A Moment of Clarity

“A Moment of Clarity”

Dear Sisters and Brothers,

Many people of my generation have looked back at the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950s and 60s with awe. It was an extraordinary time, when brilliant leaders arose, determined to use civil disobedience, eloquent words, lawyerly skill, political savvy, and, most of all, the power of the Holy Spirit to chip away at and ultimately dismantle (legally, anyway) Jim Crow. Some of you lived through that time and some even played a part in the cause. People my age and younger can only talk with our elders or read books or watch documentaries. We continue to listen to the soaring oratory of Dr. King and other leaders, with substance and style formed in the Black Church.

I’ve always been struck by the diversity of the movement. Some young white people put their belief in equality on the line when they became “Freedom Riders,” journeying with black civil rights activists by bus into the South, where many white residents, very much including law enforcement, responded with rage and terrible violence. Some just went for a few days, making memories of adventure later shared with children and grandchildren, while others decided to stay for a while. One of those who chose not to take the bus home was the Episcopal seminarian Jonathan Daniels, who was martyred in Alabama.

I love the images from the marches where we see black civil rights leaders surrounded by allies of different colors and faiths, rabbis marching beside nuns and priests and ministers. One of the great Jewish allies was Abraham Joshua Heschel, a brilliant theologian and philosopher. Heschel once wrote something that has haunted me for a long time:

“…in a free society, some are guilty, but all are responsible.”

Yes, many of us have looked back at that time with awe, but also with some envy. At least in hindsight, the issues back then seem so clear, don’t they? Wasn’t it always clear that separate but equal was a racist fantasy? Wasn’t it always clear that black people should have access to the ballot box? Wasn’t it always clear that black children should be able to attend the same schools as white kids? Wasn’t it always clear that black people should have the same opportunities as everyone else? And, wasn’t it always clear that the Klan and the other terrorist groups and lynching and all of the other brutalities were a great evil? Wasn’t all of this clear?

In contrast, my own time – our own time – has seemed complex and nuanced, with all sorts of socio-economic factors to consider. And, as a faith leader responsible for a diverse congregation, I’m well aware of angry accusations of preaching partisan politics from the pulpit. And, to be perfectly honest, as someone who hates conflict and probably tries too hard to avoid it, I have often bent over backwards to be even-handed. After all, things aren’t as clear as they were in the 1960s, right?

And, yet, the words of Heschel echo in my mind and nudge my conscience.

On Tuesday morning I was on a Zoom call with some other leaders in Jersey City, both clergy and lay. At the start, we were asked to share how we were processing all that had happened over the past few days: the killing of George Floyd, the protests and the response of the police, and the actions of the president and other leaders. It was heartrending to hear some of our black leaders put into words their pain and anger. These accomplished, faithful, courageous, and proud men and women held back tears as they talked about America as an abusive spouse, as they acknowledged frustration that we are still stuck in this same bad place and pledged to use their remaining time to give all they have to the cause, and as they shared some long-ago hurts that shaped the course of their lives.

To say the least, it was a moment of clarity.

As a white man, it is not my place to lead or even to say very much but, as a faith leader, I have a particular responsibility to stand in solidarity, to listen and continue to learn, and to do what I can. So, although I was certainly concerned about Covid-19 and the possibility of violence, I attended the protest and rally at City Hall on Tuesday afternoon where, by the way, everyone I saw was wearing a mask and most kept at least some distance. The speakers were challenging and powerful and there was not even a hint of violence. The conference call and the protest inspired me to look into my own heart and history and to share my own old story of an encounter on a Newark street and a fresher story of some hard words in an Instagram post.

No doubt, some will object to “politics in the church.” But, here’s the thing: the Gospel has always been political. Remember, it was the State that killed Jesus – killed him in a brutal and public way because the “powers that seemed to be” saw him and the movement around him as offering a dangerously different way, a way of love that threatened the status quo, a way that challenged their own ruthlessness. The “powers that seemed to be” thought they had crushed this challenge with nails and wood, but they were very wrong. Remember, the earliest expression of Christian faith was “Jesus is Lord!” These words may sound like no big deal to us, but our spiritual ancestors understood that if Jesus is Lord then Caesar most definitely is not.

We are in a treacherous and frightening time. Frankly, right now I’d much rather be urging you to buy tickets to our fundraiser dinner-dance, or inviting you to the next arts event, or welcoming the counselors and campers to Carr Hall for another summer of learning and fun. But, the same Spirit who guided the first Christians as they came to understand that a man executed by the government was and is the Son of God, and the same Spirit that guided the civil rights leaders and their allies of a few generations ago, that same Spirit is with us in in this moment and will certainly not abandon us now.

A moment of clarity: some are guilty, but all are responsible.

"Well, Here Comes the White Man!"

“Well, Here Comes the White Man!”

Back in the mid-1990s, I taught history at St. Vincent Academy, a wonderful all-girls Roman Catholic high school in the Central Ward of Newark. Although I was hired to teach, the truth is I learned more than I ever taught. In a sense, I grew up at SVA. From the Sisters of Charity and many other colleagues, I learned about commitment to urban ministry, about having a strong sense of mission, and being frugal and creative with limited resources. And from my students, mostly young black women and other women of color, I learned about the strength and courage required to get through the day when there are always so many obstacles in the path.

I remember one time some of the girls told me that whenever they went to Macy’s at Broad and Market they were followed around by suspicious store security. I was incredulous! I had never heard of such a thing. Plus, I knew these girls and they obviously posed no threat to the bottom line of Macy’s. I said as much to them, and the girls shook their heads sadly and said, “Mr. Murphy, you just don’t understand…”

When the weather was nice, after school I would often walk down West Market Street and Market Street to catch the PATH train at Penn Station. I walked past many rubble-strewn lots, lingering evidence of the 1967 riots and signs of the continued poverty and underdevelopment that had long plagued the city. Although renewal began to bloom along my route with townhouses rising on some of the lots, it was still pretty desolate. And, as a white man in his 20s, I knew that I stuck out at least a little in that neighborhood but I honestly never gave it much thought. Sure enough, over those many afternoons of walking down Market Street, nothing ever happened to me. Except for one time.

I was just a few blocks from school when I noticed a middle-aged black woman walking towards me. Since she was smiling in a way that made me think that she knew me, I assumed that she must be the mother of one of my students. In the few moments that we approached each other I flipped through my mental files, desperately trying to come up with a name to match the face. Since she was smiling, I expected a pleasant encounter, that she would say something like, “Mr. Murphy, it’s nice to see you! I’m so-and-so’s mother.” Or, who knows, maybe even, “My daughter loves your class!”

Instead, as she got close to me her smile faded and she slowed half a step. As we were passing one another, she looked me over from head-to-toe and said, “Well, here comes the white man!”

And, that was it. She went on her way and I was too shocked to stop, look back, or say a word. I’m sure my face flushed and I know my stomach dropped in fear and confusion and embarrassment. “Well, here comes the white man!” What was that supposed to mean? Why did she say that to me? I remember thinking, I’m not just a “white man.” You don’t know anything about me! You don’t know that I make the trip every day from Jersey City to Newark to teach some of the young people of this city. I’m not your enemy. I’m no threat to you.

This happened something like 25 years ago and, obviously, I’ve never forgotten it. I’ve told the story a few times, with a shrug, as if to say that this is just one of those strange things that happen. But, I don’t think I’ve ever thought deeply about it – until now.

As we all know, the toxic combination of Covid-19, a deeply divisive president, an economic disaster, and the killing of George Floyd under the knee of a Minneapolis police officer, has broken our hearts and driven many of us out onto the streets demanding that we finally, finally change our ways and purify our hearts and clean our country of the racism that has poisoned our land since its founding. Frankly, as the spiritual leader of a diverse congregation, I feel inadequate to the task of offering comfort and challenge, of speaking the truth to people who already know the truth in ways that I never will.

On Sunday, after our Pentecost service and after our Zoom “party,” I was scrolling through our church’s social media when I found this message posted on our Instagram account, written by someone who sometimes attended our church a few years ago:

“Any churches in Jersey City that are controlled by white people that have organizations and programs run by white people are the biggest problem in society because they are covertly racist. These are the people that preach the word of Jesus and do not follow his wisdom. They pretend. They are not our friends. They are our slavers. Until White people step out and recognize the privilege they receive daily, effortlessly. We cannot afford to condone church services that continue to support these racist mechanisms. #blacklivesmatter #brownlivesmatter #wemustact”

Just like on Market Street long ago, I could feel the blood rush to my face and my stomach lurch. This would be troubling enough coming from someone I didn’t know or who didn’t know me, but the writer does know me and is familiar with at least some of the work our church does. We’re covert racists? We’re “the biggest problem in society”? This post sent me into deeper funk as I turned over in my mind if I should respond, how I would respond or, would it be better to ignore it or even hit the delete button and make it go away.

Instead, I just thought and thought about the hard words he had written. And, I remembered the woman who had sized me up long ago in Newark. I thought about how she must have been expressing so much hurt and anger when she dismissed me as “the white man.” I realized that the person who posted on Instagram was also expressing genuine hurt and anger. And, I realized that, in both cases, I got just the tiniest taste of what people of color experience all the time. Getting sized up every day because of the color of their skin. Having people assume the worst, no matter what their intentions. I got merely the tiniest taste of that and it hurt like hell.

So, those SVA girls sure were right: I just don’t understand. No one has ever looked at me in a department store and suspected I was a shoplifter. I could walk down Market Street without a second thought while Ahmaud Armery’s jog through a white neighborhood led to his execution. When I’ve applied for jobs, I’ve always assumed that I’ll be judged on my skills and experience. The one time I was pulled over by a cop for speeding, I didn’t have to worry that the encounter might turn deadly. I just don’t understand what it’s like  – I can’t really ever understand – what it’s like to endure racism and prejudice every day.

Fortunately, I don’t have to wait for the day when I fully understand the experience of my former students, my neighbors, and parishioners. I may never totally “get it” but I’m no longer that naïve young man who was shocked by the stories told by my students. I understand enough to know that the time has come for us white people with all of our privilege, it is time, and way past due, to not just stand up beside our black sisters and brothers at rallies and protests, but to listen to your stories, to hear your pain, and begin to finally learn.

"Wake Up! Open Your Eyes!"

The Church of St. Paul and Incarnation, Jersey City NJ

May 31, 2020

Year A: The Day of Pentecost

Acts 2: 1-21

Psalm 104:25-35, 37

1 Corinthians 12:3b-13

John 20:19-23

“Wake Up! Open Your Eyes!”

            Alleluia! Christ is risen!

            The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

            As I’ve mentioned to you before, one of the unexpected blessings of this time of quarantine has been our three daily prayer services over the phone. It’s been so good to hear many of your voices and a real gift to pray together.

            Since the first service is at 7:30am, each night I’ve set my alarm for 6:00. Since you can’t see me, I don’t have to look totally put together but I also don’t want to sound like I just woke up.

            But, over these past few months of mornings, I’ve never once needed my alarm to wake me up.

            Partly that’s because I’m an early riser by nature.

            And, partly it’s because of one of our cats.

            Each morning, sometime between 4:00 and 5:00, our cat Diego decides that I have slept long enough and it’s now time for me to wake up.

            And, he uses every tool at his disposal to achieve this mission: meowing, jumping on and off the dresser, stepping around the items on my nightstand sometimes “accidentally” knocking stuff to the floor, jumping on my chest, licking my hair.

            Each morning, Diego gives everything he’s got, saying:

            “Wake up!”

            “Wake up”

            “Open your eyes!”

            Today is Pentecost, the day we especially celebrate the gift of the Holy Spirit.

            And, as always, we heard two different Pentecost stories.

            There’s the one I just read from the Gospel of John. The way John tells the story, it’s the first Easter Day and the Risen Christ appears to the disciples who had been hiding in fear behind locked doors.

            The Risen Christ offers the frightened and awe-struck disciples peace, and he also breathes the Spirit on them, sending them out into the world to continue his work of teaching and healing and forgiving.

            And then there’s the second Pentecost story that Sue read for us from the Acts of the Apostles.

            It’s fifty days after Easter, ten days after the Ascension, and the disciples are once again in a room, waiting for a sign – a sign that is given in a very big way with wind and tongues like flame and the ability to make themselves understood to people from all over the place – the Spirit drove them out from their room and into the city – they are no longer afraid to share the Good News.

            It was such a sight that at least some people speculated that they must be drunk!

            Hearing these two different Pentecost stories reminds us of a great truth: Pentecost is not just a historical event that we remember once a year.

            No, Pentecost happens all the time – God gives us the Holy Spirit all the time and in so many ways.

            God gives us the Holy Spirit all the time, giving us the gifts of faith and wisdom and courage, and, maybe especially important for us today, the Spirit wakes us up, opens our eyes, and allows us to see things – to see people - as they really are.

Pentecost happens all the time.

For example, on March 18, 1958, the monk and writer Thomas Merton was on a rare trip away from his quiet monastery, running errands in the bustling city of Louisville, Kentucky.

That day, while standing at the busy intersection of Fourth and Walnut, the Holy Spirit breathed on Thomas Merton, woke him up, opened his eyes, allowing him to see things – to see people – as they really are.

Here’s how he described the experience:

“I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all those people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers.”

Merton continues,

“And if only everybody could realize this! But it cannot be explained. There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun.”

That day in 1958 in Louisville was Pentecost for Thomas Merton, when the Holy Spirit opened his eyes, woke him up, to see things – to see people – as they really are.

I was reminded of Merton’s experience because of the protests that have erupted over the past few days in cities across our country, including Louisville, which has been on edge since March when a black woman named Breonna Taylor was killed by police in her home, with, no surprise, the police and Ms. Taylor’s family in total disagreement about how and why this happened.

But, I don’t need to tell you that the protests that are intensifying across the country have been sparked by the brutal and, let’s be honest, not shocking killing of a black man named George Floyd under the knee of a white police officer on a Minneapolis street.

We didn’t want to watch the video but we watched wide-eyed and in horror, as bystanders begged the cops to stop, and as Mr. Floyd gasped the haunting but familiar words, “I can’t breathe…”

Much of the grief and frustration and anger that’s usually bottled up has exploded into these protests, with extra fuel apparently supplied by outside, often white, agitators who like nothing more than starting trouble.

And again, let’s be honest, in many places law enforcement is responding a lot more forcefully to these protests than when white people recently got mad about the stay-at- home orders and put on their camouflage outfits, armed themselves to the teeth, and marched on – and sometimes into – government buildings.

Pentecost happens all the time.

And, especially during these past few days, these past few months, these past few years, the Holy Spirit has been blowing and burning and shaking and pawing at us, using every tool at the Spirit’s disposal to wake us up.

Wake up!

Wake up!

Open your eyes!

Open your eyes and see that we are sisters and brothers. We can’t be alien to each other even if we are strangers.

Open your eyes and see that if one part of the community is in danger, if one part of the community is at risk, if one part of the community is sick, then we are all in danger, all at risk, all of us can get sick.

Open your eyes and see that there is more than enough of God’s blessings for everybody, the problem is a few people have hoarded way too much abundance for themselves, leaving not enough for the rest of us.

Open your eyes and see that character really does matter, our own character and, yes, the character of our leaders.

Open your eyes and see that, as Jesus understood and taught so well, it’s a quick trip from our hearts to our actions, that our hard hearts can produce so much pain and suffering for us and for the people around us.

Open your eyes and see that God has a special love for the poor and the suffering and the vulnerable, for the black men and women crushed under the knee of oppression, the refugee fleeing poverty and oppression, the people who have, in the middle of a pandemic, no choice but to work in stores or factories or warehouses or slaughter houses – the people forced to deliver the mail or drive trucks and buses – God has a special love for them – they matter - not because they’re necessarily better than anybody else, but because they’re poor and suffering and vulnerable and oppressed - and so often they haven't really mattered to us.

Open your eyes and see that – really, really – all of us – the people we like and the people we don’t like – the people whose bodies are brutalized by violence, the people whose faces and souls are twisted by hate – all of us - our true selves are shining like the sun.

Pentecost happens all the time – including right now in our time of trouble.

Wake up!

Wake up!

Open your eyes!

And then, what?

It’s a hard question to answer because the answer is probably a little different for each of us.

But, I’ll say this:

My hope is that the Spirit will inspire us all to pray even harder.

My hope is that we will all do the hard work of looking into our own hard hearts to see our own sins and to ask forgiveness.

My hope is that the Spirit will inspire even more of us to get involved in our communities - with Jersey City Together or to support our Triangle Park Community Center or, at the very least, respond to the census and definitely vote in November.

But, we all have to figure out for ourselves what we can or should do.

Or, we can choose to do nothing.

Because, you know, the Holy Spirit is definitely persistent, but the Holy Spirit always gives us a choice.

It’s like when my cat is doing everything he can think of to wake me up, I can still just roll over, put my head under the pillow, and eventually go back to sleep.

And, the first disciples, they could have just returned to their old lives, maybe sometimes nostalgically thinking back to that big and noisy day in Jerusalem when they were able to make the Good News understood to people from all over the place.

And, Thomas Merton, he could have shaken off his experience in Louisville as some kind of illusion, thinking that, wow, he really had been cooped up in the monastery for way too long and needed to get out more often.

And, in the same way, we know that, although we are definitely wide-awake right now, we can easily put our heads in the sand, go back to our usual routines, eventually drifting back to sleep once again.

It’s happened before.

But, God still gives us the Holy Spirit all the time, giving us the gifts of faith and wisdom and courage, and, the Spirit uses every tool at the Spirit’s disposal to wake us up, calling us to open our eyes, allowing us to see things – to see people - as they really are.

So, maybe, this year in our time of trouble, the best way to celebrate Pentecost is by staying awake and keeping our eyes open.

Amen.