On October 10, we started our fall series of gatherings called “Racial Reconciliation: Becoming a Faithful Witness,” as an opportunity for us to come together as a church family to grieve the wounds inflicted by racism, to hear one another’s stories, and to seek God for justice and healing.
The first gathering, “A Time to Lament,” included songs, prayers, readings, and a homily. Together we lamented the reality and sin of racism in our country, grieved the role the American church has played in perpetuating racism, and mourned the suffering of our neighbors. The complete content of that event is included here.
Gathering One: A Time to Lament
Opening Prayer
excerpt from Prophetic Lament: A Call for Justice in Troubled Times by Soong-Chan Rah
True reconciliation, justice, and shalom require a remembering of suffering, an unearthing of a shameful history and a willingness to enter into lament. Lament calls for an authentic encounter with the truth and challenges privilege, because privilege would hide the truth that creates discomfort.
As with any other spiritual discipline, lament is not something we do once and cross off the list. Lament is a posture that we return to again and again as we seek to love God and others. Our prayer is that tonight can help guide us in thinking about what it means to lament the evils of racism as part of our formation.
In your wisdom and mercy, O Lord, you have decreed that it is not good for us to grieve alone. We who are called by your name are to suffer and to rejoice together. And this bond of gentle and resolute love is to be one of the marks that defines your body, your children, your church.
Scripture Reading: Psalm 10
Why, Lord, do you stand far off? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble? In his arrogance the wicked man hunts down the weak, who are caught in the schemes he devises.He boasts about the cravings of his heart; he blesses the greedy and reviles the Lord.In his pride the wicked man does not seek him; in all his thoughts there is no room for God.His ways are always prosperous; your laws are rejected by him; he sneers at all his enemies.He says to himself, “Nothing will ever shake me.” He swears, “No one will ever do me harm.”
His mouth is full of lies and threats; trouble and evil are under his tongue.He lies in wait near the villages; from ambush he murders the innocent.His eyes watch in secret for his victims; like a lion in cover he lies in wait.He lies in wait to catch the helpless; he catches the helpless and drags them off in his net.His victims are crushed, they collapse; they fall under his strength.He says to himself, “God will never notice; he covers his face and never sees.”
Arise, Lord! Lift up your hand, O God. Do not forget the helpless.Why does the wicked man revile God? Why does he say to himself, “He won’t call me to account”?But you, God, see the trouble of the afflicted; you consider their grief and take it in hand.The victims commit themselves to you; you are the helper of the fatherless.Break the arm of the wicked man; call the evildoer to account for his wickedness that would not otherwise be found out.
The Lord is King for ever and ever; the nations will perish from his land.You, Lord, hear the desire of the afflicted; you encourage them, and you listen to their cry,defending the fatherless and the oppressed, so that mere earthly mortals will never again strike terror.
SONG: O SACRED NECK, NOW WOUNDED
Homily
written by Amber Strickland
“Lament is honesty before God and each other. If something has truly been declared dead there is no use in sugarcoating that reality. To hide from suffering and death would be an act of denial. If an individual would deny the reality of death during a funeral, friends would justifiably express concern over the mental health of that individual. In the same way, should we not be concerned over a church that lives in denial over the reality of death in our midst? Our nation’s tainted racial history reflects a serious inability to deal with reality. Something has died and we refuse to participate in the funeral. We refuse to acknowledge the lamenters who sing the songs of suffering in our midst.”
In those words of Soong-Chan Rah from his book, Prophetic Lament, he describes lament as honesty before God and each other. In lament, we name what has been lost. We acknowledge the dead body in our midst. And we even dare to question how this horrible reality could exist. To lament is to grieve.
As human beings, grief is not something we enter into willingly or comfortably. Grief acknowledges the reality that something has not gone according to plan - a death has occurred, something has been lost. Even those who do not have a framework for a God who created the world and declared that it was good, know that it is not supposed to be this way. We weren’t meant to experience death and suffering. And yet, here we are. But despite the inescapable reality of death and suffering and what we know about the psychological process of grief, grief remains a process that no one has mastered.
For those who have grieved the loss of a loved one - whether by death or the ending of a relationship, who have sat with the uncertainty of a diagnosis, who have faced financial instability, we know that grief doesn’t have a time table. It is not linear. We cannot be guaranteed when it will end. We can’t control it. And maybe that’s one of the scariest parts of stepping into grief. It requires surrender - to submit to the waves as they come trusting that they won’t pull us under.
And yet, that is what is asked of us. It is what the love of Christ compels us to do. To rejoice with those who rejoice and to grieve with those who grieve. To love another is to shoulder their pain with them, to risk the uncertainty of the waves of grief for their well-being.
To lament is not simply to step out into the waves of grief hoping that we don’t get pulled under. We step out into the depths with the certainty that our God has entered the waters first and controls the wind and the waves. Lament is possible because of our sovereign God who is well acquainted with sorrow. We can question where is God when Black and brown children are forced to drink water poisoned by lead and when Black men and women are killed at the hands of those sworn to protect and serve because His grief goes deeper than ours.
The first person who names God calls him El Roi, the God who sees or God sees me. And that name was given to Him by Hagar, an enslaved woman, who while wandering in the desert pregnant with the child of her master encountered a God who saw her. He saw her pain and her despair and He spoke a promise over the child she was forced to carry.
One of the remarklable parts of Hagar’s encounter with God in the desert is that He first asks her “where have you come from and where are you going?” At first glance, these questions seem cruel to ask a woman who has fled the home of her master, who has no physical protection, no way to survive, and no hope of a better future. And yet these questions aren’t asked to make Hagar more despondent than she already is. God asks these questions to give Hagar a chance to answer - to name her pain. And to give God a chance to respond.
That is the God we approach in lament. A God who cares enough to ask where have we come from. A God who asks already knowing the answer and the way forward.
To step into our own grief is challenging enough but to step into the pain of another seems to be a sign of insanity. Why would we willingly deal with more suffering than we have to? As was said earlier tonight, true shalom requires a remembering of suffering. To know justice, to know peace, we have to name the dead body in our midst.
We find ourselves in a place in history where the dead bodies are stacked high. Millions of Black Americans can’t trace their lineage because at some point the records that do exist go from names and dates to male, female, and maybe an age on a cargo manifest. Entire populations of native people have been wiped out for the sake of western expansion. Rates for Black and brown children living in poverty are 16-21% higher than white children. White Americans are 25-30% more likely to own their own home than Black and Hispanic Americans. Black men and women make up 33% of the US prison population despite making up less than 14% percent of the total population. The body count is high.
And yet for far too long, the American church has failed to name the body in our midst. There have been excuses to justify the choices and sins of others. There have been prayers for a better and more just future. But often the Church has glossed over the reality of the harm. We have not allowed the pain to sink in - to feel the loss as our own. Grief is uncomfortable and confession more so.
To lament the sins of racism is not simply to feel bad for those who have suffered at the hands of others. It is to acknowledge the wrong done. And sometimes that means acknowledging our own complicity. However, we have become a people who often accept the horrors of racism like slavery and segregation as natural orders of events instead of questioning why they were ever allowed to persist. In the words of Jemar Tisby, “when faced with the choice between racism and equality, the American church has tended to practice a complicit Christianity rather than a courageous Christianity. They chose comfort over constructive conflict and in doing so created and maintained a status quo of indifference.”
Friends, we have a choice. We can name the dead bodies in our midst. We can mourn the pain of others as if it is our own. We can refuse to settle for easy answers. We can dare to feel the bracing cold of the waves of grief.
God invites us to name the suffering around us and to question how could this be. Many of us are familiar with Lamentations 3:22-23 that says “Because of the Lord’s faithful love we do not perish, for his mercies never end. They are new every morning, great is your faithfulness!” But what many of us may not realize is this declaration of hope comes in the middle of a story of grief. The author of Lamentations has spent the first half of the book describing the destruction of Jerusalem and in the midst of his plea for God to see the pain of His people, the author says, “Yet I call this to mind, and therefore I have hope. Because of the Lord’s faithful love we do not perish, for his mercies never end. They are new every morning, great is your faithfulness! I say the Lord is my portion and therefore I will put my hope in Him.” The author then continues in naming the pain of the people and asks God for restoration. His hope was not the flimsy greeting card hope that lasts for a moment but a hope that can withstand the worst kinds of evil.
The God who saw Hagar sees the reality of racism and the ways it has been allowed to persist throughout our history. He is asking us where have we come from and where are we going.
In an era of constant information, we often passively absorb stories as data in a way to survive the constant onslaught of tragedy surrounding us. But what if we entered into the story? What if we stepped up to the casket and saw the face of another? What if we listened to the cries of the mourners? What if we questioned why the death occurred in the first place? What if we dared to feel the pain of another knowing full well that there are millions more but also knowing that what feels like overwhelming grief and evil is held in the hands of a loving and powerful God who says this hurts me more?
Tonight as we lament some of the realities of racism in our country, we will light a candle with each lament. The darkness of racism is oppressive but the light shines in the darkness and the darkness will not overcome it. For each evil act and element of darkness, the power of God is stronger. We can recognize and name the darkness because it does not have the final word. While the darkness may feel overwhelming and oppressive, we can breathe out lament because the light shines still.
It is because of this hope and in this hope that we cry out.
Song: Wake Up, Jesus
Lament for the harm we have done
Lord, remember the pains of our land. Look and see the evil we have done. Look and see the times we have chosen comfortable silence over courageous truth.
Have mercy O God.
We have benefited from the plunder of a land that has destroyed generations of native people. We have treated their annihilation as a necessary part of history - the erasure of their culture as the way to establish our own.
Have mercy O God.
We have criticized those who can’t pull themselves up by their bootstraps while pressing the boot to their neck should they dare to stand. We have created generations of families separated by prison bars. We have sought the appearance of justice and settled for law and order.
Have mercy O God.
We have preached a Gospel of individualism and have failed to question the systems and structures that oppress our neighbors. We have condemned those who have dared to name the racism in our midst. We have been overly cautious when we needed courageous conviction.
Have mercy O God.
We are a country fractured - a people divided. We have turned the humanity of our sisters and brothers into issues of political ideology. The lies of white supremacy have infected our communities and our homes.
Have mercy O God.
We bear the scars of our ancestors - whether it was our back that was torn open or our hand that was holding the whip.
Have mercy O God.
We have failed to see Your face in the faces of those seeking refuge within our borders. We have labeled the man, woman, and child with black and brown skin as a threat, while fantasizing and fetishizing our Asian brothers and sisters.
Have mercy O God.
We long for true shalom. How long oh Lord must we wait for the world to be made right? We ache for the day when the pain of our sister and brother becomes our own.
Come Lord Jesus.
We feel the weight of despair closing in. We look to You as the Almighty and righteous judge.
You, Lord, are enthroned forever; Your throne endures from generation to generation. Lord, establish shalom. Do not forget us. Restore us to yourself and to one another.
Song: Water
A Prayer for Lament for the Daughters of Rachel
Thus says the Lord: A voice is heard in Ramah, Lamentation and bitter weeping. Rachel is weeping for her children; She refuses to be comforted for her children, Because they are no more. (Jeremiah 31:15)
We cry to you, oh Lord.
In mourning for Oluwatoyin Salau, Breonna Taylor, Sandra Bland and countless other black and brown women who have died unjustly. The voice of their blood cries out to you from the ground.
We cry to you, oh Lord.
In anguish for the babies we birthed who were ripped from our arms and sold on auction blocks.
We cry to you, oh Lord.
In anguish for our black sons and black daughters, who we nurtured with our bodies and souls and who breathe the breath of life no more.
We cry to you, oh Lord.
In anguish for the white boys and white girls we nurtured with our bodies and souls, who grew to despise and oppress us.
We cry to you, oh Lord.
In anguish for the ways our bodies have been objectified, abused, subject to cruel labor, ridicule and caricature.
We cry to you, oh Lord.
To the God who made us in His image, for the ways our personhood has been diminished in song, film, and literature.
We cry to you, oh Lord.
To the God who hears all, for the ways our voices have been silenced in churches, meetings, hospitals, courts and legislatures.
We cry to you, oh Lord.
To the God who sees and knows all, for the ways our stories have been minimized and erased from history.
How long, oh Lord?
We await the God of the psalms, whose voice thundered in the heavens, whose anger caused the foundations of the mountains to tremble, whose nostrils poured out smoke, and from whose mouth came forth consuming fire, and who came down from the heavens with hailstones and lightning.
God of justice, arise.
For our vindication against those who would crush the image of God in us and our children.
God of mercy, save us.
From those who seek to take our lives and livelihoods.
God of love, redeem us.
Give us renewed hope that our tears and labor have not been in vain, that the story you are telling ends with us fully reconciled and dwelling with you forever.
Thus says the Lord: Keep your voice from weeping, and your eyes from tears, for there is a reward for your work, declares the Lord, and they shall come back from the land of the enemy. There is hope for your future, declares the Lord, and your children shall come back to their own country. (Jeremiah 31: 16-17)
SONG: O Jerusalem
Scripture reading: Isaiah 52
Awake, awake, Zion, clothe yourself with strength! Put on your garments of splendor, Jerusalem, the holy city. The uncircumcised and defiled will not enter you again. Shake off your dust; rise up, sit enthroned, Jerusalem. Free yourself from the chains on your neck, Daughter Zion, now a captive.
For this is what the Lord says: “You were sold for nothing, and without money you will be redeemed.” For this is what the Sovereign Lord says: “At first my people went down to Egypt to live; lately, Assyria has oppressed them.
“And now what do I have here?” declares the Lord. “For my people have been taken away for nothing, and those who rule them mock,” declares the Lord. “And all day long my name is constantly blasphemed. Therefore my people will know my name; therefore in that day they will know that it is I who foretold it. Yes, it is I.”
How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news, who proclaim peace, who bring good tidings, who proclaim salvation, who say to Zion, “Your God reigns!” Listen! Your watchmen lift up their voices; together they shout for joy. When the Lord returns to Zion, they will see it with their own eyes. Burst into songs of joy together, you ruins of Jerusalem, for the Lord has comforted his people, he has redeemed Jerusalem. The Lord will lay bare his holy arm in the sight of all the nations, and all the ends of the earth will see the salvation of our God.
Depart, depart, go out from there! Touch no unclean thing! Come out from it and be pure, you who carry the articles of the Lord’s house. But you will not leave in haste or go in flight; for the Lord will go before you, the God of Israel will be your rear guard.
See, my servant will act wisely; he will be raised and lifted up and highly exalted. Just as there were many who were appalled at him— his appearance was so disfigured beyond that of any human being and his form marred beyond human likeness— so he will sprinkle many nations, and kings will shut their mouths because of him. For what they were not told, they will see, and what they have not heard, they will understand.
Congregational Prayer
written by Arthur Cole Riley
God with us, Your empathy did not cease in your incarnation as you left the status of king to become a common citizen; but it was also marked by healing, rebuking, and ended in incomprehensible sacrifice. We have traded the fierceness of your empathy for sentimental whims of sadness. Restore this in us.
Grant us an empathy that might begin with tears, but is also enmeshed with an unrelenting proximity to the hurting and the resolute doing of justice and mercy, even that justice that means loss of comfort and status for us. And let empathy lay her head down each night on hope itself, rising with the deep knowledge that restoration is coming. We are the hands and feet of a promise. Amen.
Congregational Song: Take My Hand, Precious Lord
Closing
To continue processing the themes from tonight, we recommend reading Prophetic Lament: A Call for Justice in Troubled Times by Soong-Chan Rah. To continue listening to the music from tonight, check out Lament Songs by The Porter’s Gate and Praise and Protest by Common Hymnal.
