When Jesus saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, for they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. – Matthew 9:36

People of God,

Stories of being followed, stopped, harassed, threatened, intimidated, tased, arrested, falsely accused and otherwise abused by police officers sworn “to protect and serve” the public good are so legion and so deeply rooted in the experi­ence of people of color that it is has long since come to be treated as a fact of life.  Because of this, parents, when their children reach a certain age, sit them down for “The Talk,” laying out rules for engagement that must be followed if their children are to sur­vive in a dominant culture that—regardless of facts or intent—perceives them as threat, as hostile, as guilty because of the color of their skin.  For generations, parents have given the same lecture to their children: Don’t act out.  Stay away from bad places.  Avoid confrontations.  A list of do’s and don’ts every black person should follow if they want to avoid being bru­talized or killed by police officers or other white people.[1]  But after high profile and deadly confrontations in Minneapolis (George Floyd), Louisville, (Breonna Taylor), and Brunswick, Georgia, (Ahmaud Arbery) in recent months, what exactly should black parents be telling their kids now?  And what should white parents be telling their kids?

As a white parent, I didn’t give my children “The Talk”; it never entered my consciousness as some­thing I would ever need to do.  This is the definition of white privilege—the working assumption that systems of justice, government struc­tures, and public institutions that hold power in our society will, by and large, work well for me and mine and serve our in­terests.  Thanks to my younger kids’ multicultural peer groups and friendships, the teachers in their K-8 school and high school, and conversations that come up around our dinner table, Kai and Naomi are much more aware and conversant with issues of race than I was as a kid growing up in Montana and Minnesota.  The years of childhood I spent in Minnesota—grades 4-10—left me with overwhelmingly positive memories.  Now, the Minnesota I see portrayed on the television and the evidence of injustice from police forces that I’ve always taken for granted were “on my side” have me questioning what underbelly of the Midwest culture I’ve been missing.  This questioning moved deeper last week after conversations I had with my older son Nathan and his wife Dehydra, who live in the same Longfellow neighborhood where George Floyd was murdered; and deeper still when I read a post from a young black woman in Minneapolis, a hospital worker, named Emily Otiso, which my son had shared with me.  Here’s an excerpt:

“As a black woman I *know* that my brother’s life, that my life, is worthless in the eyes of the criminal ‘justice’ sys­tem. As someone who has lived in 5 states and traveled to 30 others, I have said, and will continue to say, that Min­nesota is the most racist state I have ever lived in.  I am constantly treated like a criminal in my own community.

I am constantly living in fear because of my race.  I have lived with these feelings for as long as I can remember, long before Black Lives Matter started trending. There are no words to describe the weight of the burden you bear when your skin is ‘the wrong color.’

“What is happening is not just about George Floyd. His murder and the protection given to his murderers set off the racial powder keg here, in the most racist city in which I have lived, in America, a country composed of 400 years institutionalized racism, systemic oppression, police brutality, implicit bias, micro aggressions, and countless other legalized and socially acceptable ways in which our country keeps its knee on the neck of black communities.

“This pandemic has affected all of us and has, without a doubt, contributed to the violence that has erupted in our city. Covid-19 has led to people losing their jobs and filing for unemployment, it has led to frontline workers beg­ging for proper protection because their lives depend on it, and it has taken a massive toll on our country’s mental health. I implore you to take a moment to consider the parallels between this crisis and the crisis black communities face on a daily basis.”

For decades, incidents of police brutality were largely hidden from public view.  But ever since the 1991 video showing Rodney King, an unarmed black man, being brutally assaulted by four white Los Angeles police officers, the reality and fre­quency of abuse has been increasingly laid bare.  Over 1,000 people have been fatally shot by the police in the past year, according to The Washington Post.  And on May 25^th, in broad daylight, in the presence of eyewitnesses and with camera phones rolling, we watched four Minneapolis police officers ignore the pleas both of victim and bystanders alike, and en­gage in the slow, tortuous asphyxiation of Mr. Floyd.  The resulting protests and riots in cities throughout the country, in­cluding Seattle, have set loose a cauldron of raw emotions, peaceful and determined protests, acts of looting and arson, confrontations, property destruction, newly alleged incidents of police brutality, and National Guard deployments.

As some of you know, one of my public roles is serving as a Volunteer Chaplain with the Seattle Police Department.  This role has given me the opportunity to see police officers and their work up close on a number of occasions.  I’ve sat through regular roll calls and through debriefings after major shooter incidents; I’ve met officers at the homes of persons who have just committed suicide; I’ve listened to young officers who were experiencing circumstances for the first time and wanted to “get it right”; I’ve watched officers who’ve worked double shifts stand for hours in the heat, speaking compas­sionately to folks who’ve suddenly lost their loved ones; I’ve participated at the memorials of officers killed in the line of duty.  My take?  Just like pastors, not all police officers are the same.  Like pastors, officers are drawn to their vocation for a number of different reasons.  Like pastors, some have more gifts and aptitudes for the work than others. Like pastors, some perform well and others poorly; some are successful and others less so.  We cannot place every officer into a single bucket of attributes and tendencies or make assumptions about what motivates them.  Perhaps most importantly, the overall cul­ture of the police department where officers serve out their careers plays an outsized role in shaping the kind of public servants they become.  In Minneapolis, that culture has, by many accounts, been toxic to black citizens.  And police depart­ments across the country, since 9/11, have become more militarized in their weapons and tactics in the face of perceived and real terrorist threats.

Where are the signs of hope?  How about Flint, Michigan, (yes, that Flint) where Genesee County Sheriff Christopher Swanson, standing before a crowd of outraged protestors, told them “we want to be with you all for real,” and proceeded to take off his helmet and have his officers put down their batons.  When the protestors applauded, he asked them what he and the other officers needed to do, to which the crowd chanted their reply: WALK WITH US…WALK WITH US…WALK WITH US!  And so he did.  “We are walking with you,” he told the crowd, “because all you’re asking for is a voice and dignity for all, no matter who you are.”[2]  Resolutions are possible when, looking across the barricade, we see other human beings, not enemies.

When Jesus, as he moved through the cities and towns of Galilee, saw crowds of desperate, needy people, his response was one of deep compassion. The Hebrew word for compassion shares the same root as the word for womb.[3]  To have com­passion is to have a womb for someone—that is, to treat that person just like the one who once carried her in­side her own body; to remember how loved that person was even before eyes were ever laid upon her.  You can’t practice that kind of love without becoming vulnerable yourself.  That’s what Sheriff Swanson did in Flint; that’s what Jesus did again and again.

Let me be clear: People of color in this country have lived with vulnerability and trauma ever since the first slave ships docked on these shores 400 years ago.  Jesus is not asking people of African descent to maintain their position of vulnerabil­ity while they await some form of redemption.  Instead, he’s asking—commanding—those of us who, by virtue of race, gen­der, economic power, or social status live privileged lives, to come clean about that privilege, to learn to recognize the con­tinuing vulnerability of neighbors like George Floyd and Emily Otiso, to refuse to accept the status quo any longer, and to become part of the movement for sustainable, systemic change.   For some of us that may well mean a non-violent pres­ence on the street—marching or cleaning up the examples of defacement left by others.  For others of us it may mean working within our families, work contexts, among peers, and in our neighborhoods to make our solidarity and com­mitments visible.  For all of us it means giving new expression to God’s dream to “love our neighbors as ourselves.”

This is a moment in our culture to be seized upon for good.  Let none of us be bystanders.

Pádraig Ó Tuama, former leader of the Corrymeela Community in Northern Ireland writes:

In these moments the past and the future pivot.

In these moments the inner life of reflection

can help us reach out for the outer life of reconciliation.

We turn to each other.

We ask the difficult question.

We hear the difficult answer.

It changes us. We turn to each other.

We have the possibility of making something new together.

Our prayer deepens our action.

May we all be reconciled

living in the unity for which all were created.

Despite all the death that surrounds us, the injustices, the pains, the losses, the laments, God’s compassionate womb holds every one of us—on whichever side of death we find ourselves.  But God does more than hold us.  In Jesus, God sum­mons us to a compassionate Way of living in community, of exorcizing the demons of racism and white privilege, and of journeying with him on the path of solidarity and reconciliation.

Yours in Christ, Pastor Erik

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[1] Does “the talk” work anymore:  https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/us/black-parents-wonder-if-the-talk-is-still-effective-in-keeping-their-children-safe/ar-BB14LFV2

[2] See New York Times article documenting the event: https://www.nytimes.com/2020/05/31/us/flint-sheriff-protestors-camden-police-ferguson.html

[3] Frederick Niedner. 

“You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.” – Psalm 23

Beloved of God,

Each year, the 4^th Sunday of Easter is celebrated as Good Shepherd Sunday, and the 23^rd Psalm, a favorite for over 3,000 years, comes back into view.  Some of you remember committing this psalm to memory, as I did, during confirmation class.  Though new translations of this psalm have made their way into print through the years, it’s the language I put to memory 50 years ago that comes to my lips whenever the occasion warrants.  This year we’ll be incorporating several musical versions of the psalm in our LIVE STREAM service on May 3^rd.  I hope you’ll tune in.

An enduring memory from our family visit to Glendalough, the Irish monastic community founded by St. Kevin in the 6^th century, is walking in the rain along the boardwalk past grazing sheep, and then turning to find a brilliant rainbow touching down in the vary place where Kevin founded his church. That experience wedded the rainbow sign of God’s promise not to abandon this creation with the psalm of David: The Lord is my shepherd; my cup overflows.

St. Kevin was known for his connection to the creatures of the natural world.  Though not a shepherd, during his days as a hermit he relished spending long hours communing with the animals who he came to know there.  There’s a story about him holding out his hand to a blackbird one day.  When the bird finds Kevin’s hand a suitable place for building its nest, Kevin remains there—his arm outstretched—all through the ensuing cycle of nest building, egg laying, egg hatching, and fledging.  (Irish poet laureate Seamus Heaney wrote a poem about this story, which you can find here.)  It seems that “The LORD is my shepherd” expanded, for Kevin, into a lifelong ethos of caring for creatures and marveling at the abundance of God which “overflows.”  More at home in some ways with animal beings than with his fellow human beings, Kevin practiced tender kinship with God’s creatures 700 years before St. Francis was born.

The image of Jesus as Good Shepherd is one of the oldest in the Christian tradition.  You can find it painted on the walls of the Christian catacombs outside of Rome.  It testifies to the tenderness with which he cares for us and the fierceness with which he defends us from that which would do us harm.  Those who know his voice are secure; their cup “overflows.”

During this time when so much of what we know is collapsing; when the whole world is holding its collective breath while awaiting relief and the opportunity to move back into familiar rhythms, we are called to trust that we are being held, blessed, and offered abundant life by a Shepherd who walks alongside us. “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me, your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”  Trusting the truth behind these words, trusting in the accompaniment of the Good Shepherd, allows us the confidence to reach beyond ourselves and show concern and care to others.  Many of you are doing just that—finding ways despite social distancing to express caring and love to others who desperately need it during this pandemic.

Last week I was called to the bedside of a man I’d never met who was dying from cancer.  There, in the home he shared with his husband, I offered assurance that the Good Shepherd would hold him fast as he made the final journey to the life beyond this life.  This promise brought him a peace that awaits all of us when we hold fast to the promise the “neither life nor death, nor anything else in all creation can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

With you, on the Way,

Pastor Erik