“All Saints: Rowed into Beauty”

Revelation 21:1-6a 

Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC, Manhattan, KS

October 31, 2021

As we gather on All Saints’ Sunday to honor those beloveds who have departed us this past year, it might seem - at first glance - a little odd to turn to the book of Revelation. I won’t ask for a show of hands, but I know some folks don’t even like to crack this book open because it can be so scary and weird. 

Revelation is filled with horror, to be sure, but there are also parts of the book that cast a vision of what things might be like some day when the horror has passed. John wants his hearers to look forward to the time after the great battle. He paints a picture of a new heaven and a new earth where pain will be no more. There will be no more hunger, no more thirst. All will worship God and God will wipe away every tear from the eyes of those who weep and mourn. 

There has been a lot of weeping and mourning this past year. We have so many people in our congregation who have lost loved ones. And, of course, there are many other things that can cause grief, too: job losses, divorce and other estrangements, loss of direction, health and ability changes and more. Many of us have shed tears this year. Or sat with others as they’ve cried. 

When I was in seminary and did the required residency as a hospital chaplain, I received detailed instruction on the use of Kleenex from our instructor. She told us, “When someone starts to cry, do not hand them a Kleenex! If you hand them a Kleenex, you are basically saying, ‘Stop crying. It makes me uncomfortable when you cry.’” Those of you who have cried in my office may have thought I was strange because I didn’t offer you Kleenex but now you know why. I try to keep it conspicuously available, right there next to the couch, so you can reach it if you need it. But I try not to hand it to you. We need to know it’s okay to weep together. 

I don’t think God wiping away every tear is supposed to be about a vision of God saying, “Stop crying. Pull it together.” Instead, I think this is a vision of comfort. A vision of a time and place where those who mourn are held secure in the arms of Love. A time and place where all who grieve will find solace and relief.

Of course, John’s vision was cosmic and way beyond the constrictions that we deal with in the real world. Since it’s doubtful we are going to be worshiping at the feet of the Lamb anytime soon, what are we called to do and be as people of faith living in the here and now? It seems we have to draw upon all of the Holy within us to love those who are grieving well. 

This isn’t easy. It’s really hard to know what to do or say when we are confronted with a person who is hurting. One of the things that makes offering support so challenging is that no two people handle grief the same way. Some might want their tears wiped and others do not. Some might not even shed a tear. But even with our differences, there are, I think, a few things that are almost universally helpful if we want to comfort those who mourn. 

First, be aware of your place in the drama. A few years ago there was an article in the L.A. Times about this. The authors talked about concentric rings around the person or persons who are going through a trauma of some sort. So let’s imagine a scenario where a person has experienced a miscarriage. They are at the center of the circle. Others surround them – perhaps the person’s partner, if they have one, and then other children, if there are any; parents or other close relatives; closest friends; the medical staff that provides care; coworkers and acquaintances; strangers on the street. 

Being around someone who is suffering can bring up all kinds of our own stuff….bad memories, anger at injustice, frustration with God. There’s nothing wrong with that. But the rule is this: you can only say those things aloud to the people in the bigger circles. So the person at the center? They can complain to everyone. But the people who surround them need to work to comfort those who are in the interior circles. “Comfort IN, Dump OUT,” is the rule of thumb. 

Another thing we can do: show up. Be there. Sometimes we don’t ask how a person is doing after a loss because we don’t want to “bring it up.” Most grieving people have told me, “Don’t worry about that. You aren’t going to reopen a wound by acknowledging it.” And we shouldn’t stop asking after a week or a month. I’ve often heard that it can be a powerful thing to have a friend remember the anniversary of loss. A simple note in the mail saying, “I remember your mom died a year ago and wanted to say I am thinking of you” can bring comfort. Or how about a text saying, “I know this Friday is the anniversary of your divorce. Want to get together for dinner?” Showing up matters. One of the ways our congregation does this is by offering a series of grief books to people in the first year after their loved one has died. I am grateful to our Ministers of Care for offering this important ministry. 

I think we are often nervous about showing up because we don’t know what to do once we’re there. We are so scared we will say the wrong thing, we say nothing. We are so aware that there is nothing we can do to fix the pain...so we do nothing. But the ministry of presence - showing up - is doing something. It matters. 

One of my clergy colleagues who is also a dear friend lost her mother to cancer a few years ago. Recently, she shared a beautiful poem called “The Guest” by Patricia Fargnoli. I’d like to share it with you: 

In the long July evenings,

the French woman

who came to stay every summer

for two weeks at my aunt’s inn

would row my brother and me

out to the middle of the mile-wide lake

so that the three of us

would be surrounded by the wild

extravagance of reds that had transformed

both lake and sky into fire.

It was the summer after our mother died.

I remember the dipping sound of the oars

and the sweet music of our voices as she led us

in the songs she had taught us to love.

“Blue Moon.” “Deep Purple.”

We sang as she rowed, not ever wondering

where she came from or why she was alone,

happy that she was willing to row us

out into all that beauty.

My friend said she was so thankful for her friends who showed up after her mother’s death and kept showing up…to row her out into beauty. She has no memory of what these people said. In fact, it often seems to be best to show up and say very little. For those who like to talk or fill the silence, this can be a real challenge. But having an awareness of this can help us find a quieter way to accompany. 

It seems to me that we worship a God who sent a guide for us when it comes to all of this. Jesus not only walked the way of suffering and showed us how to march steadily through terror with grace. He also walked alongside those who mourned. When the crowd threw the stones at the woman, he moved into the sand – between the woman and the crowd – he placed his body right there in the midst of the ugliness. He showed up. When his dear friend Lazarus died, he rushed to be with him. He stood at the door of his home and cried with his sisters, Mary and Martha. When he neared death, he wasn’t afraid to talk about it with his friends. He talked about it openly and pushed them to recognize what was happening. Jesus was unafraid to sit in the midst of sorrow – to row that boat out to the middle of the lake and simply be with those who were grieving. 

Our  faith in Christ makes it possible for us to “bear each others burdens and share each other’s joys.” We have a model and we have a calling – to comfort those who mourn, to care for each other in times of distress. We await the day that John describes - when there are no more tears. 

But here and now, in the in-between time, we are the hands that comfort, the ones who come and sit. We row each other out into beauty. We lean into Love  by showing up and refusing to hide from grief. Thanks be to the One who makes us brave.

"Revolutionary Love: Listen & Reimagine"

1 Samuel 3:1-10

Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC, Manhattan, KS

October 24, 2021

This is a sermon in three scenes. And throughout the sermon there are places for you to respond with the words printed in today’s bulletin. When I say, “God is still speaking,” you say, “God, help me to listen with the ear of my heart.” That’s a quotation from the Rule of St. Benedict. Let’s practice.

God is still-speaking. God, help me to listen with the ear of my heart. 

Scene One: Listening to God

There was a boy whose mother believed was an answer to her prayers. In thanksgiving to God, Hannah dedicated her son, Samuel, to God and left him at the temple, to be raised in the faith by an old priest named Eli. Each year she would come back to make her sacrifice at the temple and bring new clothes for her son. And each year, the boy grew in stature and in favor with the Lord and with the people. 

One night, as Samuel settled in to sleep, he heard a voice calling his name. Assuming it was the priest, Samuel ran to him and said, “Here I am!” but Eli was confused. “I didn’t call you. Go back to bed.” Again, the voice came, “Samuel! Samuel!” And, again, Samuel ran to Eli - only to be told the same thing, “I didn’t call you, Samuel. Go back to bed.” 

Reader, you and I are both told that the voice was not Eli. It was the voice of God. But Samuel is not yet acquainted with God’s voice. So when the voice came AGAIN, I imagine he was either confused or terrified or both as he ran back to Eli for a third time. By now, Eli has figured out what’s going on and says to Samuel, “It’s God calling you, son. Go back to bed. If the voice comes to you again, say, ‘Speak, for your servant is listening.’”

This story - along with many others in our sacred scriptures - are why we say “God is still-speaking.” God’s voice is not a one-time event. Nor is it only heard by monarchs and priests. It’s a voice that continues to reach out to us - all of us - again and again. 

God is still-speaking. God, help me to listen with the ear of my heart. 

Scene Two: Listening to Each Other

A church basement on a cold February night. Valarie Kaur, a Yale law student, stomped the snow off her boots and descended into the warm room, crowded with families from the community. Children wiggled on their parents laps and the priest, Father James Manship, welcomed everyone and began the meeting with a prayer.

Then he turned and wrote on the board: poder. 

He turned to the group, “Quien tiene poder in esta ciudad?” Who has the power in the city?

The answers were quick. “La policía!” y “Los politicos!”

A pause. Father Jim turned back to the board and made two columns: “the world as it is,” and “the world as it ought to be.” He mused, “In the world as it is, the police and the politicians have the power, sí. But what about in the world as it ought to be?”

A longer period of silence. And then someone in the back cried out, “El Dios!” God! And someone closer to the front whispered quietly, “Le gente.” The people. [1] 

In Spanish, poder as a noun means “power.” And poder as a verb is “to be able to” as in “sí, se puede.” Yes, it can be done. This moment - in that church basement, was Kaur’s introduction to “movement lawyering,” harnessing the power of a community to say, “yes, this can be done.” In listening, there is power. In reimagining the world, there is power. 

As we continue our journey through Kaur’s book, See No Stranger, today we wrap up the second part of her Revolutionary Love compass. We’ve pondered what it means to love others - to wonder, to grieve, to fight. And a couple weeks ago, Pastor Sue helped us contemplate what it means to honor rage - as we seek to love our opponents. Kaur beckons us forward on this journey of loving our opponents with two more invitations - to listen and reimagine. 

In doing so, we “tend the wound” and find ways to love our opponents. Remembering, of course, that love is not primarily a feeling that we feel. Kaur says it’s “sweet labor: fierce, bloody, imperfect, and life giving - [love is] a choice that we make over and over again. As labor, love can be taught, modeled, and practiced.” [3] We don’t have to feel warm and fuzzy in order to act in loving ways. Kaur says we just “need to feel safe enough to stay curious.” [4] 

In fact, Kaur says that when it comes to listening to others, having too much empathy - feeling TOO much - can sometimes get in the way.  If we listen to those who are different than us and feel their plight, we can sometimes think that just feeling what they’re feeling is action - without doing the hard work of actually changing systems that harm. We feel all the feels but haven’t actually made anything better. [5] 

My guess is that loving our opponents is always done imperfectly. Kaur says that when we choose to stay curious and approach our opponents in wonder, we are giving ourselves a gift: “a chance to live in this world without the burden of hate.” [6]

Think about what a gift that is. “A chance to live in this world without the burden of hate.” Wow. 

God is still-speaking. God, help me to listen with the ear of my heart. 

Scene Three: Listening to Ourselves

A woman was sitting on the floor of her closet, surrounded by shoes and dirty clothes. Before that, though, she was staring at her device at 3am, typing these words into the Google, “What should I do if my husband is a cheater but also an amazing dad?”

Yes, friends. Glennon Doyle asked Google to make one of the most important decisions of her life. As you might guess, the internet had a lot of opinions - most of them conflicting. And so Glennon realized maybe she’d have to listen to herself instead. 

And that’s how she ended up on the floor of her closet. A friend had sent her a card in the mail that said, “Be still and know.” Glennon said she’d heard that Bible verse forever, but it hit different this time. It didn’t say “read books from experts and know,” or “scour the internet and know.” It said, “Just. Stop...If you just stop doing, you’ll start knowing.”

And so after her kids left for school each day, Glennons sat on the floor of her closet for 10 minutes to just breathe. She said every 10 minute session felt like 10 hours at first. But she stayed with it, telling herself, “Ten minutes a day isn’t too long to spend finding yourself, Glennon. For God’s sake, you spend eighty minutes a day finding your keys.”

Over time, she began to feel herself sinking deeper within herself. “Eventually,” she says, “I sank deep enough to find a new level inside me that I’d never known existed.” And in this low, still place she felt something new inside of her: knowing. 

She began to know down there. She found she could know what to do next and then do it. “The knowing,” she said, “feels like warm liquid gold filling my veins and solidifying just enough to make me feel steady, certain.”

Over time, she discovered that God lives in that deep place within her. And that when she is still and listens to God’s presence and guidance within her in that deep place, God is delighted. And God celebrates by “flooding [her] with that warm, liquid gold.” [7]

And so we are invited, friends, by these three stories from long ago and right here and now. Stories of listening to God, to our neighbors, to ourselves. And, as it turns out, those three things - God, neighbors, ourselves -  aren’t quite as neatly divided as we might think. 

In this great circle of listening, may we come to reimagine a new world together - held within God’s great imagination. Kaur says, “We create the beloved community by being in beloved community.”

Beloveds, God is still-speaking. God, help me to listen with the ear of my heart. 

NOTES:

[1] Kaur, See No Stranger, p 179-180.

[2] ibid., 183

[3] https://valariekaur.com/learninghub/introduction/ 

[4] Kaur, 143. 

[5] Ibid, 144.

[6] Ibid., 139. 

[7] This story and all quotes in this section are from the chapter “know” in Untamed by Glennon Doyle.

"You Shall Know"

Exodus 16:2-4, 9-18

Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC, Manhattan, KS

October 17, 2021

There are some things you can know with your head, but you don’t really KNOW them until you’ve lived them, right? 

Like what it feels like to be hungry. Sure, we can think about what it’s like to be hungry, but unless you’ve actually lived the reality of not knowing where your next meal is coming from - well, you don’t really know what it’s like. 

The Israelites KNEW what it was like to be hungry. The whole congregation has been traveling together in the wilderness for about six weeks now. And the provisions they packed are running out. They’re hungry. Not in some “oh, I’m kind of worried our situation is precarious” kind of way but in a deep, know-it-in-your-bones, I-actually-have-no-idea-how-I’m-going-to-feed-my-kids-tomorrow kind of way. 

And so they know not only hunger but desperation. The frantic clawing of fear. 

And as they continue on this journey, they begin to know something else, too. They start to know regret. 

As absurd as it might sound to us, they wish for captivity. They wish that they could go back to being enslaved. They wish to trade their freedom for the security of three square meals a day. 

And we, on the outside looking in, can’t really know their desperation. The clawing anxiety. The hunger. It’s not even uncertainty they’re feeling - because things are looking pretty certain. It’s certain they will die unless there’s some kind of miracle. 

And so Moses and Aaron say to the people, “In the evening, you shall know it was the Lord who brought you out of the land of Egypt, and in the morning you shall see God’s glory. Because God is with you. God has heard your desperate cries. You are not alone.”

And so the people come to know something else that it’s hard to know unless you REALLY know it. Unless you’ve experienced it first-hand. They come to know God’s faithfulness. God’s provision and care. They come to know and trust that they are not alone. That they live in God’s world - who has created and is creating. They don’t know it as an intellectual exercise. They know it because they live it. 

We are told that God sends food for them in a miraculous way. Bread and meat appears for them each day. And some they come to know God’s presence deep in their bellies. Because the raw, aching, gnawing grip of hunger abates. And they come to know that it was, indeed, God who brought them into freedom. And God who walks with them still. Morning and evening. Day by day. 

Sometime Biblical storytellers begin by saying, “I want to tell you a story of our faith. I don’t know if this all really happened, just like this, but I know that it’s true.”

This is one of those stories. It contains truth even if the details blow our mind a bit. Because ths truth is: this isn’t just a story about something that happened in the past. It’s also a story about something so many of us have still experienced here and now and in our own lives. 

We have experienced God’s faithfulness through miracles big and small - like finding an antidepressant that finally works (praise God!), or a phone call from an old friend at just the right time. We’ve had our days when a stranger offered a word of care that lifted us up, bound us back together, and gave us the strength we needed. We’ve known desperation - and received manna. And we’ve been manna for otthers, too. 

This is a story about God’s faithfulness. It’s a story about knowing - really KNOWING - through lived experience. And it’s a story that’s still unfolding day by day - here and now. 

The SPECIFICS of this particular story, handed down to us by our faith ancestors, are really fascinating. For example, we are told that God tells Moses the gift of food comes hand-in-hand with a test. “I will test them, whether they follow my instruction or not.” The test is about sabbath-keeping and whether the people will trust that God will really provide enough on day six so that they can rest on day seven. 

Not surprisingly, some of the people fail the test. The interesting thing is, though, that there’s no punishment for failing. Instead, God just feeds them. And commands them to rest every seventh day. Over and over again. Rinse and repeat. For 40 years. 

Those aren’t the only details, though. Moses also tells the people that they are to gather what they need for everyone in their tent. 

Now, I’ve often heard this story told that “the people disobeyed” and some tried to hoard the food by gathering too much while others were lazy and didn’t gather enough. But, actually, the text doesn’t say that. The text simply says they went out to gather and some gathered more and others less - which is exactly what you might expect since some people had 2 people in their tent and others had 10. The text says when it all got measured, everyone had the exact right amount that they needed for their family. Whether this was some kind of baby miracle or just how it worked out, we aren’t told. But the message is clear: God provides exactly what every person needs. Faithfully. 

Biblical scholar Robert Williamson, Jr. points out that what we really see in these details is that this isn’t JUST a story about manna. It’s also a story about the world God is inviting us to be a part of. God shows the people a new economy in this ancient story. [1] A way of living together where everyone has what they need. It’s so very different than the scarcity model they had before. No longer are they enslaved to quotas of production and a system that enriches a few while leaving so many in desperation. We can hear God beckoning, “Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old. I am about to do a new thing.” [2]

And God doesn’t invite the people to just imagine this or THINK about it. God invites them to try it. To practice it. To really KNOW it by living it. Williamson says it’s as if God is using this liminal, wandering, wilderness time to show the people how it could be - how it should be - in this new world they are building together. 

This reminds me so very much of what it means to Be the Church. We come together as Church and we practice together. We listen to the Spirit and encourage one another as we strive to build God’s Beloved Community together. You know, when we become members of this congregation we pledge to support it with “our prayers, our presence, our gifts, and our service.” In that way, we are practicing God’s Realm here. Practicing in this little corner of creation so that our hands and hearts might be shaped for ministry in the wider world. We practice here so that we can know - really KNOW through living it - that God is present. That God is faithful. And that we, too, can show up with our prayers, our presence, our gifts, and our service. Here and everywhere we go. 

This month, as we consider our financial pledges for the coming year, we are given this story as a conversation partner. 

It’s a story about God’s faithfulness. It’s a story about the One who dreams a world into being where everyone’s needs can be met. It’s an invitation to ponder how we can be a part of that through our own sharing of resources. And it’s a reminder that giving of any type - whether it’s time or money - isn’t JUST about keeping the lights on or getting volunteer slots filled. 

True generosity is an invitation to reorder our relationship to God, one another, and the world around us. It’s knowing - really KNOWING, deep in our bones because we’re living it - that there is enough in this world for all. Our job is to tune our hearts to God’s economy of abundance. 

In practicing generosity, we come to know - really KNOW - God’s faithful provision as we hear the ancient promise: 

There is enough. 

You are enough. 

Rooted in God’s love, we can build a world of enough - together. 

May it be so. 

Notes: 

[1] Bible Worm podcast for Oct. 10, 2021

[2] Isaiah 43: 18-19

“Revolutionary Love: Fight”

Exodus 2:23-25; 3:1-13

Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC, Manhattan, KS

October 3, 2021

After the bush that burned - but was not consumed - there was the sound of God’s name on the breath: yoh-he-vah-he...YHWH. 

After the breath came the blazing sun and the bricks that had to be made without even any straw to hold them together. There was the sweat, the blood, the tears. 

Later, still, there was a man named Aaron who carried a big stick. There was a King who grew fearful, his heart hardened. And then there was chaos: water turned to blood, frogs too numerous to count, gnats that buzzed, flies that destroyed, livestock sickened, horrible disease, thunder and hail, locusts, darkness that was so very dark it could be felt in your bones, and finally, a horrible silence, followed by the weeping and anguish of parents. 

And then the voice of the fearful King, who said, simply, “Go. Rise up. Be gone. Leave this place.”

After the packing, the following the cloud during the day and the pillar of fire at night - after the sea that parted and made way for the freedom-seekers….there was the sound of a tambourine. 

Just one at first. And then more. And more. 

And - finally - the sound of the women’s voices - clear and strong. Led by Miriam. Voices giving thanks for liberation, for a fresh start, for deliverance. 

There was singing and dancing and celebration and joy and hope and new life. 

*****

Moses didn’t want to go on this journey. Not really. Back when he was just a guy standing with his toes buried in the dust of that holy ground, listening to the one called I AM tell him the work that was his to do, he protested. 

He didn’t want to fight. And who would? Who would want to go through all that pain and fear?

Moses said he didn’t want to fight. 

But Moses had also already started fighting. He came into the world fighting. His mother had to give him up in order to keep him. His sister had to put her own safety at risk to watch over him. And he grew up caught between two worlds - the biological child of outsiders, raised in the innermost sanctum of the ruling class. 

One day, he saw an Egyptian beating a Hebrew, one of his kinsfolk. And, perhaps without even thinking it over much, Moses fought. He killed the Egyptian and then went into hiding. 

Maybe this is why he told God he didn’t want to fight. Because he already knew where it could lead. He had already had a foretaste of the blood and pain. No wonder he protested when God came knocking. 

*****

Most of us likely have conflicted feelings about fighting, don’t we? Valarie Kaur reminds us that the impulse to fight is “ancient and fundamental….biological.” We are hard-wired to fight. Sometimes we do so to protect those we love. Sometimes we fight alongside those we love. Several folks in our congregation laced up their combat boots just yesterday, holding signs and raising their voices to rally for reproductive rights. 

Kaur says, “We must summon the wisdom to discern between threats that are real rather than imagined, and respond in ways that give life rather than deal death. The question therefore is not whether or not we will fight in our lives but how we choose to fight.”

As we complete the first portion of Kaur’s Revolutionary Love Compass, we find ourselves standing with Moses next to that burning bush - contemplating why and how and when and where we are called upon to show up and fight. 

Kaur says that if we are truly going to love others - that’s the first part of the compass, which you can see on page 8 of your worship bulletin - if we are going to truly love others, we have to approach them with wonder. Remember that from a few weeks ago? We have to “see no stranger” and say to ourselves, “You’re a part of me I don’t yet know.”

We have to be willing to grieve. With ourselves. With others. We have to show up and sit in the  midst of pain, even when it’s hard. 

And now Kaur is telling us we have to stand alongside Moses. We have to be prepared to fight for those who are at risk. We have to let our hearts grow large enough that we become willing to risk for another. 

Now, Kaur is NOT telling us to act with literal acts of violence. In fact, she makes it very clear that her own life’s calling is to fight through non-violent methods. She uses the image of a warrior-sage. One who is strong to show up and fight AND one who is wise and intentional about what weapons they use in the fight. Kaur reminds us that “every great wisdom tradition in the world - Judaism, Chrsitainity, Islam, Hinduism, and Buddhism - has been used to justify cruelty and violence, or to inspire revolutionary love.”

She chooses love. And we do, too, right? Let’s say together, “We choose love.” (And maybe have some tambourine joy with that, too.)  [2]

“We choose love.”

To love someone is to approach them with wonder. Kaur says that “to break another’s bones, to take their life, is to forego wonder. It is to cut off a part of ourselves that we do not yet know. I choose non-violence because it is moral and strategic.” [3] 

So when we discern what and who we fight for and how we fight, let’s keep in mind that you don’t have to use warlike metaphors and language and methods. Kaur writes in her memoir about choosing her weapons carefully. One of her undergraduate professors reached out to her as she neared graduation and told her “You have to go to law school.” The professor said that while she didn’t usually tell students what to do, she just couldn’t help herself in this instance. She saw in Kaur a young woman of color with an activist's heart and she said, “If you want to be heard, if you want to be protected, no matter what else you do, you have to get your law degree.” [4] 

And so Kaur put on the sword and shield of a law degree and headed into battle. We don’t necessarily find ourselves on literal battlefields with actual weapons, but we gird ourselves with the swords and shields most appropriate to our own time and culture. 

As we stand with Moses, staring into that flaming bush that is burned but not consumed, we wonder: how can we keep showing up and fighting for those we love? (which is, who? EVERYONE). Kaur invites us to begin with a simple awareness. Many of us have been trained to suppress our urge to fight. Many of us don’t know how to channel this instinct in healthy ways. She tells us to begin by honoring that natural fight impulse inside of us. 

“Think about what breaks your heart,” Kaur writes. “Notice what it feels like to have your fists clend, your jaw close, your pulse quicken. Notice what it feels like to want to fight back. Honor that in yourself. You are alive and have something worth fighting for. Now comes the second moment: How will you channel that into something that delivers life instead of death? Breathe. Think. Then choose your sword and shield. You don’t have to know the answers. You just have to be ready for the moment when the world says: Now.” [5]

As we prepare for our own burning bush moments, Kaur has four important questions to guide us. You might even want to jot these down so you can reflect on them later. 

First, she asks us to consider: what is your sword? “What can you use to fight on behalf of others - your pen, your voice, your art, your pocketbook, your presence?

Next, what is your shield? “What can you use to protect yourself and others when the fight is dangerous - your camera, legal counsel, a group of allies, public witness? Your safety matters.”

I’m saving her third question. I’ll come right back to it. 

Her last question is:  “Who is your sacred community?” Who will accompany you in the fight - see the best in you, fight by your side, and fight for you when you need help?

And her third: “what is your instrument?” She says that in Sikh legend, the warriors carried a small stringed instrument when they went into battle. So that they could “lift their spirits in music, song, and poetry in the mornings before they faced the fire.” 

And there we are: back with Miriam and the warrior-sages on the shore of the Red Sea. Tambourines in hand. A song on our lips. Singing and dancing with joyful songs before the God of Love. When they quickly packed up what could fit on their backs to flee Egypt, they took tambourines with them. They knew they would need music to lift their spirits and they trusted that they would be given reason to celebrate. 

And so we join our ancestors in the fight for love. Seeking liberation, health, wholeness, peace and justice for all people and all creation. Tambourines and all. 

NOTES

[1] See No Stranger by Valarie Kaur, 67.

[2] Ibid., 97

[3] ibid. 

[4] Ibid., 92

[5] Ibid., 97