This weekend we set aside time as a nation to honor the life and work of The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Tomorrow there will be gatherings and speeches, marches and remembering Dr. King and his work for justice. Long before we had the word “intersectionality,” Dr. King was preaching about the connection between race and capitalism, calling for working class people to unite for economic justice. He was preaching about the connection between race and war, calling for a justice that can lead to peace. He was preaching about race and non-violence, calling for love to drive out hate.
On this holiday, we intentionally remember the prophetic words and actions of Dr. King and the importance of applying his message to our times. Just in these past few weeks, we experienced a record number of women and women of color sworn in as members of the House of Representatives. That same House sanctioned the representative from Iowa who questioned why the term “white supremacy” was considered offensive, a sanction that finally came after 16 years of racist public comments. Just a few days ago, Portland’s first woman city councilor of color named “white, male privilege” as the cause of disruption at council meetings that drives visitors away.
These events bring to mind our theme this month: transition. Last Sunday, Rev. Tom preached about the transition that comes with change. As we move from what is ending to what has not quite come into being, we are in the middle—we wander in the desert—where it can be uncomfortable and unsettling. It seems to me that we as a nation are in transition on so many fronts, moving from who we have been to what we will be, without any agreement about who we have been and certainty not about what we might be.
I want to acknowledge that I am speaking today from my perspective and identities, a white, middle-class, cis-gender-woman. When I learned that I would be delivering the sermon today, I have to admit to a fair amount of discomfort. Do I peach about Dr. King on this day? Do I have a right to? If I do, how do I do so responsibly?
I kept these questions in mind while writing this sermon, and I experienced a bit of a roller coaster of emotions and memories. I found myself recalling my upbringing and the messages about race and class that I learned as a young person growing up in a working-class family in a midwestern industrial city. I remembered my journey to awareness of difference and my own experiences of oppression. I relived many mistakes, often when I didn’t intend to harm, and what I learned from the knowledge and acknowledgment of the impact.
One of those learning experiences happened late last Spring. Before every Sunday service, the ministers gather in the robing room down off Margaret Fuller Hall. We go over the order of service for the day, address any last-minute needs, put on our vestments, and pray together. One Sunday, as Bill, Tom & I reviewed the Joys and Concerns for the day, I noticed an unusual name, a name shared by one of my great-uncles who I hadn’t thought about in a long time. As family memories came into my consciousness, I smiled and spoke out loud of this uncle and the stories that I heard as a child, and how he was considered the “black sheep” of the family.
What followed was one of those moments for me when time slowed down. I felt an electric silence in the room as the reality of what I had said entered my consciousness. I blubbered for a few seconds, which felt to me like an eternity. I then had the presence of mind to stop talking, take a breath, look Bill in the face and apologize for my words. Those words learned in childhood are still in there. Bill nodded, accepting my apology, and we moved on to the Sunday worship.
When I reached out to Bill to ask his permission to share this story today, I realized that we haven’t spoken about this since. Maybe it’s not necessary. I simply notice that the experience has stayed with me. A reminder that, in the work of justice, we all bring history and culture, and we will make mistakes. I am grateful to Bill for his graciousness in the face of my mistake and for helping me to learn about perfectionism, apology and forgiveness.
This story reminded me that when we are in transition, moving from who we have been to what we seek to be, we don’t transition alone. Bill stayed present and in relationship despite any pain that my comment caused him. I stayed present and in relationship despite my discomfort and sense of guilt.
Our Unitarian Universalist principles and practices are grounded in connection, to ourselves, to each other, and to something greater than us. We find common ground with Dr. King’s theology through his network of mutuality. I believe it is connection that can helps us survive the desert, the in-between time of transition, if we stay in right relationship, acknowledging intention and impact, and being present to the pain and discomfort.
One of the most profound practitioners of this awareness that I’ve learned from is Theo Wilson, a young black activist and artist who is working hard to build connection across racial lines. In his 2017 TED talk, Wilson told the story of how he came to create opportunities for people of different beliefs and experiences to enter into deep and meaningful conversation about race.
Theo Wilson began his work online and developed a following on YouTube where he posted videos about his experiences and thoughts about race. He identifies himself as a survivor of police brutality and tells the story of losing a friend to racial violence. His following included many people of all races from across the country, as well as a fair number of white supremacists and members of the alt-right who attacked him and his views online. In the face of these often anonymous and violent online attacks, Wilson became…..curious. Not defensive, not judgmental, not afraid. Curious. Curious about those who wanted him silenced, who wanted him and everyone who looked like him gone, some who wanted him dead. He remained curious.
To feed his curiosity, Wilson decided to explore the online world of the alt-right. He created an online persona, because his real online identity would not have allowed him in, and he went undercover into the alt-right. He hung out in chat rooms and mirrored back the anti-black sentiment that he found there, usually voiced by angry, white men. He found it exhilarating, as he put it “goofing off in Aryan-land.” He visited the pages of those who had trolled him, finding them to be “regular guys.” Over time, what Wilson discovered is that these young men had been (quote) “taught from textbooks that are the cliff notes of our history.” They didn’t know the full story of this country because what they were taught was so fragmented and distorted that it removed any real understanding of white supremacy in our history and allowed alt-facts to thrive.
In the alt-right world, he found a digital echo chamber of racist beliefs and opinions supported by alt-facts. And, upon reflection, he realized that he had been in a liberal echo chamber; different beliefs and opinions than the alt-right, but the same repetition and closed discussion that did not allow dissent.
As he lurked in the online underworld of the alt-right, Wilson found common ground with the men who were there. He found two ways to connect. The first was in the form of this question, asked by the white men he was trolling: Why should I be hated for what I cannot help but be? He learned that these young men felt demonized by the left for being white and male. They perceived that the left had a wide acceptance of most views except for their conservative perspective, and they believed that diversity would wipe out the whiteness. They were afraid of white genocide.
And, there was the second area of common ground: fear. Wilson knew fear, deep fear for his very existence and for the existence of the people he loved. Underneath their anger, these white men had the same fear for their very existence.
After some months of lurking and trolling in the alt-right world, Wilson grew to believe that in order to get to true understanding across the digital divide and get out of the digital echo chambers, we have to do three things: let go of fear, embrace curiosity, and connect in person, not on devices. He believes that we need to sit face-to-face with people we perceive as difficult, and have courageous conversations. We cannot hide behind our devices. As Wilson put it, “We have to stop trying to hack our way around the human experience. Language was the first form of virtual reality. Conversations stop violence, start countries, build bridges.”
And so, Wilson turned the internet upside down by mining his experience with the alt-right to develop controversial discussion topics and questions. Then, he held forums for people to connect, to have real conversations with real people in real life, and he broadcasted the forums to the internet using his cell phone.
Later he joined with others to develop Shop Talk Live, a series of regular forums held in barber shops and beauty salons in the Denver area dedicated to the education and empowerment of black people. Shop Talk Live uses a restorative justice model to empower people, restore relationships, and unify communities.
In other words, Wilson and Shop Talk Live are all about connection. Through his work, Wilson invites us all to what he calls “a renaissance of human connection.” We can use our devices to connect virtually, to make invitations, to learn, but when it comes to the hard work of understanding that which seems foreign to us, that which scares us, those whom we have judged, we need to sit face-to-face, talk, and listen.
Some of us define evil as disconnection; ignoring, dismissing or minimizing those inescapable and essential connections. Racism and other oppressions thrive on disconnection. In order for oppression to happen, we create “the other,” we believe that we must look out only for ourselves, ignoring the impact of our actions on other living beings. We focus on difference rather than commonality.
What inspires me about Theo Wilson is that he found curiosity and connection in the face of hate and violence. Just like Dr. King. King was grounded in his connection to the divine, expressed in his favorite hymn, the one that we sang earlier: “Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me on, help me stand, I am tired, I am weak, I am worn.” And, his connection to the divine gave him strength to continue calling for human connection, a call to worship together, to sing together, to march together.
Neither Wilson or Dr. King agreed with the views they heard or the violence they experienced; they sought to understand it, and they used their understanding to change it. They may have had other responses to the hate directed at them, reasonable and human responses. Publicly though, they chose connection, human connection. If they can choose connection in the face of violence, certainly I can choose connection in the face of discomfort. If people of color seeking to dismantle racism continue inviting me to a courageous conversation about race, certainly I can say yes.
It is a characteristic of white supremacy culture that everyone has to conform to standards of “perfection” as defined through dominant white culture. People of color have expressed that they feel the pressure of perfection as defined by white people, an expectation that they be just right: not too angry, not too challenging, not too black or Native or ethnic. The consequences of not doing it “right” can be deadly. For those of us who are white, perfectionism shows up as an expectation that we will always be right and that we will not make mistakes. Perfection isn’t possible, and especially not when we have real conversations with real people in real time. Perfection is paralyzing and there is WAY too much work to do for that.
It is a counter-cultural act to focus on unity, connection and finding common ground. Dr. King was counter-cultural in this way. He was challenging not just the culture of his time, but the social, political and economic systems. He was naming not just the hatred or evil that lives within each of us, but also how that evil was manifest in the systems of power that impact the lives of people of color, and how those oppressive systems impact everyone. He focused on the network of mutuality, the unity that is the only thing that has the possibility of saving us all.
The night before he was assassinated, Dr. King preached of going to the mountaintop and seeing the promised land. He preached in support of the Memphis Sanitation Worker’s strike, showing us the connection between racism and economic injustice. He preached his vision of unity across race and class, of non-violent protest, and he challenged America to live up to our ideals.
Earlier the choir sang, “I went up to the mountain because you asked me to.” Dr. King invited us to go up to the mountain with him, to share a vision of justice in the promised land. Theo Wilson shows us a path, and invites us to a renaissance of human connection even when, especially when, it is uncomfortable. We have been invited. On this, one of the first holidays of a new year, I am reminded to seek out opportunities to have real conversations about difficult topics with real people, face-to-face, in real time, letting go of perfection and fear, staying curious.
As we celebrate the life and work of Dr. King this day and every day, may we find the courage to say yes. May this be so.
As we enter into a time of reflection and prayer, I invite you to consider bringing human connection into this moment. You might join hands with someone next to you, or touch an elbow or shoulder. Remember to ask permission and honor boundaries. As you settle into your chair, you might simply increase your awareness of those around you, listening to the sounds of community. Notice your breathing and the breathing of those around you. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe.
Infinite Web of Life, Spirit of Love, Oh Thou, Eternal God,
We give thanks for this day. A day to gather and worship together. A day to be in community.
On this day, we give thanks for the life and work and prophetic voice of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. We are grateful for his vision of beloved community and the inspiration that he offers us to continue creating that beloved community. We are deeply grateful for all those who have worked for justice and for all those who work for it today.
May we join those who work for justice, in all the ways we are called. May we listen deeply to the voice within us that calls us to our higher selves. For those who are white, may we listen to the voices of those around us, especially those in communities of color, that we may hear a truth that expands our personal and communal story and identity. For those who are people of color, may you find that we will listen deeply to what you choose to share in gratitude for your risk of human connection. And, as we listen and share, may we offer grace to each other for our humanness, seeking understanding beneath the mistakes. May we bring curiosity to real conversations with real people in real time.
As we bring our awareness to the network of mutuality, the interconnected web of all existence, may we find beneath the fear an ever-abiding love that can drive out hate. My we find that love within us, between us and all around us. May the warmth of that love fuel our work as we help bend the arc of the universe toward justice.
In deep gratitude for what is and what may be, we pray.
Amen.
Please rise in body or spirit to sign together our closing hymn, “Let Love Continue Long.”
Benediction (from the pulpit):
Dr. King said: Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.
As we go out into the world, may we carry the light of our chalice, a symbol of love. May we use its power and our power to connect across our many divides, building the bridges that can drive out hate.
This is the day we have been given,
May we rejoice in it and be glad.
Go in peace, practice love.
Amen
Topics: Transition