Chalice Lighting
"When I Change" by Ma. Theresa Gustilo Gallardo - Source: UU Congregation of Quezon City, Philippines. [I shortened it a bit]
Leader: We are here to derive meaning in our actions
All: When I change, the world changes
Leader: We are here to win our power back over our areas of powerlessness
All: When I change, the world changes
Leader: We are here to deepen our understanding of ourselves in order to strengthen self-discipline
All: When I change, the world changes
Leader: We are here to abolish prejudice with an appreciation for our diversity and differences
All: When I change, the world changes
Leader: We are here to feel our personal power and our capacity to affect the lives of other people
All: When I change, the world changes
Leader: We are here to become teachers to each other
All: When I change, the world changes
*Meditative Hymn - "Find a Stillness" #352
Story for all ages
Adapted and excerpted from “The Case For Reparations” by Ta-Nehisi coates – from the atlantic magazine June 2014 [words in brackets are my adapted additions]
Clyde Ross was born in 1923, the seventh of 13 children, near Clarksdale, Mississippi, the home of the blues. Ross’s parents owned and farmed a 40-acre tract of land, flush with cows, hogs, and mules. [The family owned a horse and buggy, and they had another horse with a red coat, which they gave to Clyde. Clyde took good care of the horse with the red coat.]
In the 1920s, Jim Crow Mississippi [African Americans were still not free to vote or to own land in the same way that whites were. They were kept from the polls by poll taxes, intimidation and violence. They were robbed of their land by accumulated debt, high taxes and unfair compensation for their crops.]
When Clyde Ross was still a child, Mississippi authorities claimed his father owed $3,000 in back taxes. The elder Ross could not read. He did not have a lawyer. He did not know anyone at the local courthouse. He could not expect the police to be impartial. Effectively, the Ross family had no way to contest the claim and no protection under the law. The authorities seized the land. They seized the buggy. They took the cows, hogs, and mules. The entire Ross family was reduced to sharecropping.
[Even though…]
Clyde Ross was a smart child [and] His teacher thought he should attend a more challenging school, [he couldn’t get there because there wasn’t a bus for black children, so] Clyde lost the chance to better his education. [When Clyde was 10, a group of white men demanded his only childhood possession – the horse with the red coat. They took him and they didn’t bring him back. This was another one of Clyde’s many losses.]
Clyde Ross grew. He was drafted into the Army. He fought in World War II to save the world from tyranny. But when he returned to Clarksdale, he found that tyranny had followed him home. This was 1947, eight years before Mississippi lynched Emmett Till and tossed his broken body into the Tallahatchie River. The Great Migration, a mass exodus of 6 million African Americans that spanned most of the 20th century, was now in its second wave.
Clyde came to Chicago in 1947 and took a job as a taster at Campbell’s Soup. He made a stable wage. He married. He had children. His paycheck was his own. [He and his wife wanted a home, just as others did.]
In 1961, Ross and his wife bought a house in North Lawndale, a bustling community on Chicago’s West Side.
Three months after Clyde Ross moved into his house, the boiler blew out. This would normally be a homeowner’s responsibility, but in fact, Ross was not really a homeowner. His payments were made to the seller, not the bank. And Ross had not signed a normal mortgage. He’d bought “on contract”: a predatory agreement that combined all the responsibilities of homeownership with all the disadvantages of renting—while offering the benefits of neither. Ross had bought his house for $27,500. The seller had bought it for only $12,000 six months before selling it to Ross. In a contract sale, the seller kept the deed until the contract was paid in full—and, unlike with a normal mortgage, Ross would acquire no equity in the meantime. If he missed a single payment, he would immediately forfeit his $1,000 down payment, all his monthly payments, and the property itself.
Ross had tried to get a legitimate mortgage in another neighborhood, but was told by a loan officer that there was no financing available. The truth was that there was no financing for people like Clyde Ross. From the 1930s through the 1960s, black people across the country were largely cut out of the legitimate home-mortgage market through means both legal and extralegal. Chicago whites employed every measure, from “restrictive covenants” to bombings, to keep their neighborhoods segregated.
Their efforts were buttressed by the federal government. In 1934, Congress created the Federal Housing Administration. The FHA insured private mortgages, causing a drop in interest rates and a decline in the size of the down payment required to buy a house. But an insured mortgage was not a possibility for Clyde Ross. The FHA had adopted a system of maps that rated neighborhoods according to their perceived stability. On the maps, green areas, rated “A,” indicated “in demand” neighborhoods that, as one appraiser put it, lacked “a single foreigner or Negro.” These neighborhoods were considered excellent prospects for insurance. Neighborhoods where black people lived were rated “D” and were usually considered ineligible for FHA backing. They were colored in red. Neither the percentage of black people living there nor their social class mattered. Black people were viewed as a contagion.
In Chicago and across the country, whites looking to achieve the American dream could rely on a legitimate credit system backed by the government. Blacks were herded into the sights of unscrupulous lenders who took them for money and for sport. Contract sellers became rich. North Lawndale became a ghetto.
This story illustrates how power can be misused. The privilege of buying a home outright, where you wanted to, with a small down payment at a low interest rate was something only white people could do in this country for a large portion of the last century. In escaping the violent racism of the south, African Americans came north seeking safety, freedom, and opportunity. What they found was a different set of roadblocks, harder to see and therefore, more difficult to avoid.
This is a painful story to hear and to think about. That is why it is important to tell. Like a fish unaware of the water it swims in, white privilege can be undetectable to those of us who live within its advantages. Without recognizing our privileges we might wonder why the fish outside the life-sustaining water held within the glass bowl are flailing about.
Readings
Sharon D. Welch “Sweet Dreams in America: Making Ethics and Spirituality Work”
“One approach often taken with groups and people seen as oppressive seems to me counterproductive. Leftists often call on people in power to give up their power, to renounce privilege, and to give power to those who have been marginalized. The focus of education, of diversity training, is on guilt: making the oppressors realize their behaviors, feel guilty because of it, and then stop doing it. Typical activities include ones in which people are tricked into exposing their complicity in oppression – e.g. whites are being asked to identify things they like about being white, and then being told that what they have identified is white privilege – resulting in them feeling ashamed, exposed as oppressors who enjoy the benefits of racial oppression.
I think another approach is more conducive of social change. Rather than being asked to feel guilty and then to give up power, privileged people, “oppressors,” are challenged to use their privilege, and thereby put it at risk, in the interest of justice…
The goal for all people within multicultural education, for “oppressor” and “oppressed,” is empowerment and accountability. Just as the oppressed are empowered to resist injustice and create just structures, so oppressors are challenged to use their power for justice. …The challenge is not one of sacrifice – sacrificing power, access, and group identity – but rather of constituting another form of group and self-identity, using power to facilitate diversity and ongoing self-critique rather than to maintain control.”
Martin Luther King Jr. From the Sermon “Where Do We Go From Here?”
“Power properly understood is nothing but the ability to achieve purpose. It is the strength required to bring about social, political and economic change. ... Now a lot of us are preachers, and all of us have our moral convictions and concerns, and so often have problems with power. There is nothing wrong with power if power is used correctly.
What is needed is a realization that power without love is reckless and abusive, and love without power is sentimental and anemic. Power at its best is love implementing the demands of justice, and justice at its best is power correcting everything that stands against love.”
Message
Power, used as a tool and transformed by love, creates justice. Power as an objective without the motive of love equals injustice. I have always had an uneasy relationship with power – namely my own and how to use it, as well as the way power has been used against me. That is to say, I have often felt powerless. In my growing understanding and dedication to justice work, I have come to understand that power, like any tool, can be used to create or destroy. It can be ruthlessly and without regard for freedom, liberation, or human dignity, be amassed and used to oppress. But it is also true that the only way to create true justice and build a world where all people are free is by using power with love in response to the aggressive use of power to dominate.
I grew up believing I had very little, if any, power. I am the youngest of five children with four older brothers. My father did not demonstrate a belief in the equal value of women, to put it mildly. I understood that my position in the family, which was one level above the dog, who also happened to be female, was determined by my gender. This message was communicated in a thousand ways – spoken and unspoken. I embodied a belief that I mattered very little. Which is why our first principle, affirming the worth and dignity of every human being, has been transformative and empowering for me. But how do we affirm the worth and dignity of every person? Is it possible to affirm that all lives matter, which is essentially what our first principle says, when the society and systems we live within do not value all lives equally? How do we use our power, with love, to mutually empower everyone?
One of the exercises we do at my church in our membership orientation class is called Four Corners. In it, we ask questions designed to elicit reflection on what we believe, such as, “Do you believe in God,” and “What happens after we die?” It's a way of demonstrating how we hold various beliefs as individuals and yet remain in covenantal community and move toward a common purpose. This activity always inspires rich and meaningful conversation. One of the questions we ask in the four corners game is, “Is life determined most by fate or free will?” Participants in the class are to place themselves on a continuum between these extremes. I dislike this question because I struggle each time we ask it, with where to put myself. On the one hand, I do not believe in fate, at least not in the sense that there is a predetermined plan or script, which we act out like puppets. On the other hand, I don’t think we, as individual beings, call all the shots. I do believe in a higher, guiding force of some kind. I also understand why one of the members who participated in the class, a white male, put himself on the extreme end of the fate side of the continuum. He recognized the fact that he was born into a life situation of privilege not based on anything he did to earn that position.
I wrestle with this question of fate and free will because central to my theology is the belief that life has meaning. I have to believe that life is not a random set of events devoid of purpose. We are here for a reason. I choose to believe that because it gives me comfort and helps me get out of bed in the morning. I also recognize that we do have free will. But our free will is not free standing. Our agency is interlocking with all the other beings of agency in the universe. We are caught – for better or worse - in an infinite and intricate interdependent web of existence. We do make our own choices, but our individual agency affects the agency of the billions of other beings all around us.
This is why it matters so deeply that we recognize our own power and privilege and that we are mindful about how we use them; because each being matters and because all of us valuable beings are dependent on one another for our humanity. We must use our Power with love to create justice.
I have long felt that things in my life work out for the best. I have faith that I will be guided toward the next right thing, the next opportunity, the next door to walk through. I believe this because it has always been true for me…sooner or later. Not that my life has been without difficulty or struggle but things do seem to work out for me. Beneath that knowing, however, lurks the suspicion that not everyone shares the same assurance that things will work out. I don’t like letting go of the comforting thought that I am led, carried, guided in my life. I hate the idea of replacing that comforting thought with the painfully disquieting truth that I have some of those opportunities, find many of those doors open because I am white. Peggy McIntosh, in an article titled, White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Backpack, shines a light on the “unearned power” that comes with whiteness. She states that, “Power from unearned privilege can look like strength when it is in fact permission to escape or to dominate.” She suggests we begin our examination of privilege, “by distinguishing between positive advantages which we can work to spread, and negative types of advantages which unless rejected will always reinforce our present hierarchies.” Everyone deserves to feel safe. Everyone deserves to experience opportunities to thrive. Our responsibility when we have those opportunities is to expand them beyond ourselves.
This spring, members of my congregation’s Peace & Justice team proposed that we place a large sign on our lawn that says Black Lives Matter. The proposal was made in response to a request from our larger movement that our congregations make this statement in some public way – to affirm that we stand in solidarity with those struggling for the same freedoms, the same rights, the same dignity that many take for granted. When I first heard the statement Black Lives Matter, which started as a social media, social justice movement after the murder of Trayvon Martin, I had the same question that many have expressed, “Don’t all lives matter?” I then heard a response to this question, which provided clarity. To say All Lives Matter instead of Black Lives Matter is another way of erasing black lives, of silencing the resistance to the status quo. Saying “black lives matter” does not negate that all lives matter. Of course, All Lives Matter. This truth should go without saying. However, men and women of color in our country are often treated as if their lives matter less than white lives. Kenny Wiley in an article in the spring UU World magazine[i] explains that our 1st principle calls us to claim that Black Lives Matter and to acknowledge that we live and participate in a society that does not value all lives equally. Our 7th principle reminds us that devaluing one life devalues all lives. As a white woman, I have the privilege of ignoring the impact of racism all around me. The system is designed to help me ignore it. It is set up so that my experience as a white person is normative, viewed as normal, and therefore the standard I expect all people to experience. The ugly truth that my whiteness allows me to ignore, if I choose to, is that centuries of slavery have been followed by years of Jim Crow Laws, discriminatory voting laws and housing practices, which have been compounded by a criminal justice system that disproportionately beats, arrests, imprisons, sentences and murders black lives more than white lives. What this reality demonstrates is that we need to say loud and clear that Black Lives Matter until our actions make it clear that they do, until our society honors that truth. Black lives matter just as much as all lives – Latino, Latina, Gay, Transgender, and Differently Abled. All of these lives do matter. Saying Black Lives Matter does not deny that. It names what must be named.
Some of our members were fearful that the vote to install the Black Lives Matter sign on our church property would be contentious and divisive. Some were nervous that something hurtful would be said out of ignorance or fear. However, when the pro and con microphones were opened, the only voices at the con mic were notes of consideration, and thoughtful contemplation. One person said if anyone left the church over this, we ought to consider raising our pledge to cover the shortfall. Then, several people, including a fourteen year old and an 87-year old, spoke with passion about the reasons we needed to put the sign up. When the vote was taken, every bright green card in the room went up in approval of the statement. Never, in the history of our church, has anything been voted on unanimously. At least not in anyone’s memory.
We are proud of our sign and we’ve received the gratitude of many in our community for having it up. We have sold hundreds of yard signs saying Black Lives Matter for members and friends of the church to take home and put on their lawns. At my house, a neighbor that I wouldn’t have expected to, asked me where I got my sign because she wanted one. I tell this story not because I want to give us a pat on the back and move on to the next issue. I recognize that putting up this sign, regardless of how big and how prominently placed it is, is only a gesture. It is a meaningful gesture; one we thought through and talked with African American members of our community about to be sure that this would be a sign of solidarity. But it is only a gesture unless it is followed by deep reflection and significant action toward living those words.
The very phrase white privilege can raise defensiveness and attempts to alleviate guilt. However, guilt is not helpful in this conversation. It may be an appropriate and understandable feeling in response to learning more about the atrocities committed throughout our history as a nation which continue in subtler, yet no less destructive ways, but it is not helpful. Guilt is paralyzing. It can also be a cop-out, as if feeling guilty and ashamed for being white absolves white people of the responsibility for dismantling racism. Being mired in guilt about having white privilege, refusing to examine and use that privilege, is like throwing away your dinner because the one sitting next to you is hungry.
It is not always clear how I, as a white person, can use my privilege to dismantle racism but I am convinced that it is my responsibility to learn and to act. I need to show up, listen, read, and most importantly not look away. Until I know what to do with my privilege, I must not look away. I must not pretend that I don’t have it and I must resist the attempt to excuse or alleviate the discomfort I feel about it. I must think about how each thing that I do, each moment of my life, each decision comes with the benefits of whiteness. I have the privilege of raising children without fearing for their lives at the hands of those meant to protect them. I have the privilege of knowing I will not be seen suspiciously by people in power because of the color of my skin. I have the privilege of shopping at a store without being followed around to make sure I’m not stealing anything. I have the privilege of buying a home without having certain properties withheld from me because of my race. I have the privilege of applying for a loan knowing that I will not be turned down because of my race. I have the privilege of making mistakes without it being a reflection on the character of my entire race. My first step is to not turn away from these realities, to not make excuses or apologize or pretend it isn’t real, to remember it.
Race is a completely manufactured idea, a human-made construct, not based in genetics. An eye-opening documentary by California NewsReel called, “Race: The Power of An Illusion,” debunks the myth that race is biological. It was an idea created to separate people based on physical characteristics and to assign them different values. The essential premise of race is that white is the norm and everything else is sub-normal. Even though race has no genetic or biological foundation, the impacts of race are real and undeniable. We can claim that we don’t see color but that is also a privilege of whiteness. People of Color, those who have been categorized and marginalized as non-white for centuries, do not have the luxury of being colorblind.
I have white privilege, which I can’t set aside. I have it without earning it. I cannot change the fact that some people will subconsciously see me with less suspicion or fear than they do a black male. But I can use my privilege. First I have to recognize it. And then, I must show up, listen and learn how to use it. I must listen not so that I can find a way to let myself off the hook, to alleviate my guilt or pat myself on the back but to know how I might really live into my values and help create a more just world. I can listen for how I can mutually empower, collectively liberate, and be accountable for my whiteness. If the mission of our movement is to build a more just world, it means showing up, listening when we need to and speaking up when we must. It means building alliances and asking those who are deeply affected by racism how we can work together, how we can use privilege, to bring power and love together to create justice. It means being willing to see where privilege hides systems of injustice, and then to speak and act against those systems.
Bryan Stevenson, founder-director of Equal Justice Initiative, which provides fair and just treatment in the legal system to those who would otherwise be denied this basic right, in his talk at Harvard shares “four elements of creating greater justice.” First, he suggests getting closer to the problem. Get to know people who are poor, marginalized, disenfranchised. He says, “Get close to the people you care about helping. Proximity is essential because it will change you.” Find organizations that work in solidarity WITH the people they are serving and show up to actions that build relationships and change systems. Second, says Stevenson, we must “change the narrative” on race, which “is currently driven by the politics of fear and anger.” We have to share the stories of where racism lives. Third, we must “protect our hope.” Giving into despair is a forfeiture of your power. Creating a better, more just world, requires maintaining a hopeful vision of it. And finally, “get comfortable with being uncomfortable.” Instead of turning away from an understanding of how power and privilege operate in our society, lean into the uncomfortable truth, have difficult conversations, listen when someone is angry about injustice, and take the risk of using your privilege to speak out against racist policies and institutions.
The story I read this morning was about Clyde Ross who moved from Mississippi to Chicago to escape the extreme racism of the south, only to find a subtler but no less damaging form of it in government engineered housing discrimination. These stories need to be shared. We must hear them.
In his article, The Case for Reparations, Ta-Nehisi Coates reports that, “for the past 25 years, Congressman John Conyers Jr…. has marked every session of Congress by introducing a bill calling for a congressional study of slavery and its lingering effects as well as recommendations for ‘appropriate remedies.’” The bill, HR 40, proposing the STUDY of how we might repair the damage of slavery and subsequent racial discrimination has never made it to the floor. I believe it is because we are afraid. We are afraid to really look at the damage we have done over centuries and continue to do to a group of people based entirely on the color of their skin. We don’t want to look at it because it is ugly. We don’t want to study it because we’re afraid it means we might have to give up some of our own power and privilege. We don’t want to think about it because we’re afraid that we could never, ever, come close to repairing the damage. This is probably true. However, we must not look away. We must continue to hear and share the stories. We must continue to learn how power and privilege have accumulated and been concentrated over years to benefit one group of people while diminishing the humanity of all. We can only begin to heal when we remember that we are all one. “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”[ii] Let us remember that power plus love equals justice. Let us remember to use whatever power we have, with love, to create the just world we all deserve.
*Hymn "Wake Now My Sense" #298
closing words/extinguish chalice - words by Sarah Lammert
Go in peace, embraced by the light and warmth of our gathering.
Go in love, ready again to struggle on.
Go in beauty, shining forth like a lamp for freedom.
Amen!
[i] Kenny Wiley, “A Unitarian Universalist ‘Black Lives Matter’ Theology,” UU World Magazine, March 26, 2015.
[ii] Martin Luther King, Jr.
"When I Change" by Ma. Theresa Gustilo Gallardo - Source: UU Congregation of Quezon City, Philippines. [I shortened it a bit]
Leader: We are here to derive meaning in our actions
All: When I change, the world changes
Leader: We are here to win our power back over our areas of powerlessness
All: When I change, the world changes
Leader: We are here to deepen our understanding of ourselves in order to strengthen self-discipline
All: When I change, the world changes
Leader: We are here to abolish prejudice with an appreciation for our diversity and differences
All: When I change, the world changes
Leader: We are here to feel our personal power and our capacity to affect the lives of other people
All: When I change, the world changes
Leader: We are here to become teachers to each other
All: When I change, the world changes
*Meditative Hymn - "Find a Stillness" #352
Story for all ages
Adapted and excerpted from “The Case For Reparations” by Ta-Nehisi coates – from the atlantic magazine June 2014 [words in brackets are my adapted additions]
Clyde Ross was born in 1923, the seventh of 13 children, near Clarksdale, Mississippi, the home of the blues. Ross’s parents owned and farmed a 40-acre tract of land, flush with cows, hogs, and mules. [The family owned a horse and buggy, and they had another horse with a red coat, which they gave to Clyde. Clyde took good care of the horse with the red coat.]
In the 1920s, Jim Crow Mississippi [African Americans were still not free to vote or to own land in the same way that whites were. They were kept from the polls by poll taxes, intimidation and violence. They were robbed of their land by accumulated debt, high taxes and unfair compensation for their crops.]
When Clyde Ross was still a child, Mississippi authorities claimed his father owed $3,000 in back taxes. The elder Ross could not read. He did not have a lawyer. He did not know anyone at the local courthouse. He could not expect the police to be impartial. Effectively, the Ross family had no way to contest the claim and no protection under the law. The authorities seized the land. They seized the buggy. They took the cows, hogs, and mules. The entire Ross family was reduced to sharecropping.
[Even though…]
Clyde Ross was a smart child [and] His teacher thought he should attend a more challenging school, [he couldn’t get there because there wasn’t a bus for black children, so] Clyde lost the chance to better his education. [When Clyde was 10, a group of white men demanded his only childhood possession – the horse with the red coat. They took him and they didn’t bring him back. This was another one of Clyde’s many losses.]
Clyde Ross grew. He was drafted into the Army. He fought in World War II to save the world from tyranny. But when he returned to Clarksdale, he found that tyranny had followed him home. This was 1947, eight years before Mississippi lynched Emmett Till and tossed his broken body into the Tallahatchie River. The Great Migration, a mass exodus of 6 million African Americans that spanned most of the 20th century, was now in its second wave.
Clyde came to Chicago in 1947 and took a job as a taster at Campbell’s Soup. He made a stable wage. He married. He had children. His paycheck was his own. [He and his wife wanted a home, just as others did.]
In 1961, Ross and his wife bought a house in North Lawndale, a bustling community on Chicago’s West Side.
Three months after Clyde Ross moved into his house, the boiler blew out. This would normally be a homeowner’s responsibility, but in fact, Ross was not really a homeowner. His payments were made to the seller, not the bank. And Ross had not signed a normal mortgage. He’d bought “on contract”: a predatory agreement that combined all the responsibilities of homeownership with all the disadvantages of renting—while offering the benefits of neither. Ross had bought his house for $27,500. The seller had bought it for only $12,000 six months before selling it to Ross. In a contract sale, the seller kept the deed until the contract was paid in full—and, unlike with a normal mortgage, Ross would acquire no equity in the meantime. If he missed a single payment, he would immediately forfeit his $1,000 down payment, all his monthly payments, and the property itself.
Ross had tried to get a legitimate mortgage in another neighborhood, but was told by a loan officer that there was no financing available. The truth was that there was no financing for people like Clyde Ross. From the 1930s through the 1960s, black people across the country were largely cut out of the legitimate home-mortgage market through means both legal and extralegal. Chicago whites employed every measure, from “restrictive covenants” to bombings, to keep their neighborhoods segregated.
Their efforts were buttressed by the federal government. In 1934, Congress created the Federal Housing Administration. The FHA insured private mortgages, causing a drop in interest rates and a decline in the size of the down payment required to buy a house. But an insured mortgage was not a possibility for Clyde Ross. The FHA had adopted a system of maps that rated neighborhoods according to their perceived stability. On the maps, green areas, rated “A,” indicated “in demand” neighborhoods that, as one appraiser put it, lacked “a single foreigner or Negro.” These neighborhoods were considered excellent prospects for insurance. Neighborhoods where black people lived were rated “D” and were usually considered ineligible for FHA backing. They were colored in red. Neither the percentage of black people living there nor their social class mattered. Black people were viewed as a contagion.
In Chicago and across the country, whites looking to achieve the American dream could rely on a legitimate credit system backed by the government. Blacks were herded into the sights of unscrupulous lenders who took them for money and for sport. Contract sellers became rich. North Lawndale became a ghetto.
This story illustrates how power can be misused. The privilege of buying a home outright, where you wanted to, with a small down payment at a low interest rate was something only white people could do in this country for a large portion of the last century. In escaping the violent racism of the south, African Americans came north seeking safety, freedom, and opportunity. What they found was a different set of roadblocks, harder to see and therefore, more difficult to avoid.
This is a painful story to hear and to think about. That is why it is important to tell. Like a fish unaware of the water it swims in, white privilege can be undetectable to those of us who live within its advantages. Without recognizing our privileges we might wonder why the fish outside the life-sustaining water held within the glass bowl are flailing about.
Readings
Sharon D. Welch “Sweet Dreams in America: Making Ethics and Spirituality Work”
“One approach often taken with groups and people seen as oppressive seems to me counterproductive. Leftists often call on people in power to give up their power, to renounce privilege, and to give power to those who have been marginalized. The focus of education, of diversity training, is on guilt: making the oppressors realize their behaviors, feel guilty because of it, and then stop doing it. Typical activities include ones in which people are tricked into exposing their complicity in oppression – e.g. whites are being asked to identify things they like about being white, and then being told that what they have identified is white privilege – resulting in them feeling ashamed, exposed as oppressors who enjoy the benefits of racial oppression.
I think another approach is more conducive of social change. Rather than being asked to feel guilty and then to give up power, privileged people, “oppressors,” are challenged to use their privilege, and thereby put it at risk, in the interest of justice…
The goal for all people within multicultural education, for “oppressor” and “oppressed,” is empowerment and accountability. Just as the oppressed are empowered to resist injustice and create just structures, so oppressors are challenged to use their power for justice. …The challenge is not one of sacrifice – sacrificing power, access, and group identity – but rather of constituting another form of group and self-identity, using power to facilitate diversity and ongoing self-critique rather than to maintain control.”
Martin Luther King Jr. From the Sermon “Where Do We Go From Here?”
“Power properly understood is nothing but the ability to achieve purpose. It is the strength required to bring about social, political and economic change. ... Now a lot of us are preachers, and all of us have our moral convictions and concerns, and so often have problems with power. There is nothing wrong with power if power is used correctly.
What is needed is a realization that power without love is reckless and abusive, and love without power is sentimental and anemic. Power at its best is love implementing the demands of justice, and justice at its best is power correcting everything that stands against love.”
Message
Power, used as a tool and transformed by love, creates justice. Power as an objective without the motive of love equals injustice. I have always had an uneasy relationship with power – namely my own and how to use it, as well as the way power has been used against me. That is to say, I have often felt powerless. In my growing understanding and dedication to justice work, I have come to understand that power, like any tool, can be used to create or destroy. It can be ruthlessly and without regard for freedom, liberation, or human dignity, be amassed and used to oppress. But it is also true that the only way to create true justice and build a world where all people are free is by using power with love in response to the aggressive use of power to dominate.
I grew up believing I had very little, if any, power. I am the youngest of five children with four older brothers. My father did not demonstrate a belief in the equal value of women, to put it mildly. I understood that my position in the family, which was one level above the dog, who also happened to be female, was determined by my gender. This message was communicated in a thousand ways – spoken and unspoken. I embodied a belief that I mattered very little. Which is why our first principle, affirming the worth and dignity of every human being, has been transformative and empowering for me. But how do we affirm the worth and dignity of every person? Is it possible to affirm that all lives matter, which is essentially what our first principle says, when the society and systems we live within do not value all lives equally? How do we use our power, with love, to mutually empower everyone?
One of the exercises we do at my church in our membership orientation class is called Four Corners. In it, we ask questions designed to elicit reflection on what we believe, such as, “Do you believe in God,” and “What happens after we die?” It's a way of demonstrating how we hold various beliefs as individuals and yet remain in covenantal community and move toward a common purpose. This activity always inspires rich and meaningful conversation. One of the questions we ask in the four corners game is, “Is life determined most by fate or free will?” Participants in the class are to place themselves on a continuum between these extremes. I dislike this question because I struggle each time we ask it, with where to put myself. On the one hand, I do not believe in fate, at least not in the sense that there is a predetermined plan or script, which we act out like puppets. On the other hand, I don’t think we, as individual beings, call all the shots. I do believe in a higher, guiding force of some kind. I also understand why one of the members who participated in the class, a white male, put himself on the extreme end of the fate side of the continuum. He recognized the fact that he was born into a life situation of privilege not based on anything he did to earn that position.
I wrestle with this question of fate and free will because central to my theology is the belief that life has meaning. I have to believe that life is not a random set of events devoid of purpose. We are here for a reason. I choose to believe that because it gives me comfort and helps me get out of bed in the morning. I also recognize that we do have free will. But our free will is not free standing. Our agency is interlocking with all the other beings of agency in the universe. We are caught – for better or worse - in an infinite and intricate interdependent web of existence. We do make our own choices, but our individual agency affects the agency of the billions of other beings all around us.
This is why it matters so deeply that we recognize our own power and privilege and that we are mindful about how we use them; because each being matters and because all of us valuable beings are dependent on one another for our humanity. We must use our Power with love to create justice.
I have long felt that things in my life work out for the best. I have faith that I will be guided toward the next right thing, the next opportunity, the next door to walk through. I believe this because it has always been true for me…sooner or later. Not that my life has been without difficulty or struggle but things do seem to work out for me. Beneath that knowing, however, lurks the suspicion that not everyone shares the same assurance that things will work out. I don’t like letting go of the comforting thought that I am led, carried, guided in my life. I hate the idea of replacing that comforting thought with the painfully disquieting truth that I have some of those opportunities, find many of those doors open because I am white. Peggy McIntosh, in an article titled, White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Backpack, shines a light on the “unearned power” that comes with whiteness. She states that, “Power from unearned privilege can look like strength when it is in fact permission to escape or to dominate.” She suggests we begin our examination of privilege, “by distinguishing between positive advantages which we can work to spread, and negative types of advantages which unless rejected will always reinforce our present hierarchies.” Everyone deserves to feel safe. Everyone deserves to experience opportunities to thrive. Our responsibility when we have those opportunities is to expand them beyond ourselves.
This spring, members of my congregation’s Peace & Justice team proposed that we place a large sign on our lawn that says Black Lives Matter. The proposal was made in response to a request from our larger movement that our congregations make this statement in some public way – to affirm that we stand in solidarity with those struggling for the same freedoms, the same rights, the same dignity that many take for granted. When I first heard the statement Black Lives Matter, which started as a social media, social justice movement after the murder of Trayvon Martin, I had the same question that many have expressed, “Don’t all lives matter?” I then heard a response to this question, which provided clarity. To say All Lives Matter instead of Black Lives Matter is another way of erasing black lives, of silencing the resistance to the status quo. Saying “black lives matter” does not negate that all lives matter. Of course, All Lives Matter. This truth should go without saying. However, men and women of color in our country are often treated as if their lives matter less than white lives. Kenny Wiley in an article in the spring UU World magazine[i] explains that our 1st principle calls us to claim that Black Lives Matter and to acknowledge that we live and participate in a society that does not value all lives equally. Our 7th principle reminds us that devaluing one life devalues all lives. As a white woman, I have the privilege of ignoring the impact of racism all around me. The system is designed to help me ignore it. It is set up so that my experience as a white person is normative, viewed as normal, and therefore the standard I expect all people to experience. The ugly truth that my whiteness allows me to ignore, if I choose to, is that centuries of slavery have been followed by years of Jim Crow Laws, discriminatory voting laws and housing practices, which have been compounded by a criminal justice system that disproportionately beats, arrests, imprisons, sentences and murders black lives more than white lives. What this reality demonstrates is that we need to say loud and clear that Black Lives Matter until our actions make it clear that they do, until our society honors that truth. Black lives matter just as much as all lives – Latino, Latina, Gay, Transgender, and Differently Abled. All of these lives do matter. Saying Black Lives Matter does not deny that. It names what must be named.
Some of our members were fearful that the vote to install the Black Lives Matter sign on our church property would be contentious and divisive. Some were nervous that something hurtful would be said out of ignorance or fear. However, when the pro and con microphones were opened, the only voices at the con mic were notes of consideration, and thoughtful contemplation. One person said if anyone left the church over this, we ought to consider raising our pledge to cover the shortfall. Then, several people, including a fourteen year old and an 87-year old, spoke with passion about the reasons we needed to put the sign up. When the vote was taken, every bright green card in the room went up in approval of the statement. Never, in the history of our church, has anything been voted on unanimously. At least not in anyone’s memory.
We are proud of our sign and we’ve received the gratitude of many in our community for having it up. We have sold hundreds of yard signs saying Black Lives Matter for members and friends of the church to take home and put on their lawns. At my house, a neighbor that I wouldn’t have expected to, asked me where I got my sign because she wanted one. I tell this story not because I want to give us a pat on the back and move on to the next issue. I recognize that putting up this sign, regardless of how big and how prominently placed it is, is only a gesture. It is a meaningful gesture; one we thought through and talked with African American members of our community about to be sure that this would be a sign of solidarity. But it is only a gesture unless it is followed by deep reflection and significant action toward living those words.
The very phrase white privilege can raise defensiveness and attempts to alleviate guilt. However, guilt is not helpful in this conversation. It may be an appropriate and understandable feeling in response to learning more about the atrocities committed throughout our history as a nation which continue in subtler, yet no less destructive ways, but it is not helpful. Guilt is paralyzing. It can also be a cop-out, as if feeling guilty and ashamed for being white absolves white people of the responsibility for dismantling racism. Being mired in guilt about having white privilege, refusing to examine and use that privilege, is like throwing away your dinner because the one sitting next to you is hungry.
It is not always clear how I, as a white person, can use my privilege to dismantle racism but I am convinced that it is my responsibility to learn and to act. I need to show up, listen, read, and most importantly not look away. Until I know what to do with my privilege, I must not look away. I must not pretend that I don’t have it and I must resist the attempt to excuse or alleviate the discomfort I feel about it. I must think about how each thing that I do, each moment of my life, each decision comes with the benefits of whiteness. I have the privilege of raising children without fearing for their lives at the hands of those meant to protect them. I have the privilege of knowing I will not be seen suspiciously by people in power because of the color of my skin. I have the privilege of shopping at a store without being followed around to make sure I’m not stealing anything. I have the privilege of buying a home without having certain properties withheld from me because of my race. I have the privilege of applying for a loan knowing that I will not be turned down because of my race. I have the privilege of making mistakes without it being a reflection on the character of my entire race. My first step is to not turn away from these realities, to not make excuses or apologize or pretend it isn’t real, to remember it.
Race is a completely manufactured idea, a human-made construct, not based in genetics. An eye-opening documentary by California NewsReel called, “Race: The Power of An Illusion,” debunks the myth that race is biological. It was an idea created to separate people based on physical characteristics and to assign them different values. The essential premise of race is that white is the norm and everything else is sub-normal. Even though race has no genetic or biological foundation, the impacts of race are real and undeniable. We can claim that we don’t see color but that is also a privilege of whiteness. People of Color, those who have been categorized and marginalized as non-white for centuries, do not have the luxury of being colorblind.
I have white privilege, which I can’t set aside. I have it without earning it. I cannot change the fact that some people will subconsciously see me with less suspicion or fear than they do a black male. But I can use my privilege. First I have to recognize it. And then, I must show up, listen and learn how to use it. I must listen not so that I can find a way to let myself off the hook, to alleviate my guilt or pat myself on the back but to know how I might really live into my values and help create a more just world. I can listen for how I can mutually empower, collectively liberate, and be accountable for my whiteness. If the mission of our movement is to build a more just world, it means showing up, listening when we need to and speaking up when we must. It means building alliances and asking those who are deeply affected by racism how we can work together, how we can use privilege, to bring power and love together to create justice. It means being willing to see where privilege hides systems of injustice, and then to speak and act against those systems.
Bryan Stevenson, founder-director of Equal Justice Initiative, which provides fair and just treatment in the legal system to those who would otherwise be denied this basic right, in his talk at Harvard shares “four elements of creating greater justice.” First, he suggests getting closer to the problem. Get to know people who are poor, marginalized, disenfranchised. He says, “Get close to the people you care about helping. Proximity is essential because it will change you.” Find organizations that work in solidarity WITH the people they are serving and show up to actions that build relationships and change systems. Second, says Stevenson, we must “change the narrative” on race, which “is currently driven by the politics of fear and anger.” We have to share the stories of where racism lives. Third, we must “protect our hope.” Giving into despair is a forfeiture of your power. Creating a better, more just world, requires maintaining a hopeful vision of it. And finally, “get comfortable with being uncomfortable.” Instead of turning away from an understanding of how power and privilege operate in our society, lean into the uncomfortable truth, have difficult conversations, listen when someone is angry about injustice, and take the risk of using your privilege to speak out against racist policies and institutions.
The story I read this morning was about Clyde Ross who moved from Mississippi to Chicago to escape the extreme racism of the south, only to find a subtler but no less damaging form of it in government engineered housing discrimination. These stories need to be shared. We must hear them.
In his article, The Case for Reparations, Ta-Nehisi Coates reports that, “for the past 25 years, Congressman John Conyers Jr…. has marked every session of Congress by introducing a bill calling for a congressional study of slavery and its lingering effects as well as recommendations for ‘appropriate remedies.’” The bill, HR 40, proposing the STUDY of how we might repair the damage of slavery and subsequent racial discrimination has never made it to the floor. I believe it is because we are afraid. We are afraid to really look at the damage we have done over centuries and continue to do to a group of people based entirely on the color of their skin. We don’t want to look at it because it is ugly. We don’t want to study it because we’re afraid it means we might have to give up some of our own power and privilege. We don’t want to think about it because we’re afraid that we could never, ever, come close to repairing the damage. This is probably true. However, we must not look away. We must continue to hear and share the stories. We must continue to learn how power and privilege have accumulated and been concentrated over years to benefit one group of people while diminishing the humanity of all. We can only begin to heal when we remember that we are all one. “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”[ii] Let us remember that power plus love equals justice. Let us remember to use whatever power we have, with love, to create the just world we all deserve.
*Hymn "Wake Now My Sense" #298
closing words/extinguish chalice - words by Sarah Lammert
Go in peace, embraced by the light and warmth of our gathering.
Go in love, ready again to struggle on.
Go in beauty, shining forth like a lamp for freedom.
Amen!
[i] Kenny Wiley, “A Unitarian Universalist ‘Black Lives Matter’ Theology,” UU World Magazine, March 26, 2015.
[ii] Martin Luther King, Jr.