Luke 10:25-37
25Just then a lawyer stood up to test Jesus. “Teacher,” he said, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?” 26He said to him, “What is written in the law? What do you read there?” 27He answered, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.” 28And he said to him, “You have given the right answer; do this, and you will live.” 29But wanting to justify himself, he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?” 30Jesus replied, “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and went away, leaving him half dead. 31Now by chance a priest was going down that road; and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. 32So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. 33But a Samaritan while traveling came near him; and when he saw him, he was moved with pity. 34He went to him and bandaged his wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. Then he put him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him. 35The next day he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said, ‘Take care of him; and when I come back, I will repay you whatever more you spend.’ 36Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?” 37He said, “The one who showed him mercy.” Jesus said to him, “Go and do likewise.”
This too-well-known parable has been on my mind today. I say “too well known” because I think that our familiarity with it may stand in the way of our hearing it. We refer to this as the Parable of the Good Samaritan. I’d like to suggest otherwise. I suggest that the “good” characters in this story are the priest and Levite, and the lawyer, too, for that matter. These were men of high moral character who sought to live an upright life according to the principles they had known all their lives. In our society we would probably refer to them as good, law-abiding citizens. The Samaritan on the other hand was a sinner, one who lived outside the law, not as a criminal but as one who, by virtue of his birth, was seen as different, not a member of respectable society, not being in right relationship with God.
We have been taught that the Samaritan in this story was “good”, and our minds have leapt to the conclusion that the lawyer, priest and Levite were “bad.” I do not see even a single word here to suggest that Jesus saw them as bad in any way. It seems to me Jesus is simply saying there is more to it, there is another way. Notice that Jesus does not condemn the priest, Levite or the lawyer. He is inviting the lawyer to another way of seeing, a way of seeing beyond conventional morality. He was teaching about the realm of God…right here, right now…in this world, among us and within us, and there is more to that than living by the rules.
After telling the story Jesus asks the lawyer which of the three was a neighbor to the wounded man. A neighbor is one who lives close, and it is obvious to me that Jesus is saying that in God’s eyes, in the realm of God, we all live close to one another and to God. He is calling us to live out that truth in how we think, how we live and how we relate to others and to God.
The lawyer answers Jesus’ question, “The one who showed him mercy.” I am not a Greek scholar, but I understand the word translated here as “mercy” could also be rendered “kindness.” Kind-ness. The Samaritan understands that he and the wounded one are of the same “kind” and the story invites us to the realization that we are all of the same “kind”…created by God, in the image of God, loved by God, indwelt by God. The Samaritan sees himself in the wounded one, and he sees God in him also. The Samaritan loved his neighbor as himself, not in the same manner as he loved himself, but as one with himself. His oil became the wounded one’s oil, his wine the wounded one’s wine, his money the wounded one’s money and his animal the wounded one’s transportation to safety. His time became the wounded one’s time. They were both living in the realm of God.
This, I believe, is the real meaning of Jesus’ teaching. There is no us and them, no chosen and not chosen, no wounded and unwounded, no others. We are all neighbors in the realm of God, all of the same kind. And that can be troubling. It is so much easier to play by the rules, pick and choose. “You’re in; you’re out.” “I’m right; you’re wrong.” The list goes on and on.
You disturb me, God, I cannot see beyond categories. I cannot see my neighbor as myself. On my own I just want to live comfortably, respectably by the rules. But you tell me there is a better way. All I can do is ask you to open my eyes, my ears, my heart so I can know that in you we all are one, we are all of the same kind, we all are neighbors. Help me understand that my neighbors’ wounds are my wounds, my neighbors’ needs are my needs and that my neighbors’ joys are my joys. And give me the grace I must have to “Go and do likewise.” I cannot do it on my own. Amen.
Elm City, NC
August 12, 2013
Monday, August 12, 2013
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Moral Monday 10---My Experience
On July 8, 2013 sixty three other people and I were arrested in connection with a peaceful demonstration inside the North Carolina Legislative Building. The demonstration was a part of what is known as Moral Mondays which are organized by the NAACP and led by it’s President, The Rev. William Barber, in protest against recent actions by the North Carolina General Assembly. We were charged with second degree trespass, failure to disperse on command and violating Legislative Building rules. My court date, first appearance, is set for November 7.
Before I go any farther I want to say this:
To the law enforcement officers with whom I came in contact that night:
Without exception you all treated me kindly, with dignity and respect. Thank you for your humanity. There were a few of you with whom I had conversation, sometimes light-hearted and with smiles on both sides. Your friendliness helped pass the times of waiting and were a bit of a distraction from the mild discomfort of having my wrists cuffed together behind my back. Thank you for that.
Because of our Moral Monday protests some of you have had your work schedules changed, and this has resulted in a change in your family routine, additional child care expenses, etc. For that I am truly sorry and look forward to the day it will no longer be necessary for us to engage in acts of civil disobedience as a result of the actions of our General Assembly. But I also hope that the part of you that led you to treat me with such kindness and humanity feels compassion for those who are being hurt permanently (losing their jobs, their homes, food for their children, access to medical care, etc.) because of the things happening in our legislature. I choose to allow myself the luxury of believing that some of you do indeed understand and have compassion for them. Bless you.
To the officer who cuffed me: Thank you for applying them so loosely I could have wriggled one hand free. I chose not to do so, but knowing I could was a big help.
An additional note to one particular officer: A couple of us saw you tapping time with your hand to your thigh as we sang "This Little Light of Mine." I'm glad you enjoyed our singing.
To continue…The evening began for us at 3:00 p.m. We gathered with a hundred or so supporters at the Christian Faith Baptist Church in Raleigh. There we cheered, sang, heard speakers, were briefed on what to expect, and participated in a press conference. At one point the organizers passed out strips of green cloth for us to use as armbands to identify ourselves to the organizers and supporters as being ones who had chosen to participate in the civil disobedience.
My friend from Wilson, Asa Gregory, was arrested a few weeks earlier. Asa had told me that when he was arrested his armband was cut off and thrown away. I wanted to keep at least a scrap of mine so had taken a small pair of children’s scissors with me intending to throw them away or hand them to someone in the crowd before entering the Legislative Building. I asked the woman who tied the armband on me to leave a strip long enough to cut off outside the knot. She left about six inches. I cut it off, then cut that into a few pieces, hiding one in a compartment of my wallet, another in my change purse and two of them in my shoe. I also helped a few others cut away part of their bands.
After the training we were given snacks and bottles of water…food and drink for the journey…and loaded onto a bus to be driven to the rally on Halifax Mall outside the Legislative Building. During the ride I called my friend Laurelyn Dossett, whom I had met in the spring of 2012 during the struggle to defeat Amendment One here in North Carolina. Laurelyn had sent me a message a couple of days earlier that she and some friends were coming from Greensboro for the rally and offering her support. There was so much noise on her end that all I heard was, “We are in front of the stage.”
(Laurelyn has now written a song entitled “My Beloved Enemy” for the Moral Monday movement.)
One of the last things I saw before getting off the bus was a woman in a motorized wheelchair with a bright pink poster on her lap, headed down the sidewalk toward the rally. I would see another woman in a similar wheelchair later.
When I arrived at the Mall the rally was in full swing. Luckily I quickly found my wife, Carroll, and several members of our St. Mark’s family.
We had some time together then I worked my way through the crowd to find Laurelyn. She was there, in front of the stage, and we had a few moments together before I returned to Carroll and my St. Mark’s friends. Shortly after 6:00 p.m. Rev. Barber called for all who were going into the Legislative Building to gather behind the stage. I drank the last of my water and handed Carroll the empty bottle and those scissors. I said my farewells, got hugs and kisses, received a blessing from my priests, Lorraine Ljunggren and Jim Melnyk, then made my way to join the others.
Behind the stage we were instructed to line up in pairs as the marshals cleared a pathway for us through the middle of the crowd up to the doors of the Legislative Building. My partner, Anya, and I chatted while we waited, and I asked if she was scared. She smiled and said that she was not. I had to admit to her that I was somewhat afraid. “If I were not a bit afraid, I probably shouldn’t be here,” I told her. Later I would comment to a friend that it was the fear of the unknown and knowing that soon I would allow myself to be out of control, in the hands of complete strangers.
While we waited to begin our walk into the building, two more friends, Tracy McKimmon and Carrie Shuping, suddenly appeared, and gave me more hugs and well wishes. Then we began to walk around the stage to the front and through the crowd. I heard a woman’s voice calling, “Larry! Larry!” I turned and there was Laurelyn, waving, wishing us well and taking pictures with her cell phone. A few more steps, and there was my friend, Mike Newton-Ward. He stepped from the crowd, hugged me, kissed me on the cheek and said, “God bless you.” Seconds later I heard a man’s voice. “Larry! Larry!” About three rows deep in the crowd stood my friends David and Alice Both, also waving, cheering, flashing the peace sign and wishing us well. Now my spirits were soaring.
We walked the roughly 100 yards into the building through the crowd to chants of “We love you! We love you!” and “Thank you! Thank you!” Inside the building at least three members of the General Assembly were on hand to greet and thank us. We made our way up the stairs to the second floor and gathered around the fountain there. A large crowd of supporters were on hand there as well.
We sang, chanted, and heard speeches. And we were loud! I said we were peaceful; I never said we were quiet. One of the speakers we heard was a woman in a motorized wheelchair. She was there on behalf of all those who could not be. I think in many ways that was true for all of us. We all have friends and family who for whatever reasons simply cannot risk being arrested. A number of them have told me they were there on behalf of those folks as well. The woman in the wheelchair was the first to be arrested a few minutes later.
After a while the chief of security announced over his bullhorn that this was an illegal assembly and that we had five minutes to disburse or be arrested. Many in the crowd began to boo, but Rev. Barber silenced the crowd, saying, “No! No! We’ll have none of that!” He reminded us the law enforcement officials were only doing their job, and that some of them would rather not be doing it. He then asked for applause for them, and the crowd erupted with cheers and applause.
Soon the chief of security announced we had two minutes to disperse. Those who were not staying began to file out of the building, and shortly, at around 7:15 I’d guess, the arrests began. We sang as one by one we were informed that we were under arrest, asked to place our hands behind us and were cuffed. Just before I was cuffed, I said to my partner, Anya, that I would see her downstairs. I did not her again.
We were taken by elevator to the basement cafeteria, segregated males and females and waited for what seemed like a long time, but certainly wasn’t. Eventually our possessions were taken from us and placed in manila envelopes with our full names written on the outside. The officer who took mine, removed all the paper money from my wallet, placed it in my pocket and said to another officer, “Left front pocket.” She untied my armband and tossed it onto the table. Then we were photographed and had a long plastic sleeve containing our ID and a piece of paper clipped to our shirts.
More waiting. Eventually those of us who had not yet been taken to detention were loaded onto an inmate transport bus. Ours was the third and last bus of the night. As we were loaded onto the bus and driven away a crowd across the street cheered and waved at us. We were taken to the Wake County Detention Center. Before we were escorted off the bus a female officer came aboard and asked if there was a man there by a certain name, which I don’t remember. From near the back of the bus a voice said, “That’s me.” The officer said to him, “Your wife called. You forgot to leave the car keys with her, and you have the only set.” We all had a laugh over that, and a couple of folks suggested he might want to stay there in jail for a few days until the dust settled.
Inside the detention center the cuffs were cut off our wrists, and we were moved through a series of holding cells, once ten of us chain-gang style, all cuffed together by our wrists and connected by a long chain running down the middle of our group. A gentleman named Sam and dressed as Uncle Sam led our “chain gang,“ and yes we did sing “Working on the Chain Gang” as we walked. We sounded horrible! Eventually we were brought eight at a time before the magistrate who informed us of the charges against us, had us sign a form promising to appear in court at the appointed time and to abide by the terms of our release (not to enter the Legislative Building or Legislative Office Building until our cases are finally resolved), then told us we were free to go. We were escorted upstairs to the front entrance, the envelopes containing our personal items were handed to us, and we were escorted to the front door.
I stepped out into the night air at about 9:45, just under three hours after having entered the Legislative Building. There were more cheers and applause and a volunteer handed each of us a button saying, “I went to jail with Rev. Barber, 2013.” When I opened the manila envelope I found not only my cell phone, wallet, keys and handkerchief, but there was my green armband as well.
After I signed forms authorizing a volunteer attorney to represent me another wonderful volunteer, there were so very many of them, drove me back to the church where there was still more cheering and applause…and food! I ate, chatted with a few folks then drove home. I got home about midnight very tired, but also very elated.
When I stepped out of the detention center that night, one of the first thoughts to come to me were memories of the Civil Rights workers in my native Alabama who were arrested during the 1960s. I thought of one in particular, Jonathan Daniels, an Episcopal Seminarian who was murdered shortly after being released from an Alabama jail. Jonathan had come to Alabama to help with voter registration. I remember the day of his murder, and years later would meet and become friends with a classmate of Jonathan’s who had also been a pallbearer at Jonathan’s funeral.
The following afternoon those brave Civil Rights workers were still on my mind. I wrote this for them:
For those of you who went before, so long ago, yet not so long that we‘ve forgotten:
The lyrics to one of your songs has been in my head all day today.
I woke up this mornin' with my mind
My mind, it was stayed on freedom.
I woke up this mornin' with my mind
My mind, it was stayed on freedom.
I woke up this mornin' with my mind
My mind, it was stayed on freedom.
Hallelu, Hallelu, Hallelu, Hallelu, Hallelujah
I sang your song yesterday along with 63 other people as we participated in an act of civil disobedience and as a result were arrested. Today as I look back on my experiences I cannot help but think of you.
Early during our time together I mentioned having lived in Birmingham during the 1960s. Someone asked me to share some of my memories. I told a couple of stories, your stories, not mine. I was simply an onlooker, but somehow, I believe, the telling of your stories was an invitation for your presence there with us. And I do believe you were there.
Our evening began at 3:00 p.m. in a southern church. We heard speakers, sang songs and were briefed on what to do and what to expect. The church was spacious, the pews were padded therefore comfortable, and it was air conditioned. I remember seeing photographs and movies of training sessions you had. You heard speakers, sang songs and received briefings, often crammed, standing room only, into tiny churches with hard pews in the sweltering heat of Alabama, Mississippi and other southern states.
Our very short walk into the North Carolina General Assembly took us through a crowd of hundreds if not thousands of well wishers, shaking our hands, hugging and kissing us and chanting, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” and “We love you! We love you! We love you!” I know you were often greeted by crowds of hundreds, but their chants were so very different from the ones we heard, and frequently you were attacked by those crowds.
We walked across a short, level bridge at the entrance to the Legislative Building. Many of you crossed a bridge once also. But the bridge you crossed was steep and long, and on your first attempt to cross that bridge you were brutalized and forced to turn back.
Inside the building more supporters in the gallery above us cheered and applauded for us as we entered and began our rally. You were there in that gallery, weren’t you? We could neither see nor hear you, except with the eyes and ears of our hearts, but you were there. I know you were, and you were cheering and applauding with the rest of the crowd.
Eventually, one by one, we were arrested. The arresting officers were courteous and humane. Those who arrested you were more often than not cruel and brutal.
After having our possessions taken from us and being photographed we were transported to the Wake County Detention Center. Well wishers cheered as the buses pulled out and drove off. We spent the next hour or so in a series of air conditioned holding cells and waiting rooms. Some of you never even made it to the jails, and when you did you were often locked in tiny, filthy, brutally hot cells sometimes for days with no contact with the outside world.
After we were processed, heard the charges against us and were given the date for our first court appearance, our belongings were returned to us and we were escorted to the front door and released. Outside we were greeted by more cheers from well-wishers. There was transportation to return us to the church where we began, and there we found still more welcoming faces, more cheers, and food! As I stepped out into the night air at about 9:45 I remembered stories of how some of you were released from jail, often unexpectedly into a hostile environment in the middle of the night. You were alone and some of you did not live to get back to the friends you had left behind.
The path we walked yesterday, from beginning to end, was easy, so very easy it simply cannot be compared to your path. But of this I am absolutely certain, you were there with us every step of the way, and you know that our minds are now, as yours were then…stayed on freedom.
On July 11, 2013 Jeanne Milliken Bonds posted a link on Facebook to a New York Times op-ed piece she had written. With the post, she asked the question to those of us who have been arrested, “Why did you get arrested?”
This is my response to her question:
You asked why we got arrested.
I am an educated, financially secure, slightly-beyond-middle-aged, healthy, white, heterosexual, southern male. In other words I am a person of privilege. As a teen-ager in the 1960s I lived in Birmingham, Alabama and was an almost-eye witness to the events that occurred there during that era’s civil rights struggle.
I am also a person of faith, and my faith tradition tells me that my privileged status is a gift that carries with it certain responsibilities. Primary among those responsibilities is to care for those whom we refer to as the least of these…those on the margins, the ostracized, the powerless, the voiceless.
I watched the Moral Monday events, attended a couple, saw two friends get arrested. All the while, memories of the events, the brave people, the martyrs in Alabama during the 1960s were flooding back. Soon I realized that attending the Moral Monday rallies, posting links to Facebook, commenting on others’ posts, etc. was not enough.
I am not a skilled writer. I am not a strong leader. I lack the power of persuasion. But I am passionate, and from time to time that passion simply must be channeled into action. I came to realize that getting arrested was the way I was to channel my passion. I could not not do it.
On July 8 I attended the civil disobedience training, had a green armband tied to my left arm and with 63 other people entered the General Assembly Building. When ordered to disburse and leave the building we did not do so, and were arrested.
Do I believe my arrest will make a difference? Not for a minute! But so far roughly 700 [the total is now 924] of us have been arrested, and the numbers will grow. I do believe, I must believe, that cumulatively our efforts will eventually make a difference.
That’s why I got arrested.
Thank you to everyone, family and friends (including the new friends I have made as a result of this journey) for your love and support.
Elm City, North Carolina
July 28, 2013
Before I go any farther I want to say this:
Without exception you all treated me kindly, with dignity and respect. Thank you for your humanity. There were a few of you with whom I had conversation, sometimes light-hearted and with smiles on both sides. Your friendliness helped pass the times of waiting and were a bit of a distraction from the mild discomfort of having my wrists cuffed together behind my back. Thank you for that.
Because of our Moral Monday protests some of you have had your work schedules changed, and this has resulted in a change in your family routine, additional child care expenses, etc. For that I am truly sorry and look forward to the day it will no longer be necessary for us to engage in acts of civil disobedience as a result of the actions of our General Assembly. But I also hope that the part of you that led you to treat me with such kindness and humanity feels compassion for those who are being hurt permanently (losing their jobs, their homes, food for their children, access to medical care, etc.) because of the things happening in our legislature. I choose to allow myself the luxury of believing that some of you do indeed understand and have compassion for them. Bless you.
To the officer who cuffed me: Thank you for applying them so loosely I could have wriggled one hand free. I chose not to do so, but knowing I could was a big help.
An additional note to one particular officer: A couple of us saw you tapping time with your hand to your thigh as we sang "This Little Light of Mine." I'm glad you enjoyed our singing.
To continue…The evening began for us at 3:00 p.m. We gathered with a hundred or so supporters at the Christian Faith Baptist Church in Raleigh. There we cheered, sang, heard speakers, were briefed on what to expect, and participated in a press conference. At one point the organizers passed out strips of green cloth for us to use as armbands to identify ourselves to the organizers and supporters as being ones who had chosen to participate in the civil disobedience.
My friend from Wilson, Asa Gregory, was arrested a few weeks earlier. Asa had told me that when he was arrested his armband was cut off and thrown away. I wanted to keep at least a scrap of mine so had taken a small pair of children’s scissors with me intending to throw them away or hand them to someone in the crowd before entering the Legislative Building. I asked the woman who tied the armband on me to leave a strip long enough to cut off outside the knot. She left about six inches. I cut it off, then cut that into a few pieces, hiding one in a compartment of my wallet, another in my change purse and two of them in my shoe. I also helped a few others cut away part of their bands.
My green armband.
(Laurelyn has now written a song entitled “My Beloved Enemy” for the Moral Monday movement.)
One of the last things I saw before getting off the bus was a woman in a motorized wheelchair with a bright pink poster on her lap, headed down the sidewalk toward the rally. I would see another woman in a similar wheelchair later.
When I arrived at the Mall the rally was in full swing. Luckily I quickly found my wife, Carroll, and several members of our St. Mark’s family.
It was good to be able to spend time with family and friends
before “going in.”
We had some time together then I worked my way through the crowd to find Laurelyn. She was there, in front of the stage, and we had a few moments together before I returned to Carroll and my St. Mark’s friends. Shortly after 6:00 p.m. Rev. Barber called for all who were going into the Legislative Building to gather behind the stage. I drank the last of my water and handed Carroll the empty bottle and those scissors. I said my farewells, got hugs and kisses, received a blessing from my priests, Lorraine Ljunggren and Jim Melnyk, then made my way to join the others.
Behind the stage we were instructed to line up in pairs as the marshals cleared a pathway for us through the middle of the crowd up to the doors of the Legislative Building. My partner, Anya, and I chatted while we waited, and I asked if she was scared. She smiled and said that she was not. I had to admit to her that I was somewhat afraid. “If I were not a bit afraid, I probably shouldn’t be here,” I told her. Later I would comment to a friend that it was the fear of the unknown and knowing that soon I would allow myself to be out of control, in the hands of complete strangers.
While we waited to begin our walk into the building, two more friends, Tracy McKimmon and Carrie Shuping, suddenly appeared, and gave me more hugs and well wishes. Then we began to walk around the stage to the front and through the crowd. I heard a woman’s voice calling, “Larry! Larry!” I turned and there was Laurelyn, waving, wishing us well and taking pictures with her cell phone. A few more steps, and there was my friend, Mike Newton-Ward. He stepped from the crowd, hugged me, kissed me on the cheek and said, “God bless you.” Seconds later I heard a man’s voice. “Larry! Larry!” About three rows deep in the crowd stood my friends David and Alice Both, also waving, cheering, flashing the peace sign and wishing us well. Now my spirits were soaring.
We walked the roughly 100 yards into the building through the crowd to chants of “We love you! We love you!” and “Thank you! Thank you!” Inside the building at least three members of the General Assembly were on hand to greet and thank us. We made our way up the stairs to the second floor and gathered around the fountain there. A large crowd of supporters were on hand there as well.
Thank you, Sara Stohler, for capturing this shot of us
on our way into the building.
We sang, chanted, and heard speeches. And we were loud! I said we were peaceful; I never said we were quiet. One of the speakers we heard was a woman in a motorized wheelchair. She was there on behalf of all those who could not be. I think in many ways that was true for all of us. We all have friends and family who for whatever reasons simply cannot risk being arrested. A number of them have told me they were there on behalf of those folks as well. The woman in the wheelchair was the first to be arrested a few minutes later.
After a while the chief of security announced over his bullhorn that this was an illegal assembly and that we had five minutes to disburse or be arrested. Many in the crowd began to boo, but Rev. Barber silenced the crowd, saying, “No! No! We’ll have none of that!” He reminded us the law enforcement officials were only doing their job, and that some of them would rather not be doing it. He then asked for applause for them, and the crowd erupted with cheers and applause.
Soon the chief of security announced we had two minutes to disperse. Those who were not staying began to file out of the building, and shortly, at around 7:15 I’d guess, the arrests began. We sang as one by one we were informed that we were under arrest, asked to place our hands behind us and were cuffed. Just before I was cuffed, I said to my partner, Anya, that I would see her downstairs. I did not her again.
Anya and me inside the Legislative building. Thank you to our fellow “arrestee” for taking this shot of us.
Screen shot of a one of the many videos that were made that day.
We were taken by elevator to the basement cafeteria, segregated males and females and waited for what seemed like a long time, but certainly wasn’t. Eventually our possessions were taken from us and placed in manila envelopes with our full names written on the outside. The officer who took mine, removed all the paper money from my wallet, placed it in my pocket and said to another officer, “Left front pocket.” She untied my armband and tossed it onto the table. Then we were photographed and had a long plastic sleeve containing our ID and a piece of paper clipped to our shirts.
More waiting. Eventually those of us who had not yet been taken to detention were loaded onto an inmate transport bus. Ours was the third and last bus of the night. As we were loaded onto the bus and driven away a crowd across the street cheered and waved at us. We were taken to the Wake County Detention Center. Before we were escorted off the bus a female officer came aboard and asked if there was a man there by a certain name, which I don’t remember. From near the back of the bus a voice said, “That’s me.” The officer said to him, “Your wife called. You forgot to leave the car keys with her, and you have the only set.” We all had a laugh over that, and a couple of folks suggested he might want to stay there in jail for a few days until the dust settled.
Inside the detention center the cuffs were cut off our wrists, and we were moved through a series of holding cells, once ten of us chain-gang style, all cuffed together by our wrists and connected by a long chain running down the middle of our group. A gentleman named Sam and dressed as Uncle Sam led our “chain gang,“ and yes we did sing “Working on the Chain Gang” as we walked. We sounded horrible! Eventually we were brought eight at a time before the magistrate who informed us of the charges against us, had us sign a form promising to appear in court at the appointed time and to abide by the terms of our release (not to enter the Legislative Building or Legislative Office Building until our cases are finally resolved), then told us we were free to go. We were escorted upstairs to the front entrance, the envelopes containing our personal items were handed to us, and we were escorted to the front door.
I stepped out into the night air at about 9:45, just under three hours after having entered the Legislative Building. There were more cheers and applause and a volunteer handed each of us a button saying, “I went to jail with Rev. Barber, 2013.” When I opened the manila envelope I found not only my cell phone, wallet, keys and handkerchief, but there was my green armband as well.
Looking back at the Detention Center just seconds after I came out.
After I signed forms authorizing a volunteer attorney to represent me another wonderful volunteer, there were so very many of them, drove me back to the church where there was still more cheering and applause…and food! I ate, chatted with a few folks then drove home. I got home about midnight very tired, but also very elated.
When I stepped out of the detention center that night, one of the first thoughts to come to me were memories of the Civil Rights workers in my native Alabama who were arrested during the 1960s. I thought of one in particular, Jonathan Daniels, an Episcopal Seminarian who was murdered shortly after being released from an Alabama jail. Jonathan had come to Alabama to help with voter registration. I remember the day of his murder, and years later would meet and become friends with a classmate of Jonathan’s who had also been a pallbearer at Jonathan’s funeral.
The following afternoon those brave Civil Rights workers were still on my mind. I wrote this for them:
The lyrics to one of your songs has been in my head all day today.
I woke up this mornin' with my mind
My mind, it was stayed on freedom.
I woke up this mornin' with my mind
My mind, it was stayed on freedom.
I woke up this mornin' with my mind
My mind, it was stayed on freedom.
Hallelu, Hallelu, Hallelu, Hallelu, Hallelujah
I sang your song yesterday along with 63 other people as we participated in an act of civil disobedience and as a result were arrested. Today as I look back on my experiences I cannot help but think of you.
Early during our time together I mentioned having lived in Birmingham during the 1960s. Someone asked me to share some of my memories. I told a couple of stories, your stories, not mine. I was simply an onlooker, but somehow, I believe, the telling of your stories was an invitation for your presence there with us. And I do believe you were there.
Our evening began at 3:00 p.m. in a southern church. We heard speakers, sang songs and were briefed on what to do and what to expect. The church was spacious, the pews were padded therefore comfortable, and it was air conditioned. I remember seeing photographs and movies of training sessions you had. You heard speakers, sang songs and received briefings, often crammed, standing room only, into tiny churches with hard pews in the sweltering heat of Alabama, Mississippi and other southern states.
Our very short walk into the North Carolina General Assembly took us through a crowd of hundreds if not thousands of well wishers, shaking our hands, hugging and kissing us and chanting, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” and “We love you! We love you! We love you!” I know you were often greeted by crowds of hundreds, but their chants were so very different from the ones we heard, and frequently you were attacked by those crowds.
We walked across a short, level bridge at the entrance to the Legislative Building. Many of you crossed a bridge once also. But the bridge you crossed was steep and long, and on your first attempt to cross that bridge you were brutalized and forced to turn back.
Inside the building more supporters in the gallery above us cheered and applauded for us as we entered and began our rally. You were there in that gallery, weren’t you? We could neither see nor hear you, except with the eyes and ears of our hearts, but you were there. I know you were, and you were cheering and applauding with the rest of the crowd.
Eventually, one by one, we were arrested. The arresting officers were courteous and humane. Those who arrested you were more often than not cruel and brutal.
After having our possessions taken from us and being photographed we were transported to the Wake County Detention Center. Well wishers cheered as the buses pulled out and drove off. We spent the next hour or so in a series of air conditioned holding cells and waiting rooms. Some of you never even made it to the jails, and when you did you were often locked in tiny, filthy, brutally hot cells sometimes for days with no contact with the outside world.
After we were processed, heard the charges against us and were given the date for our first court appearance, our belongings were returned to us and we were escorted to the front door and released. Outside we were greeted by more cheers from well-wishers. There was transportation to return us to the church where we began, and there we found still more welcoming faces, more cheers, and food! As I stepped out into the night air at about 9:45 I remembered stories of how some of you were released from jail, often unexpectedly into a hostile environment in the middle of the night. You were alone and some of you did not live to get back to the friends you had left behind.
The path we walked yesterday, from beginning to end, was easy, so very easy it simply cannot be compared to your path. But of this I am absolutely certain, you were there with us every step of the way, and you know that our minds are now, as yours were then…stayed on freedom.
This is my response to her question:
You asked why we got arrested.
I am an educated, financially secure, slightly-beyond-middle-aged, healthy, white, heterosexual, southern male. In other words I am a person of privilege. As a teen-ager in the 1960s I lived in Birmingham, Alabama and was an almost-eye witness to the events that occurred there during that era’s civil rights struggle.
I am also a person of faith, and my faith tradition tells me that my privileged status is a gift that carries with it certain responsibilities. Primary among those responsibilities is to care for those whom we refer to as the least of these…those on the margins, the ostracized, the powerless, the voiceless.
I watched the Moral Monday events, attended a couple, saw two friends get arrested. All the while, memories of the events, the brave people, the martyrs in Alabama during the 1960s were flooding back. Soon I realized that attending the Moral Monday rallies, posting links to Facebook, commenting on others’ posts, etc. was not enough.
I am not a skilled writer. I am not a strong leader. I lack the power of persuasion. But I am passionate, and from time to time that passion simply must be channeled into action. I came to realize that getting arrested was the way I was to channel my passion. I could not not do it.
On July 8 I attended the civil disobedience training, had a green armband tied to my left arm and with 63 other people entered the General Assembly Building. When ordered to disburse and leave the building we did not do so, and were arrested.
Do I believe my arrest will make a difference? Not for a minute! But so far roughly 700 [the total is now 924] of us have been arrested, and the numbers will grow. I do believe, I must believe, that cumulatively our efforts will eventually make a difference.
That’s why I got arrested.
Thank you to everyone, family and friends (including the new friends I have made as a result of this journey) for your love and support.
Elm City, North Carolina
July 28, 2013
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Casper...Newtown...We Are All Connected
On Friday, November 30, a young man murdered two people then killed himself. One of the victims was the young man’s father. The murder took place in the father’s classroom at Casper College in Casper, Wyoming, in front of the father’s students. A parent murdered by his own son. A group of young people having to witness the horror. I have an indirect connection to this horror because the husband of a friend of mine is one of the Vice Presidents of the college.
We are all connected.
Two days ago a young man in Newtown, Connecticut murdered his mother then drove to an elementary school where he murdered twenty children and six adults then killed himself. Another parent murdered by her own son, and this time six other adults and twenty small children died as well. This time small children both witnessed and fell victim to the horror. And again a connection. The granddaughter of a long-time friend attends the school where the massacre took place.
We are all connected.
At church this morning in our adult Sunday school class we heard a presentation about Palestinian children being terrorized and sometimes killed by Israeli soldiers in the Occupied Territories. Still another connection. The woman who did the presentation is a long-time acquaintance who has visited Palestine numerous times and been witness to the events she spoke about.
We are all connected.
Between Sunday school and worship I told a friend about the connection I have with the killings in Casper and in Newtown. I was in tears and he was nearly so.
We are all connected.
Later during the worship service I found I could not sing the songs. I could not chant the psalm. I could not say the creed. I could not pray the prayers. All I could manage was to make the sign of the cross and utter a whispered “amen” at the end of the prayers. During the Prayers of the People we heard the names of all the victims of Friday’s shooting read aloud. I am glad they were included.
We are all connected.
Two prayers came to my mind. The first was prayed by my priest, Lorraine Ljunggren, on Friday:
“Holy God, who desires life for all: We commend to your loving care this day those little ones and grown ones of your family --the human family -- who died today in the Connecticut school. We pray that the strength and power of your mysterious Holy Spirit will uphold and sustain all who mourn, particularly the parents and guardians, the families and friends of those who have died. Comfort all who mourn and grant us the courage to be makers of peace wherever our paths take us. All these things we pray for people of all faith and for those who claim none, and we pray in your Holy Name. Amen.”
We are all connected.
The second prayer was prayed by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat:
“God, let me cry on Your shoulder.
Rock me like a colicky baby.
Promise me You won't forget
each of Your perfect reflections
killed today. Promise me
You won't let me forget, either.
I'm hollow, stricken like a bell.
Make of my emptiness a channel
for Your boundless compassion.
Soothe the children who witnessed
things no child should see,
the teachers who tried to protect them
but couldn't, the parents
who are torn apart with grief,
who will never kiss their beloveds again.
Strengthen the hands and hearts
of Your servants tasked with caring
for those wounded in body and spirit.
Help us to find meaning
in the tiny lights we kindle tonight.
Help us to trust
that our reserves of hope
and healing are enough
to carry us through.
We are Your hands: put us to work.
Ignite in us the unquenchable yearning
to reshape our world
so that violence against children
never happens again, anywhere.
We are Your grieving heart.”
We are all connected
During her sermon this morning Lorraine talked about how she believes with all her heart that God is with and within us in the midst of even the most intense pain and suffering the times when there is no sense to be made of what is happening around us. And she reminded us why week after week we gather around the table to share bread and wine, the sacrament of that very real presence. I found myself drawn to her absolute faith.
We are all connected.
During the Eucharistic Prayer as the celebrant said the words of consecration I found my gaze fixed on the bread and wine there on the table. Two words came to me. They repeated themselves over and over in my mind, “Be there…Be there…Be there.” As we gathered around the table I looked around the circle of fellow parishioners, some friends, some acquaintances, and the words kept repeating themselves, “Be there…Be there…Be there.” When the bread was placed in my open palm, instead of immediately putting it into my mouth I gazed at it there in my hand for a few seconds. “Be there…Be there…Be there.”
We are all connected.
When I cannot sing, someone somewhere is singing for me. When I cannot pray, someone somewhere is praying my prayers for me. When I cannot believe, someone somewhere is believing for me.
We are all connected.
Be there…Be there…Be there...
And be here, too.
We are all connected.
We are all connected.
Two days ago a young man in Newtown, Connecticut murdered his mother then drove to an elementary school where he murdered twenty children and six adults then killed himself. Another parent murdered by her own son, and this time six other adults and twenty small children died as well. This time small children both witnessed and fell victim to the horror. And again a connection. The granddaughter of a long-time friend attends the school where the massacre took place.
We are all connected.
At church this morning in our adult Sunday school class we heard a presentation about Palestinian children being terrorized and sometimes killed by Israeli soldiers in the Occupied Territories. Still another connection. The woman who did the presentation is a long-time acquaintance who has visited Palestine numerous times and been witness to the events she spoke about.
We are all connected.
Between Sunday school and worship I told a friend about the connection I have with the killings in Casper and in Newtown. I was in tears and he was nearly so.
We are all connected.
Later during the worship service I found I could not sing the songs. I could not chant the psalm. I could not say the creed. I could not pray the prayers. All I could manage was to make the sign of the cross and utter a whispered “amen” at the end of the prayers. During the Prayers of the People we heard the names of all the victims of Friday’s shooting read aloud. I am glad they were included.
We are all connected.
Two prayers came to my mind. The first was prayed by my priest, Lorraine Ljunggren, on Friday:
“Holy God, who desires life for all: We commend to your loving care this day those little ones and grown ones of your family --the human family -- who died today in the Connecticut school. We pray that the strength and power of your mysterious Holy Spirit will uphold and sustain all who mourn, particularly the parents and guardians, the families and friends of those who have died. Comfort all who mourn and grant us the courage to be makers of peace wherever our paths take us. All these things we pray for people of all faith and for those who claim none, and we pray in your Holy Name. Amen.”
We are all connected.
The second prayer was prayed by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat:
“God, let me cry on Your shoulder.
Rock me like a colicky baby.
Promise me You won't forget
each of Your perfect reflections
killed today. Promise me
You won't let me forget, either.
I'm hollow, stricken like a bell.
Make of my emptiness a channel
for Your boundless compassion.
Soothe the children who witnessed
things no child should see,
the teachers who tried to protect them
but couldn't, the parents
who are torn apart with grief,
who will never kiss their beloveds again.
Strengthen the hands and hearts
of Your servants tasked with caring
for those wounded in body and spirit.
Help us to find meaning
in the tiny lights we kindle tonight.
Help us to trust
that our reserves of hope
and healing are enough
to carry us through.
We are Your hands: put us to work.
Ignite in us the unquenchable yearning
to reshape our world
so that violence against children
never happens again, anywhere.
We are Your grieving heart.”
We are all connected
During her sermon this morning Lorraine talked about how she believes with all her heart that God is with and within us in the midst of even the most intense pain and suffering the times when there is no sense to be made of what is happening around us. And she reminded us why week after week we gather around the table to share bread and wine, the sacrament of that very real presence. I found myself drawn to her absolute faith.
We are all connected.
During the Eucharistic Prayer as the celebrant said the words of consecration I found my gaze fixed on the bread and wine there on the table. Two words came to me. They repeated themselves over and over in my mind, “Be there…Be there…Be there.” As we gathered around the table I looked around the circle of fellow parishioners, some friends, some acquaintances, and the words kept repeating themselves, “Be there…Be there…Be there.” When the bread was placed in my open palm, instead of immediately putting it into my mouth I gazed at it there in my hand for a few seconds. “Be there…Be there…Be there.”
We are all connected.
When I cannot sing, someone somewhere is singing for me. When I cannot pray, someone somewhere is praying my prayers for me. When I cannot believe, someone somewhere is believing for me.
We are all connected.
Be there…Be there…Be there...
And be here, too.
We are all connected.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Beatitudes
The idea for a series of photographs with the Beatitudes as theme came to me at church one Sunday morning in the middle of the sermon. My dream is to have a total of sixteen images, two for each of the eight Beatitudes as told in Matt. 5:3-10. I have seven so far and my eyes are open for eleven more. They will present themselves to me in their own time
Blessed are the poor in spirit...
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
*
*
Blessed are those who mourn...
*
*
Blessed are those who mourn...
*
*
Blessed are the meek...
Blessed are the meek...
for they will inherit the earth.
*
*
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness...
for they will be filled.
*
*
*
Blessed are the merciful...
for they will receive mercy.
*
*
Blessed are the pure in heart...
for they will see God.9
*
*
Blessed are the peacemakers...
for they will be called children of God.
*
*
*
Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake...
*
Soul Mates
We are never truly apart from...
those with whom...
we have a deep, intimate spiritual connection.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Welcome Billie Sue! (Just a bit late, but...)
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I wrote this over a year ago and had not thought of posting it here until today.
Billy Sue had lived at For the Love of Dogs, a wonderful rescue shelter in Wilson, N.C., since 2004. She had come to them when her "owner", a nomadic man, passed away. For years he wandered Wilson County carrying a large cross, all of his possessions, and his 2 dogs attached to him by a rope. Billie Sue was one of those dogs. If only she could tell her stories! There was never enough food, never enough structure, and never enough love. At For the Love of Dogs she made up for lost time on the love front! However, Billie Sue needed a good home to call her own where belly rubs, love and attention come from more than the few hurried volunteers rushing back and forth, promising to return later for some one-on-one time that rarely comes in a rescue sanctuary with well over 150 dogs. Billy Sue adores everyone she meets and is starved for attention. She gives enough love for five dogs. Even after six years in the shelter she had not been adopted, and one of the For the Love of Dogs volunteers made it her mission to find Billie Sue a home. Shortly before Christmas 2010, she put an announcement and Billie Sue’s story on Facebook. As soon as Carroll read the announcement we pretty much knew Billie Sue would be coming to live with us. On January 3, 2011 we brought her home for a week-long "trial visit". One night was all it took for us to know Billie Sue had found her home. On January 6 we went back to For the Love of Dogs and finalized her adoption. Welcome home, Billie Sue!
Sunday, September 2, 2012
I'm 64 and I'm Tired, Too
One of the first things I saw on the internet this morning was a piece, attributed to Bill Cosby, entitled "I'm 83, and I'm Tired." Before I finished the first paragraph I thought "there is no way this was written by Bill Cosby", and a two-minute internet search proved I was correct. It was a pompous, malicious, racist, hate-filled rant that glorified greed and vilified the poor, Muslims and others. In some ways it reminded me of Ayn Rand. Frankly, it made me sick. I went to church seething.
One of the readings at church was James 1:17-27. Here is the last sentence:
"Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this: to care for orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself unstained by the world."
In her sermon my priest pointed out that the widows and orphans stand for all those on the margins of society, the poor, the stranger, those in any kind of need.
The gospel reading for today was Mark 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23. The reading ends with this:
Then he [Jesus] called the crowd again and said to them, "Listen to me, all of you, and understand: there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile. For it is from within, from the human heart, that evil intentions come: fornication, theft, murder, adultery, avarice, wickedness, deceit, licentiousness, envy, slander, pride, folly. All these evil things come from within, and they defile a person."
Our priest commented that if it were her list, she would add "silence." A very good point! So here goes...
I'm 64 years old, and I am tired, too.
I'm tired of the ridiculous fantasy of the rugged individual, the self-made man or woman. There is no such thing, unless there happens to be a person who crawled from under a rock on some desert island and never once laid eyes on another human being. And even then, that person did not make the island or the rock; they are both a part of God's creation.
I am tired of morality being used only in terms of sexual behavior, and I am tired of being surrounded by the worship of money and power.
I am 64 years old, an only child. My parents divorced when I was a baby, and my mother worked hard just to get by. I attended public schools; thank God my mother could not afford to send me to some elitist private school where I would be insulated from the real world. I had my first job when I was 14 years old, worked my way through a state college and got a relatively good paying job. I have everything I need and many of the things I want. And I realize I could not have done any of this without having been born with at least above average intelligence and without my community...in all it's forms...family, church, friends, and yes...gasp!!!...the government. I had no control over any of the factors. I learned, thanks to that community, that my success, such that it is carries with it a responsibility to the community.
I'm tired of hearing about how the poor in our society have some sort of sense of entitlement. I'm 64 years old and am tired of hearing folks like me and those who are even better off than I am whine about being oppressed, over taxed and threatened. Most of my working life was spent in a job that required me to delve deeply into the finances of folks from the entire socio-ecnomic spectrum, from the poorest to the most wealthy. In my experience, with a few exceptions, that sense of entitlement grows larger and larger as the balance in the checkbook increases.
I'm 64 years old and am tired of seeing folks on the margins in our society being blamed for all their, and our, problems.
I'm tired of racism and bigotry in all it's forms. I'm tired of people assuming that because I am a 64 year old white male from the south I find their racist, sexist, bigoted jokes and comments funny.
I'm tired of hearing this country was founded on Christian principles, and I have three questions for those who make the claim, But those are for another day.
I'm tired of seeing the Bible used to bludgeon my friends in the LGBT community.
I'm 64 years old, and I am tired of hearing how we should post the Ten Commandments at the courthouse, but not one person suggesting we post the Beatitudes.
I'm 64 years old, and I am tired of seeing willful ignorance glorified and intelligence vilified. And I am tired of hearing, "I respect him because he stands up for what he believes." "He" can believe the world is flat, that the sun orbits the earth or that a woman cannot get pregnant fom being raped if "he" chooses to believe that. But I do not respect his standing up for his beliefs when they have no basis in reality.
I'm tired of hearing table blessings ending with, "and keep us mindful of the needs of others," prayed by people who have no idea about the needs of others because they simply don't care about the others. The holiday season will be here soon, and I am tired of seeing people give a few dollars or food or toys to some charity for those "less fortunate" at Thanksgiving and Christmas then ignore those "less fortunate" the other 363 days of the year.
I could go on and on.
Yes, I'm 64 years old, and I'm tired. And I'm angry, too, but I do feel better thanks to the good people in my life who teach, bless and uplift me.
One of the readings at church was James 1:17-27. Here is the last sentence:
"Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this: to care for orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself unstained by the world."
In her sermon my priest pointed out that the widows and orphans stand for all those on the margins of society, the poor, the stranger, those in any kind of need.
The gospel reading for today was Mark 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23. The reading ends with this:
Then he [Jesus] called the crowd again and said to them, "Listen to me, all of you, and understand: there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile. For it is from within, from the human heart, that evil intentions come: fornication, theft, murder, adultery, avarice, wickedness, deceit, licentiousness, envy, slander, pride, folly. All these evil things come from within, and they defile a person."
Our priest commented that if it were her list, she would add "silence." A very good point! So here goes...
I'm 64 years old, and I am tired, too.
I'm tired of the ridiculous fantasy of the rugged individual, the self-made man or woman. There is no such thing, unless there happens to be a person who crawled from under a rock on some desert island and never once laid eyes on another human being. And even then, that person did not make the island or the rock; they are both a part of God's creation.
I am tired of morality being used only in terms of sexual behavior, and I am tired of being surrounded by the worship of money and power.
I am 64 years old, an only child. My parents divorced when I was a baby, and my mother worked hard just to get by. I attended public schools; thank God my mother could not afford to send me to some elitist private school where I would be insulated from the real world. I had my first job when I was 14 years old, worked my way through a state college and got a relatively good paying job. I have everything I need and many of the things I want. And I realize I could not have done any of this without having been born with at least above average intelligence and without my community...in all it's forms...family, church, friends, and yes...gasp!!!...the government. I had no control over any of the factors. I learned, thanks to that community, that my success, such that it is carries with it a responsibility to the community.
I'm tired of hearing about how the poor in our society have some sort of sense of entitlement. I'm 64 years old and am tired of hearing folks like me and those who are even better off than I am whine about being oppressed, over taxed and threatened. Most of my working life was spent in a job that required me to delve deeply into the finances of folks from the entire socio-ecnomic spectrum, from the poorest to the most wealthy. In my experience, with a few exceptions, that sense of entitlement grows larger and larger as the balance in the checkbook increases.
I'm 64 years old and am tired of seeing folks on the margins in our society being blamed for all their, and our, problems.
I'm tired of racism and bigotry in all it's forms. I'm tired of people assuming that because I am a 64 year old white male from the south I find their racist, sexist, bigoted jokes and comments funny.
I'm tired of hearing this country was founded on Christian principles, and I have three questions for those who make the claim, But those are for another day.
I'm tired of seeing the Bible used to bludgeon my friends in the LGBT community.
I'm 64 years old, and I am tired of hearing how we should post the Ten Commandments at the courthouse, but not one person suggesting we post the Beatitudes.
I'm 64 years old, and I am tired of seeing willful ignorance glorified and intelligence vilified. And I am tired of hearing, "I respect him because he stands up for what he believes." "He" can believe the world is flat, that the sun orbits the earth or that a woman cannot get pregnant fom being raped if "he" chooses to believe that. But I do not respect his standing up for his beliefs when they have no basis in reality.
I'm tired of hearing table blessings ending with, "and keep us mindful of the needs of others," prayed by people who have no idea about the needs of others because they simply don't care about the others. The holiday season will be here soon, and I am tired of seeing people give a few dollars or food or toys to some charity for those "less fortunate" at Thanksgiving and Christmas then ignore those "less fortunate" the other 363 days of the year.
I could go on and on.
Yes, I'm 64 years old, and I'm tired. And I'm angry, too, but I do feel better thanks to the good people in my life who teach, bless and uplift me.
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