transferring or exporting our most destructive weapons systems to Israel. To this point our congressman’s refused to do so. But he promised to rethink his position. And this would be a first step, an important first step, signaling a change of heart.
So these days, whether it’s the end of Jesus’ prayer in worship, or the closing line of a public protest outside the ICE office in Manchester, or even the last word in a long-winded sermon, every time I say “Ashe” at the end of a prayer, I’m thinking of Bob Sanders at the congressman’s table, and Naomi Tutu standing bravely in Atlanta.
And I’m remembering—with every “Amen” and every “Ashe”—that the courageous hope in Bob Sanders and the defiant faith in Naomi Tutu are also in me. And also in us. We are empowered by that faith to rise up in friendship and solidarity. We are made bold by that hope to speak truth to power and resist violence with love. And we are inspired—as Zacchaeus surely ways—to do right by the poor and imagine reparation and healing for one another.
And in my book, friends, that’s what this is all about, all of it. The gospel practice, the savior who shows us the way, and the church. So Amen and Ashe! Amen and Ashe!
