Today is the first Sunday of Advent. I am not sitting among a congregation participating in the traditional production of lighting the first candle, the candle of Hope. I had no plans to do so. Today, I am at home. I have turned off the news. I am wrapped in a blanket because, even though the temperature outside is more Autumn like, the house feels cold, or maybe it's just that I can't get warm. There was a time in the not so distant past that I would find comfort in the rituals of my faith. Today comfort is not what I seek. Comfort, I have found, has a way of lulling us to sleep. Not the sleep of rest, but the sleep of complacency; the sleep of fatalism; the sleep of pessimism; the sleep of helplessness; the sleep of apathy; the sleep of piety.
Today, this first Sunday of Advent, I am like Rachel in Jeremiah 31:15, "weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more." There was a time in the not so distant past where I allowed piety, my religious devotion, to sooth my spiritual disquiet. My own personal earthquake (the reasons for starting this blog) forever altered that landscape. I can no longer look to the familiarity of ritual for comfort. This is not to say that the Word of God no longer speaks or teaches me. As my UCC friends will remind me, "God is Still Speaking".
The last post to this blog was close to a year and a half ago. That post was the sermon I preached one week after the Zimmerman verdict for the murder of Trayvon Martin. A year and a half later, it is one week after a similar "verdict" of sorts, when a US grand jury has simply refused to hold a supposed officer of the law accountable for denying due process to a US citizen. So, today, on this first Sunday in Advent, when traditionally the first candle is lit, which represents the candle of Hope, I find that I am short on Hope and long on anger and frustration. And I am refusing to be comforted. Why should I be comforted? As an African American woman, the spouse of an African American man, the mother of African American children and grandchildren, the aunt of African American nieces and nephews, there were certain things that I did not expect to have to deal with in a post Obama America. In truth, racial equality has not been an issue I was focused on in my long career as a Social Worker. I have focused on a myriad of social justice issues for many communities, including my own. I chose to practice racial reconciliation in more personal ways. Yet I was somewhat unprepared for the rejection that would follow when I reminded people that I sat beside in worship, that my experience as an African American in the US was different from their experience. In my naiveté, I believed that the time of water hoses and attack dogs being used as weapons against people of color in this country was over. There are no dogs or water cannons now, but the so called systems of justice are now being wielded with as much deadly force. In my naiveté, I believed that living, working, playing and worshipping in racially integrated communities meant that we the people were moving forward. Today, on a day when I should be thinking about Hope, I am finding it difficult to get warm; I am looking around for constructive ways to channel my energy and to reconcile my feelings with God's call on my life, to seek justice, to love mercy, to walk humbly. Today, I am trying to remember to breathe.
Today is the first Sunday of Advent. Today candles for Hope have been lit across Christendom. Here in the land of "Other", I intimately know what the Lord requires. On this day for Hope, I will weep. I will grab another blanket. I will make myself a cup of tea. I will let the Christmas tree lights burn all day and maybe through the night. I will do this today, because tomorrow there are people who depend on me to lead by example, to serve them no matter their race, creed or culture. Tomorrow I will suit up for justice and mercy and hope. Today, I will cry.
