So friends, I have a confession to make. I cannot preach to you this morning the sermon that I had intended to. The sermon printed in your bulletin. The one that Bill and I have discussed now for many months; the one I had packed neatly in my suitcase when I flew here from Washington on Thursday.
I can’t preach that sermon to you this morning because last Sunday at the congregation I serve in Washington, DC—All Souls Church—something happened that troubled me deeply. And I feel compelled to speak about it with you this morning because I believe that what happened at our church last Sunday is indicative of the times we live in and the crisis we face as a people and a nation. And because it reinforced for me, the ways in which we are called to meet the challenge of these extraordinary and urgent times.
You see, last Sunday as we were finishing up the first of two joyful worship services honoring the legacy of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., our church was targeted by Christian fundamentalist protestors shouting racist, homophobic and misogynist slurs from the sidewalk outside our church. (I know that your church was also the target of this kind of hate in recent years.)
Now, it turns out that these folks are professional haters. Kinda’ like the Rev. Fred Phelps and the people at Westboro Baptist Church. They travel all over the country to target people whose faith—or whose identities—they detest. Turns out they’d come to DC all the way from California to protest the Women’s March, which happened last Saturday. And I guess they had a little extra time before their flight back to California, so they decided to hurl some hate at a diverse congregation of Unitarian Universalists.
Over their bullhorn they shouted that we were a Sodomite Church led by a sodomite minister. That word was shouted into my face several times last Sunday. (I don’t think I’ve been called that since back in the early 90s here in Oregon, when some of us were fighting Prop 13 together.) And though we provided escorts for people entering and leaving our sanctuary, the protestors nonetheless approached women in our congregation and accused them of having abortions. They asked one woman walking into church alone: “Where’s your man? Why isn’t he with you?”
They said that Dr. King—the man we were honoring that day—was burning in hell. They told us we would burn in hell with him if we didn’t repent. And I’ll tell you, as the man with the bullhorn talked about how all the people I either love or admire were going to hell I remember wanting to say to the guy: “Friend, I’d far rather be with Dr. King and my congregation in hell, than with you in any ugly heaven you’re dreaming about.”
But friends, I want to assure you that hate did not have the final word last Sunday. You see, we noticed the protestors arriving just as we were finishing up our first service. We could hear the din of their bullhorn, and make out some of their signs. And as the service ended, we informed the congregation what was going on. And that we didn’t want anyone to leave the sanctuary by themselves, to face those shouts and slurs alone. So we took one another’s hands and walked out of the church together singing “We Shall Overcome.” And out on the church’s front steps, we formed a large chorus singing shoulder-to-shoulder and hand-in hand. And our songs of love drown out their shouts of hate. I don’t’ think I’ve ever loved my congregation more than I did last Sunday.
Afterward, several congregants wrote me about the experience of having to explain to their children what they’d witnessed at church that morning. Because—shamefully—the haters had gone after our kids, too. One congregant told me that when his son asked what had happened, he used the opportunity to reiterate a teaching that was central to Dr. King’s philosophy of nonviolence. The man said to his son. “Dr. King taught that ‘hate can never drive out hate, only love can do that.’ That’s what happened at church today, son.”
“Hate cannot drive out hate. Only love can do that.” That’s one of Dr. Kings most quoted teachings, and sometimes—for me at least—its one of the hardest to swallow. In times like these when hate seems ascendant, love sometimes feels weak. But I want to tell you, that when we stood side-by-side together singing “we shall overcome,” the last thing in the world I felt was weak. I felt strong. I felt our collective strength. I felt the strength of our love. We sang “We Shall Overcome,” and I believed it! And it reminded me, friends, that in these difficult times, we must continue to confront hate with the strength of our love. Not just with love, but with the strength of our love. That is a practice that we must carry with us in these difficult times. We must confront hate with the strength of our love.
But I have to be honest with you. I didn’t only feel strong. I felt vulnerable too. And so did the folks in my congregation. Over the past week as I’ve heard from congregants, by far their biggest reaction to last Sunday was: “I love my church so much.” “I was so proud of how we met love with hate.” “I felt strong in our love.” And then a pause…and then they’d admit that they felt vulnerable, too. To be targeted with a bullhorn is one thing, but these days sadly, it doesn’t take long for folks to imagine the possibility of being targeted by something more dangerous. Your mind goes there. It’s the times we live in.
It’s quite something to feel both strong and vulnerable at the same time. I once read something by a German portrait photographer named Wolfgang Tillmans. In an artist statement at a museum he wrote: “When photographing people I look for the co-existence of vulnerability and strength. That is how I define beauty.”
And I remember when I first read that, I thought: That’s a pretty compelling vision of the human condition: A beauty that emerges from the simultaneous presence of our vulnerability and our strength. I said to myself, He’s on to something there. That is theologically sound.
And as I reflect now, that is the beauty I saw in my congregation last Sunday. A beauty described by the simultaneous presence of our vulnerability and our strength. And so this is another lesson I’m taking away from last Sunday: If we are to create something beautiful out of the mess we find ourselves in these days, we must cherish both our vulnerability and our strength.
Why our vulnerability? Because our vulnerability is pathway to empathy and compassion. And to solidarity with others. As mortals we are all vulnerable. Yet we are not equally vulnerable. Legacies of power, privilege and prejudice render some of us more vulnerable than others in these dark times. Staying in touch with our own vulnerability helps us connect in solidarity to others, including those who may be more vulnerable that we are. I can say that, as an able-bodied, cis-gendered white guy, I don’t often have to confront my vulnerability. That’s a privilege I carry with me. Last Sunday, when that ugly hate speech was spewed at me at very close range, I did feel vulnerable. For me, for my husband, and for our 8 year-old African American son. For my little queer multiracial family. I don’t want to lose sight of that vulnerability. Not now. Because it keeps me alert in these times, and because it provide a bridge of empathy and solidarity to those who are far more vulnerable than me. It can make me a better ally. It can make me a better minister.
Heck, staying in touch with our vulnerability may one day even help us build a bridge to those who would hate us. Because beneath that hate, there must be fear. And beneath that fear, our common human vulnerability.
So I encourage us to stay in touch with our vulnerability. And at the same, time we must never lose sight of our strength. We must never forget that we are a strong and courageous and loving people. That we are a gentle, and angry and powerful people. And we are singing for our lives. Bill and Tom and I have a dear colleague who is now retired, but who used to close every Sunday by giving his congregation the same benediction. Because some things bear repeating every Sunday. And part of what he said to his congregation every Sunday was this: “Forget not your power in the days of your powerlessness.” I know that a lot of feel helpless and overwhelmed thee days. I sometimes feel that way too. But friends, never let us lose sight of our power.
I think that portrait photographer was right. I believe that we can build something beautiful out of this mess we’re in, if we simultaneously embrace our vulnerability and our power.
I want to close this morning by sharing with you one final lesson that I took away from last Sunday. And that is: A renewed sense of urgency for the change we need to make in our nation. We need to change hearts and minds. We need to change our culture and its legacies of injustice and oppression. And yes, friends, this is the year 2020, and we need to make that change now. We are facing one of the most critical elections of our lifetimes. And there’s nothing like someone hurling obscenities in the faces of you and the people you love to remind you of how important this year is.
Dr. King called it: “The fierce urgency of now.” By now, he meant his time. He meant the civil rights movement. But he left that phrase to us. It’s part of his legacy to us. And now we need to summon the fierce urgency of our now. Of this present crisis.
I was recently at a gathering with the Rev. William J. Barber, the leader of the New Poor People’s Campaign. And he summoned us to a similar sense of urgency. He said to us: “You know, a lot of people come to me to tell me how ‘woke’ they are. They want me to know how ‘woke’ they are.’ Everyone think they’re ‘woke’ these days. Everyone thinks they’ve got that right analysis. The right frame of mine. So they they’re woke.
“But you know what?” he said “You can be woke and still lying down in your bed!” We do it every morning. Hitting your snooze button. Pulling the sheets over your head. We’re awake, but we’re still in bead. He said, “This year we need folks to not only be woke. They need to get out bed. They need up,” he said. “This year must be the year of our rising up.”
Friends, when this year is over let it not be said of us. “You know those Unitarians, they’re bright people. They had all the right analysis. They were woke. But they never rose up. Friends, this must be the year of our rising up.
Will you pray with me. Gracious and loving Spirit, God of Many Names, give us the strength and courage to always meet hatred with love. Bless us with the awareness of both our vulnerability and our strength. And may they be the cornerstones of a more beautiful future. In the days of our powerless, help us to forget not our power. And trouble us, dear God, with a fierce urgency…the fierce urgency of now. Amen.
Topics: Perseverance