In Florida, a state senate committee wants to make it illegal to cause discomfort to white people. This bill, which reads like a scene from 1984, is a doozy. You can, and should, read the full text of it here.

The bill purports to “protect individual freedoms and prevent discrimination in the workplace and in public schools.” But it then proceeds to define “individual freedoms” and “discrimination” in ways that are unrecognizable to the plain, historic meaning of those words.

Here’s a quick tour. The bill notes that the State Board of Education (SBE) “requires that instruction on the required topics must be factual and objective, and may not suppress or distort significant historical events, such as the Holocaust, slavery, the Civil War and Reconstruction, the civil rights movement and the contributions of women, African American and Hispanic people to our country.” So far so good.

But here are the next two sentences:

Examples of theories that distort historical events and are inconsistent with SBE-approved standards include the denial or minimization of the Holocaust, and the teaching of Critical Race Theory, meaning the theory that racism is not merely the product of prejudice, but that racism is embedded in American society and its legal systems in order to uphold the supremacy of white persons. Instruction may not utilize material from the 1619 Project and may not define American history as something other than the creation of a new nation based largely on universal principles stated in the Declaration of Independence.

The magnitude of the contradictions here, separated only by a comma, is jarring. The minimization or denial of the Holocaust is prohibited, but the minimization and denial of America’s treatment of Native Americans and African Americans is mandated.

READ: Unlearning the Gospel of Whiteness

A critical reading of history has lessons for the Germans, but not, evidently, for Floridians. The systematic oppression and murder of Jews overseas holds lessons for today, but the bigotry and violence toward Native Americans and African Americans at home does not.

Never mind that Adolf Hitler’s Nazi regime studied America’s treatment of Native Americans and African Americans in their search for models for subjugating and exterminating European Jews. Never mind that the Declaration of Independence’s “universal principles” include a description of Native Americans as “merciless Indian Savages, whose known Rule of Warfare, is an undistinguished Destruction, of all Ages, Sexes and Conditions.”

The most pernicious part of the bill is its bizarre definition of “individual freedom,” consisting of eight principles plainly written to protect white people. The final one is the most sweeping: “An individual should not be made to feel discomfort, guilt, anguish, or any other form of psychological distress on account of his or her race.” The bill then proceeds to define “discrimination” under Florida state law as a violation of “individual freedom.”

This provision effectively gives any single white person veto power over the content of history curriculum in schools or trainings in the workplace. White discomfort governs historical truth.

This piece first appeared at White Too Long. 

A little over one year ago, a mob, incited and assisted by Donald Trump and certain members of his party, stormed the U.S. Capitol building in an attempt to violently void the results of the 2020 election. January 6 was not an isolated event, but the culmination of the white supremacy, disinformation, and nationalism that continues to pose a fundamental threat to our democracy. Now in 19 states, their allies are putting up new barriers to voting and giving partisan politicians new power to overturn the will of the voters. 

However, January 6 was about more than political violence. It was an act of religious violence as well. Insurrectionists carried crosses, Christian flags, and banners that proclaimed “Jesus Saves”. Attackers held prayer circles on the Capitol grounds before storming the building. The Christian Nationalism that fueled January 6 is rooted in heresies. As Christians, we must reclaim our faith and defend our democracy by countering the lies of Christian Nationalism. 

Let’s unpack three of the heresies that uphold Christian Nationalism – and the antidotes we can find in Scripture. 

Heresy #1: Idolatry

Like the Israelites creating a golden calf in the image of Baal in Exodus 32, today people have melted down and recast God in the image of tyrants. Christian Nationalists have cast God as white, male, jingoistic, and American. This God is indistinguishable from the political leaders they swear allegiance to but bears no resemblance to the God of the Bible. Idolatry is the worship of that which leads us astray from God’s liberative plan for humanity. 

If we follow the God in the Bible, we follow a God who loves all of humanity, not just one particular race or country. Our vision is bigger than the interests of our class, religious, national, or ethnic group. This liberating God calls us to build a society based on shared power around a moral vision of loving our neighbor and welcoming the stranger. 

READ: Reflections from a Recovering Christian Nationalist Leading to the Anniversary of January 6th

Heresy #2: Lying About Our History to Glorify Ourselves

When you cast God in your own image, you can easily rewrite history with yourself as the hero. We have seen this whitewashing of American history since our nation’s inception. (This is why I refer to Critical Race Theory as “telling the truth about American history”.) When white Christians are hailed as the heroes, founders, and rightful owners of this country, we deny the full story of the systematic exclusion of people of color, Native Americans, women, LGBTQ+ people, and religious minorities from the benefits of our so-called democracy. This leads to the belief that electing white supremacists “makes America great again” and the belief that elections in which voters of color defeat white supremacists are “stolen elections.” Authoritarian rulers perpetuate these lies to exalt themselves and oppress the “other.” 

“Remember you were once slaves in Egypt and I freed you” is one of the most frequent commands throughout Scripture. The Ten Commandments and the rest of the Law follow this command to remember. God charges us to have historical empathy and remember and reflect on history through the eyes of God’s oppressed children. Confronting white supremacy and our role in sustaining such systems is an essential spiritual calling for white people in America today who seek to be faithful. The call to remember who you are and whom you serve is the spiritual discipline that enables us all to embrace truth and follow God rather than commit idolatry by giving unquestioning loyalty to an authoritarian. 

Heresy #3: Defiling the Image of Human Beings 

On January 6, coup participants erected a gallows outside the U.S. Capitol building. They carried Confederate flags through the rotunda. White supremacist, anti-semitic hate symbols were found throughout the crowd. The message was clear. 

All human beings are created in the image of God and have inherent dignity. It is the primary lesson of the Creation story in Genesis 2. Those who follow the God who calls creation good, who makes all in God’s image, will make space for dignity to take root and for hope to flourish. Recognizing human dignity is a spiritual practice. This practice requires us to root out every form of racism, anti-semitism, xenophobia, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, and bigotry. Whenever we see a category of people dehumanized, we must move to interrupt. We need to practice in our congregations, in our communities, and through our policies. By embracing and expanding a vision of multiracial, multifaith democracy we can participate in this spiritual practice. 

It is poignant to me that January 6 is also Epiphany, the day we remember the Magi discovering Jesus and refusing to report his location to Herod. The Magi chose Jesus the liberator over and against Herod. To be faithful is to oppose tyrants and to embrace multiracial democracy.

Like the Magi, we have a choice in how we respond to the demands of authoritarianism. In the days surrounding the 2020 election, faith communities across the country jumped into action to ensure that every vote was counted and the will of the people was heard. We stepped up to defend our democracy, and we will do it again. This is where I find hope. Hope is not a prediction or assurance that everything will be okay. It is a commitment to imagine and work for a better future for God’s children. Surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, including the late Representative John Lewis, we have an opportunity this year to continue their work to build and protect a multiracial democracy. 

Defending our democracy requires accountability for those who have attempted to overthrow it. Take action today by signing onto this letter from Faith in Public Life and Faithful America to demand accountability for those who participated in and supported the attack on January 6. 

Accountability is necessary but not sufficient. We also need to pass pro-democracy legislation like the Freedom to Vote Act and the John Lewis Voting Rights Advancement Act in order to ensure that no future attempts to overturn the will of the voters can succeed.

No matter our religion, race or party, most of us believe that we the people have a moral right to choose our leaders by free, fair and peaceful elections. Democracy is not inevitable. Our faith calls us to show up and defend it. 

For more information on how to reclaim Scripture as a handbook for resisting tyranny, check out Rev. Butler’s book, “Who Stole My Bible?”

“Whenever Christians fail to give other believers the grace they claim for themselves, they fail to embody the love of Jesus Christ, giving purchase to hate.”– Bridget Eileen Rivera

On March 23, 1969, thirty thousand people, many of them teenagers, converged on the Orange Bowl for a “decency rally,” all thanks to Mike Levesque. A senior from Miami Springs High School, Mike was spurred into action by a very public and indecent act: the lead singer of the Doors, Jim Morrison, had exposed himself to 12,000 teenagers during a recent Miami concert.

Enlisting their pastor’s help, Mike and his friends got to work. In less than three weeks they had teens from all over the city cheering from the stands, tiny American flags waving wildly. Local clergy, famous athletes, celebrities, and entertainers inspired them to greatness. In the midst of the frenzy, an antique car drove out to center field and delivered one of the keynote luminaries.

Stepping out into the South Florida sunshine and the crowd’s adoration, Anita Bryant waltzed onto center stage.

Beauty queen, famous singer, and brand ambassador for the Florida Citrus Commission, she was quoted as saying, “I just know this decency movement is going to succeed.”

I was four years behind Mike Levesque at Miami Springs High School. It’s been over fifty years, and while I definitely remember hearing about the concert, I have no memory of the rally. But as for Anita Bryant: well, it would be hard to forget her. Her far-right views and strident efforts to deprive LGBTQ people of their civil rights reached their tentacles deep into American culture. In the 1970’s she fought tooth and nail to overturn a local Dade County ordinance that prohibited discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation. She won.

The people she attacked and persecuted were my best friends.

We were kids. Three boys and two girls, we were each other’s people in a school of four thousand. We went to the beach. We went to the planetarium. We went to the movies. We hung out at each other’s houses. We listened to records, went to dances, and went out to eat. We had an awful lot of fun together, and we had each other’s backs.

And in our last year of high school, the four of them got together and told me they were gay.

The news stunned me. I always knew I was straight, and it never even occurred to me that any of them, much less all of them, were gay. All I knew about homosexuality was that Anita Bryant hated it. I didn’t even know why.

A couple of days after that awkward conversation, I realized that my friends hadn’t changed. All they did was trust me with their truth. Their gift opened my eyes and my heart.

I loved these people because I knew them. Anita Bryant didn’t know them at all, yet she berated and persecuted these kids who were funny and loyal and loving and creative and brilliant. Turns out America’s sweetheart was only sweet to her adoring fans. At the time, I chose to discount her  and went on living my life. This was easy for me to do, since I was straight.

Years passed, and we all moved on. One of us died from AIDS in the late eighties. Three of us got together for our twentieth high school reunion, went dancing, and had a blast. I moved to Colorado in 1977, eventually got married, and found Jesus. My first church was in Aspen, a liberal town comprised of folks running away from their real lives. We were a motley crew of drinkers, druggies, and dropouts; this was the first church most of us had ever set foot in. The idea of discriminating against anyone for their sexual choices was laughable. I was woefully ignorant of the Religious Right’s political movement under the auspices of the Evangelical Church. The people I found were loving and accepting, and they introduced me to Jesus. As time went on, I allowed the “busy decades” to swallow me. LGBTQ rights were not in my face, so I just didn’t give them much thought.

Then the Religious Right, through the Evangelical Church, put Donald Trump into the White House.

For three years I just prayed, assuming Christians would come to their senses. When that didn’t happen, I began to research their political movement, trying to understand what could have possibly motivated them to support this man. The further I read, the more it seemed Jesus was not part of their thought process. However, the Big Names in Evangelicalism were leaning hard into politics, fanning the flames of anti-LGBTQ sentiment. It was never about Christianity. It was all about power.

I’d never paid any attention to America’s blowhards of the faith, so I was ignorant of their decidedly hateful efforts. Turns out I should have been listening. These men aren’t just wealthy TV preachers; they are social influencers on an unimaginable scale. Their muscle lies in telling people what to believe and whom to hate because they insist that their God says so. But supposedly this is my God too.

And herein lies the crux of my sin, even if it is a sin of omission.

I was easily accepted into the church because I was straight and white. It’s where I found family and community. It’s where I found purpose. It’s where I found Jesus. And yet, these abuses of power and persecution of differently-identifying people have been going on the whole time I’ve been a Christian. I never heard anything, and I never saw anything, because those who are “different” never set foot in our sanctuary. And in my selfishness, I never gave it any thought.

Now that my little bubble has burst, I find myself back in the land of “everyone else.” No longer can I harbor the illusion that all are welcome in God’s house. What is a straight, white grandmother to do?

She can get educated.

READ: Life as a Lesbian Christian: This Is What I See

I read. I write. And in the wake of my breakup with the Evangelical Church, I created a platform to share my findings. Even though I am completely unqualified to open a conversation on the persecution of LGBTQ souls in Christianity, I found someone who is.

Bridget Eileen Rivera is a sociologist completing her PhD at City University of New York Graduate Center, as well as a gifted writer. Her book, Heavy Burdens: Seven Ways LGBTQ Christians Experience Harm in the Church, opened my eyes and blew my mind. Her work paints a series of pictures using real stories of precious souls created in the image of God who have been pulverized by the church.

Surely this grieves the heart of Jesus.

Even those of us who are horrified by the actions of anti-LGBTQ “Christians”  can feel powerless when it comes to refuting their arguments. Why?

I think we just don’t know how. The folks behind this juggernaut of extreme misunderstanding have their answers memorized. Rivera calls them “clobber verses.” Until now, learning how to discuss these Bible bullets with any confidence seemed overwhelming. But Bridget Eileen Rivera has done all the heavy lifting. Within the pages of Heavy Burdens I found a comprehensive foundational treatise explaining the history and cultural context from which these verses were drawn, and then weaponized. She sheds light through her exhaustive research in Biblical studies, biology, sociology, and a host of other resources. This creates room for discussion. In the best of all possible worlds, discussion can lead to shared knowledge; knowledge to wisdom; and wisdom to understanding. Ultimately, all of these can lead to hope.

Having hope is right up there with having faith. It takes all the courage I can muster. With all the changes taking place in modern Christianity, can there ever be a time when people who love the same gender or identify differently feel comfortable walking into church? Who knows? I don’t even know if I would ever feel comfortable walking into church again. It might feel like returning to Miami Springs. Neither would feel like home.

Or would they?

There are only two of us left from the original gang. Josie recently texted me a picture of Miami Springs High School while she was down there visiting family. Things have changed. Security fences and locked gates surround the campus. But photos I found online show young people still laughing, and still carrying on in the courtyard. My heart aches, in a good way, remembering my friends who were funny and loyal and loving and creative and brilliant; who faced hatred with courage, even at a young age. In their honor, I’ll keep trying too.

You can order Heavy Burdens here.

Heavy Burdens– Seven Ways LGBTQ Christians Experience Harm in the Church, ©2021 by Bridget Eileen Rivera. Published by Brazos Press, a division of Baker Publishing Company, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287.

On Thursday (Dec. 9), Oklahoma executed Bigler “Buddy” Stouffer, a 79-year-old deeply committed Christian who has maintained his innocence since being convicted of murder in 1985. It was the last execution scheduled for 2021.

This execution came on the back of last month’s halted execution of Julius Jones, one of the clearest cases of innocence in the United States, which had stirred protests all over the world and pleas for clemency from folks like Kim Kardashian and Bishop T.D. Jakes.

Stouffer’s execution was also the first since a horrific series of botched executions in Oklahoma, in which Clayton Lockett lay dying 43 minutes as his body convulsed and John Grant, who was killed in October, yelled, convulsed and vomited before being pronounced dead.

Oklahoma’s record on executions prompted even the state’s Pardon and Parole Board to vote to stop Stouffer’s.

Stouffer’s execution otherwise didn’t get all that much attention. In fact, when I first spoke to him, I didn’t even know there was a question about his guilt. But in our conversation he was very clear that he did not commit the crime he was being executed for. He even gave me a name of the man who knows exactly what happened. Others have now come forward to help prove his innocence.

I will not be able to forget his telling me matter-of-factly: “I would love to be able to prove my innocence while I’m still alive … but I just hope that the truth comes out, even after I am deceased.”

There is a team working hard to prove Stouffer’s innocence, despite his execution. One of the obvious problems with the death penalty is that you can’t bring someone back from the dead when you get it wrong.

It’s why a growing number of people, including many who lean conservative, are joining the fight for alternatives to the death penalty. Those who mistrust the government as an imperfect human institution are beginning to wonder whether it should have the irreversible power of life and death.

Stouffer’s case exemplifies many of the things that are so wrong with our criminal justice system, especially when it comes to capital punishment. He was convicted based on faulty evidence by a forensic scientist named Joyce Gilchrist, known as “Black Magic” for her alleged ability to work magic with evidence that didn’t match the facts. She testified in his case and hundreds of others in her 20-year career in Oklahoma. She helped send 23 people to death row before she was fired.

In Stouffer’s case, Gilchrist worked closely with the prosecutor, Robert H. Macy, as she did in dozens of death penalty cases. With Gilchrist’s help, Macy sent 73 people to death row in his 21-year career. About 20 of those have been executed. Two, Curtis McCarty and Robert Lee Miller, have been exonerated and released, a number that squares with our tragic national track record: For every nine executions, there is one exoneration.

Imagine if, for every 10 planes that took off, one crashed. That’s the United States’ track record with the death penalty.

READ: Julius Jones was spared by a governor who prayed. Let’s all now pray to end the death penalty.

As I talked to Stouffer three days before his execution, he told me what really happened that day in 1985. He also told me about his faith, about how his love for Jesus has gotten him through it all. He was joyful, fearless, compassionate.

He shared his sympathy for the family of Linda Reaves, the schoolteacher whose life he was accused of taking, and even talked about how he has forgiven those whose lies in court resulted in his death sentence.

We talked about baseball, the year he had a batting average of .415, and where he got his nickname “Buddy.” He told me about how he had reached out to all 113 of the men who have been executed while he has been on death row, as a pastor, as a friend and as an evangelist who wanted to share the hope he has found in Christ. He told me he would die with forgiveness on his lips and peace in his heart.

He kept that promise. His last words were, “Father, forgive them,” reflecting the last words of Christ, aimed at a system that was killing him in similar fashion. One of his last requests was to have Communion with his pastor. That request was denied because prison officials did not want him to choke on Communion as they killed him. Let that sink in.

We ended our conversation in prayer, which I think would have gone on for a lot longer had we not been interrupted by an automated voice telling us we had “one minute” left to talk. He later called in one last time to greet everyone at the prayer vigil the night before his execution. On that call, he praised God for all the people working to stop not just his execution but all executions. We prayed for Oklahoma’s Gov. Kevin Stitt.

Stitt is an active member of Woodlake Church in Tulsa. In a Dec. 1 Twitter post he wrote, “From day one, I promised Oklahomans I would sign every piece of pro-life legislation that hit my desk. I am proud to have kept that promise and make Oklahoma the most pro-life state in the country!” A week later he permitted the execution of Stouffer.

Oklahoma has the highest execution rate per capita in the country. It is the latest reminder that the Bible Belt is the death belt in America, where 90% of U.S. executions occur.

It was Jesus who said: “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.” If Christians demanded that their governors, judges and legislators be as pro-life on this issue as they are on abortion, there would be no more executions in America.

This piece first appeared at Religion News Services.

These times seem challenging in so many ways. It feels difficult if not impossible in these days to claim hope in the midst of fear and discouragement, order in the midst of chaos, advocacy and justice for so many poor and hungry, unity when diversity seems so assaultive, the prophetic message to broken social systems, Jesus “principles for life” in the face of amorality, and the prophetic call to be “political, sometimes partisan.” Polarization has become a norm where fear seemingly continues to gain momentum and integrity appears to be only an option. In this climate, vulnerable populations become more and more isolated and excluded while sarcasm becomes an art form. This list isn’t exhaustive.

I am a Christian, but that’s not the answer I give if I am asked about my faith.  Having no idea what the asker assumes “Christian” means, it’s unlikely I fit their assumptions.  I prefer the admittedly cumbersome Follower of the Message and Movement of Jesus and the Prophets. As a progressive, this inevitably mandates that I be active in political process. The faith I hold relates clearly and vigorously to health care, education, housing, hunger, and wealth distribution, to name a few.

St. Paul spoke of his “dual citizenship”—a citizen of Rome and a citizen of the Kingdom of God. He wanted to be clear and consistent about which had priority and which informed the other. Might Paul’s example, together with relevant teachings and the life of Jesus, guide an exploration of our “dual citizenship” in the U.S. and in the Kingdom of God?

This inevitably brings forward the calling and role of the prophet and the prophetic mission of Jesus.  Six Old Testament books of history chronicle the sequence of kings of the united-then-divided kingdoms. Within that narrative is typically a reference to the prophet serving during each king’s reign.  Some were “resident prophets” like Nathan, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel; others rode in like a storm from afar, like Amos and Micah.  They felt mandated to be “critical lovers” (or perhaps “loving critics”) of the nation.  They affirmed faithfulness: leading and living in alignment with the covenant and policies of justice.  They vigorously challenged injustice, exhibited by the loyalty to God being compromised by competing loyalties.

Their critique had two dimensions—personal and systemic.  The prophets confronted unjust judges and an unjust judicial system as well; unjust business practices and a corrupt economic system; unjust political leaders and a failed political system; unjust religious leaders and a corrupted religious system.

With their stories in mind, we might ask ourselves, where are the prophets of today?  If the voice of prophecy is not silent in our time, where is it being sounded with vigor and volume, relentlessness and courage? Perhaps because there were costs to such brazen and unapologetic words and actions, we collectively are hesitant to embark on the dangerous journey of the prophet. What happened to John the Baptist? Moses, feeling overwhelmed and confused, pleaded for relief or death. Jeremiah, constantly wracked with sadness and anguish, resented his consent to God’s call. And Jesus paid the ultimate price!

READ: Finding Security as the World Is Upended: Reflections on Isaiah 26

I write with a call to biblical reflection, exploring together the personal and collective implications of our faith, and celebrating the guidance, support and encouragement of Christian community.  I want us, in this new year, to ask tough questions and accept differing answers, to explore more than teach, to exchange more than present.

Knowing a more thorough list would be lengthier, may I offer four basic “themes of faithfulness” to our citizenship in the Kingdom of God?

COMPASSION is the most frequently named motivation of Jesus’ words and actions.  Whether his words and actions are tender or confronting, encouraging or challenging, successful or disappointing, compassion seems his consistent starting point. 

INCLUSION is both an Old and New Testament norm. Jesus “sat at table” with both social outcasts and religious leaders. He welcomed foreigners, making socially hated Samaritans heroes of stories. He was threatened with early execution when he offered a hated Syrian as an example of faithfulness.  He even extended the embrace of forgiveness to his executioners.

A FOCUS ON THE LEAST, including re-instatement of the Sabbath and Jubilee years, “God’s redistribution plan,” and the focus of Jesus’ last parable. Among the “least” were women, whom Jesus not only welcomed in ways that dramatically challenged the mores, assumptions, and protocol of his day, but for whom he vigorously advocated in word and action.

STEWARDSHIP: A call to be faithful tenders of the creation, just harvesting and distribution of its resources, mindful extraction and waste production.  Equitable distribution of resources and wealth.

These become lenses through which I reflect on my national citizenship, mindful of alignment and/or dissonance between my nation’s apparent principles and those of my faith.  Lenses by which I can become a “loving critic” of my nation, its prevailing policies, the actions of its leaders, and the decisions about what policies and which candidates I advocate for.

May we ask each of these four themes what are their affirmations of, and, what are their challenges to our “other citizenship.”  What are we called, indeed compelled, to say or do in light of this inquiry?  Perhaps this will awakened in us and others the call to be a prophetic voice and presence.

CW: Suicide

Today I did what I do most days. I woke up before my children (as if I actually slept), make my way downstairs to pour a cup of coffee and enjoy some quiet time. I like to come down just before the sunrise because there’s nothing more spiritual to me than meeting my maker in the morning as God slows down to paint the sky. 

But lately, there’s been this pit in my stomach. This dread. And recently, I was finally able to confess to God out loud, “Lord, I am dreading the anniversary of January 6th.” 

I grew up in a medium sized southern town and my family attended a prominent Methodist church in the community. I knew all of the rules. I followed most of them, but I was a fairly quiet kid who battled anxiety for most of my childhood. As I grew up, my anxiety grew too. We called it perfectionism and a hard work ethic back then. 

As a teenager I found myself spiraling spiritually and emotionally until I attempted suicide the week before my 14th birthday. I failed even at that. My parents did the best they could, but mental illness isn’t something that was acknowledged by my circles back then. So their response was to rip me out of public school and enroll me in several conservative Christian homeschool groups. 

In a post 9/11 world, these groups offered a sense of belonging and purpose. There was a huge focus on defending the faith. But, I confess, I didn’t really know Jesus then. So, I’m not exactly sure what I was defending. Our group was the go-to group of “junior republicans”  to help on republican election campaigns, canvas neighborhoods, march in parades with candidates, and work the polls on Election Day. We couldn’t vote yet, but we sure could expedite any future plans to rise in the republican ranks. Our group traveled to Washington for CPAC and prayer breakfasts. We often paged at the Georgia state Capitol. We did all of these things in the name of God and country. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was being thoroughly discipled in Christian Nationalism: the idolatrous entangling of God and country for the sake of power. 

So fast forward a couple decades to 2020. My husband is Black, and we have four amazing nonwhite children. And as the world began to experience this collective racial reckoning in the middle of a global pandemic, I too realized that there is so much I had to learn—and unlearn. 

As tensions heightened with the election and prominent evangelicals became consumed with conspiracy theories, I began to question the foundation that was laid so many decades before, and I lamented over the roots. 

You see, my family wasn’t just southern, evangelical, and republican, but our lineage descended directly from confederate soldiers. In Heard County, Georgia, the biggest memorial of anyone in my family is of Hezekiah Almon, confederate soldier. My husbands parents are pastors in a rural Black church in North Carolina, but they descended from enslaved people. Probably one of the most painful experiences as a parent is doing one of those family tree assignments with your kids when their genealogy is either unknown or shameful. In our case, it was both. 2020 was the year I had to look my young daughters in the eye and communicate that a side of their lineage is unknown because of slavery. And a side includes people who were fighting to keep people like them enslaved.

READ: Jesus Among the Insurrectionists

Pretending that these details don’t affect our theology and the way we see each other is wholly unhelpful, and the only posture that feels honest is one of humility and repentance. Am I responsible for the sins of my ancestors? No. But I am responsible for mine. I’m responsible for all of the times I was and still at times am complicit in this systemic sin. But because I love God and my husband and children, there is nothing I won’t do to work towards healing and repair for our family. Because I love God, I know that racism and nationalism are evil and contrary to the kingdom of God. Because I love my home, I can say January 6th wrecked me to the core. And because I know hope in Christ, I take comfort that he will get the last word—because he is the Word. 

That day I stood in the kitchen, stirring a pot of chili, and watched the attack unfold in real time. I hid tears from my children as they played and read books on the living room floor while the TV above the fireplace showed the smoke covering the Capitol. As I thought of all the times that I visited that building and worked so hard to advance republican politics, I felt so ashamed. I never had the stomach to vote for Donald Trump, but I was still ashamed even for my small contribution to the rise of the Religious Right. There were thousands of kids just like me. There still are. 

As I sip my coffee this morning and count down the days on the calendar as we approach the one-year anniversary, I mostly grieve for my evangelical siblings that are wholly unwilling to search their hearts and see if there is any wicked way within them like our faith leads us to. Because when I searched mine, I found wickedness. I still find it sometimes. Rooting out the sickness of sin isn’t a practice of degrading ourselves, but it’s freeing ourselves towards the magnificent love of Jesus. Our faith leads us to lay down our crosses, not pick up torches or guns or flags. Our faith leads us to wage peace, not covet power and influence. Our faith leads us towards family, community, and belonging. Our faith leads us towards an otherworldly, upside-down kin-dom where the last and least are first. And as empires rise and empires fall, we would do well to remember that our patriotic anthems do not get us any extra points with Jesus of Nazareth. 

When we are ultimately judged by a God who made us and loves us, we will give an account for how and who we loved. This is why I repent for all the years that I thought God needed a republican president to do God’s will. I repent for all the years I centered America and Americanism. I repent for all the years I weaponized Jesus and the Bible for political and personal gain. I repent for how my focus towards political power distracted me from seeing and centering the marginalized all over the world that God so loves. 

As I curl up next to the fire with my children, I have hope. God has gifted our family this living picture of what holy restoration looks like and it is so beautiful. Regardless of power or politics or whatever happens in the future in America, I know my children will be armed with love, capable of waging peace and reconciliation, and invited to be led on an unexpected adventure towards the upside down kingdom of heaven by Hope incarnate.

It’s hard to believe it has been a year since the insurrection at the Capitol on January 6th, 2021.

It was a terrible day for America and a terrible day for all of us who love Jesus. I am so proud of how we rose to the occasion together to denounce the violence and the theology and conditions that led to the violence on January 6th. I know we all would like to say that things are much better now than a year ago, and maybe some things are. But I’m confident that we are all still convinced that the problem of “Christian” nationalism is not going away.  

We knew that our statement alone was not enough to exorcise the principalities and powers that we are up against, which is why we wrote into the statement itself that we are all committed to taking action.  

So I want to invite you to join me in taking three actions on the anniversary of the insurrection on January 6th.  

1. READ THE STATEMENT ON JANUARY 6th. Let’s go LIVE on our social media accounts on the anniversary of the insurrection and read our statement. The insurrection began around 1 pm EST, so let’s plan to go LIVE on Instagram, Facebook, YouTube, and other platforms at 1 pm EST (Jan. 6th, 2022) and read the statement in its entirety. You can find it here: https://bit.ly/notochristiannationalism

2. POST THE VIDEO from Ash Wednesday 2021 of faith leaders reading the statement. Let’s use the powerful pre-recorded video of all of us reading the statement and circulate it broadly, inviting new people to sign on. We’ve given a fresh touch to the website, and you can easily access the statement and video. Here’s a direct link to the video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t9pWqGWEWNA

3. REACH OUT TO OTHERS. Let’s reach out to a friend or colleague who would benefit from joining the cloud of witnesses saying no to “Christian” nationalism. Over the past year, many new alliances have been formed, and many new friendships have been forged. Let’s continue to reach out to others and equip them with resources and organizations that can help us counter the forces of racism, white supremacy, and nationalism. 

As always, I’m honored to stand with all of you at such a time as this. I’m looking forward to all that 2022 holds for us.

Find the full list of signers and more information at saynotochristiannationalism.org.

I have been thinking about how this incredible man, Archbishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu, and those he influenced have shaped so much of my life and of all our lives here in South Africa. 

My ancestry as a white South African descendant of colonizers, slave traders, apartheid architects, and oppressors sets me up in opposition to racial and social justice from when I was young.

Attending church early on made me believe I was special, unique, and chosen, affirming what I already felt at an unconscious level through my whiteness. We were taught that our privilege in society was because we were recipients of “grace.” We were taught that Jesus died for our sins; however, we only ever spoke of personal sins—like swearing, smoking, and sex—but never systemic sins.

Our family left my birth country, Zimbabwe, in 1978 when I was seven, and we moved to Apartheid South Africa. However, I had already been absorbing how white people were superior. We had several “servants” in our home where I was “klein baas” (little boss). In South Africa, I attended all-white schools, and I recall conversations about the “terrorist” Nelson Mandela and the “heretical” Archbishop. I was taught that he preached a gospel of “liberation theology” rooted in “politics”—both bad things. 

Most of my Christian church experience has been within New Covenant Ministries International (NCMI) relating churches. I first joined a NCMI church, Capital City Church International (3CI), in 1995 in Pretoria. The gospel proclaimed there was completely void of solutions to injustices in society. At their 20th birthday celebration in 2015, of the approximately 2000 people present, it was very revealing that there were less than 50 people of color. This church did practice some generosity towards the poor, but while boasting how biblical they were, they never preached about justice implications of the gospel for the wealthy. 

A turning point came for me in 2010 when a friend in the NCMI leadership team visited our church and asked why Africa (which had the highest percentage of evangelical Christians) had the least development and transformation. He bravely continued, “What is wrong with the gospel we have been proclaiming that it has not liberated people?” 

What a provoking and important question! 

It began a quest to discover for ourselves the real gospel in all its glorious fullness. My wife and I recall reading the “red letters” of the Bible (the words of Jesus) and thinking how little of our Christianity looked like Jesus. We began seeing the heresy of our theology, with its focus on personal admission tickets to heaven, while ignoring the very real hells on earth so many were trapped in. To be fair, there were also prophets within the movement, calling us to just living, but they were mostly ignored.

READ: Jesus is Waiting at Our Border

As we read more widely, we decided to relocate our lives from the comfort of the suburbs towards places of pain and suffering. We actively simplified our lives and moved into Hillbrow, Johannesburg in 2012. However, we still attended our church in the suburbs, with every visit reminding us of the contradictions of the two worlds we were experiencing. One was rich, believing they were “saved,” living in comfort and convenience, while mostly ignoring and often contributing to the suffering of their neighbors just a few kilometers away. The other world, where we lived, sometimes felt like a war zone. Many activists in fact, talked of a war on the poor, not on poverty. We often felt a national disaster should have been called to address this humanitarian crisis. We were seeing and experiencing such horrors, and yet our church (and most of the suburban church at large) was silent.

The only talk of our life in Hillbrow was when our church celebrated us as “heroes.” We were, to them, the exception, never an example of what could be if we all took equality and dignity seriously. Never was there any preaching on redressing the unjust wealth acquired by many during apartheid or how apartheid had shaped our lives. Any conversations like that would have been silenced. The focus of the preaching was rather on “going to the nations” to take the good news out there. Our church leader was widely celebrated for raising up and releasing “hundreds of leaders to the nations,” but they were all white, male leaders. There was certainly a ceiling in the church for black people and women: you could lead worship, but eldership was off-limits. I began to see how many of the NCMI relating churches I had been a part of were sadly reinforcing theology underpinning exclusivity, white supremacy, and other forms of oppression. They just could not see it. 

We were also told that politics was not part of the church’s role, except to have “godly people in power.” “Godly people” implied those who only spoke about “giving God glory,” about “salvation of souls” (note – not of whole people – just their souls), and of heaven. Politicians who spoke of justice, especially racial justice, were seen as divisive. All kinds of racial micro-aggressions were on full display in this church.

Moving to Hillbrow changed much of this for us. Our social location changed. We were exposed to the broader church, and we began to socialize widely. We participated in conversations with leaders concerned about social and racial justice from across the denominational spectrum in the city, people who were also wrestling with how to put the gospel into action against the systems in the here and now. These new friendships and our lived experience in Hillbrow both affirmed that something was wrong with our NCMI movement’s theology and began to fuel dreams of what could be. 

In 2016, we spent a week with some Christian activists on Robben Island, all of whom seemed to be consumed with how to practice justice. We met the revolutionary Lisa Sharon Harper, whose book “The Very Good Gospel ”traced the roots of right-wing evangelicalism and its affiliation with slavery and racial oppression. This was a pivotal moment for us. We began to also read widely about the Doctrine of Discovery and the history of the church’s role in colonialism. There were so many examples of the gospel I grew up with underpinning injustice and oppression. 

Ultimately, however, it is our relationships with neighbors in Hillbrow and other marginalized communities that provided a plumb line for judging our gospel proclamation. If our gospel is not good news to these friends, it is not the gospel of Christ. 

• Friends in prison need a gospel of liberation, not only a promise of freedom in the afterlife. 
• Friends living on the streets need provision, not just promises of eternal mansions. 
• Friends who are sick need quality health care, not just a promise of resurrected bodies in heaven. 
• Friends who are undocumented or asylum seekers need protection and support, not just assurance of belonging to a spiritual family. 
• Historically oppressed racial groups need racial justice, not color-blind statements about all of us being loved equally by God. 
• Romantic and sexual minorities need a public affirmation rejecting that they are sinners as a result of their sexual identity or orientation, and to be assured they belong, are able to be ordained and married, and are free to participate fully as members of God’s beautiful family. 
• Good news for women requires an end to patriarchy and toxic masculinity. 

The gospel is only good news to the poor if it is good news for all those made vulnerable. It needs to translate into dismantling oppressive systems and putting in place real, practical care and love.

Many of my friends have stories of meeting Archbishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu and of his wisdom, his kindness, his humanity, and laughter. I am grateful for their journeys with him and justice that have helped me transform my theology. It has restored my humanity. 

I am sorry for not listening earlier, Tata Tutu, but I dedicate the rest of my days to standing for inclusion, for justice, and for a full gospel proclamation that brings hope to all people not only in the future but also in the now.

Long Live the legacy of Tata Desmond Tutu.

It’s extraordinary isn’t it, how Christianity has always (at least in my experience) been expressed to us as such a “male -centered” religion?  

My dad was a pastor and my grandfather a missionary, both progressive for their time, both loving, gentle, and compassionate. But I was in my late thirties before I first discovered God as my loving Heavenly Mother. The religion I was raised with was led by men, authorized by men, taught by men, with doctrine decided on by men. The women among us received God in a kind of “trickle down” way, where we were allowed to partake of this joy as long as it had been sanctioned by the elders. And even though they were kind, wise elders, they were still all men.  

That’s extraordinary to me now, not only because I have come to know God as my most intimate Mother, but also because the whole event of this Incarnation—the birth of God into the world—was  brought about by an experience that belongs solely to us, the “weaker sex.” 

Only those who have experienced it can understand the tearing agony of contractions, the wild kicks of a whole human being that’s growing inside you, the tears and sweat, the humiliation of being spread wide while you pass a child, a placenta, the umbilical cord, and blood, and blood, and so much blood from the most intimate and vulnerable place in your body. Breasts engorged, sleepless nights, post natal confusion and depression—not to mention the shock and pain and shame (and  just general annoyance) of bleeding monthly from adolescence to middle age!  

Motherhood is an earthy, human, painful, female event, filled with soaring joy and searing pain. God came to us like this: weak and helpless. The first one to know him was a woman, and the first one to see him reborn was also a woman. But somehow we’ve erased these gritty female images from Christ’s birth, death, and rebirth story, preferring an image of Jesus as a white, clean, orderly, and business-like all American. Similarly, we prefer a Mary who is tidied up, serene, and most of all quiet. There’s no screaming and sweating, no stench of fluids in the Nativity Scenes we create.  

Once, as a young mother living in the deep south, I was breastfeeding my newborn (with a blanket covering all the naked parts) on a bench outside of a Walmart, when an older lady—who clearly felt very humiliated for me—scolded me roundly with a “Oh honey! You cannot be doing that here!”  

READ: Mary’s Virginity Matters, but Not for the Reasons You Think

To be honest I didn’t mind too much. She was only trying to protect me, teaching me what was  taught to her: that our nakedness, our femininity, our vulnerability is a shameful thing and it needs to stay hidden. It’s not proper, and it’s not okay. This is a message we women receive again and again from the cradle on up. From our periods to our libido, to our menopause: it’s all like a very  inconvenient secret that we’re supposed to pretend it isn’t there. It’s messy; no wonder people  don’t want it in their religion.  

It’s almost agonizing that many of us seem to prefer a twisted and perverse idea of masculinity in our image of God: one with guns and guts and “greatness.” Is it any wonder that the most weak and vulnerable among us, the most marginalized, flee from this poorly made image of the Creator? 

More and more as the years go by, I am convinced that God became a human because she wanted us to know that we are okay just as we are. She wanted us to accept our messy humanness with all its vulnerability.  

God became a poor, working class person; and in doing so, God declared the least of us sacred. The stable became holy ground, the unwed pregnant girl became a saint. No prosperity to bind us to the  rich one, no renown to bind us to the famous one, no power to bind us to the strong one, there is just love to bind us to Love.  

God became poor, obsolete, weak, and lived with those of us who are poor, obsolete, and weak, so we could choose to love her, Our Wonderful Heavenly Mother, freely.  

In eliminating the most female parts from the Christmas story, we’ve eliminated the most human  parts. But becoming human, being human, affirming the sacredness of humanity, was everything the incarnation was supposed to teach us in the first place! God is with us. God is one of us. Accepting and loving ourselves, wherever we are on the gender spectrum, this I believe, was the very heart of what Christ came to reveal. Blood, sweat, tears, screams and all. 

Over the past two weeks, I’ve been reading and discussing Isaiah 26 with individuals and groups, finding it both challenging and comforting as we seek to understand these dark times.

People facing poverty, imprisonment, and other hardships find Isaiah’s radical message hopeful—like my Honduran friend David, who reads the Bible with villagers in extreme poverty, or a group of ten Triqui-speaking farm workers from Mexico who are currently unemployed and waiting out the months when there’s no field work. Our own Tierra Nueva faith community—made up of many who work hard jobs to put food on the table, those who are homeless, people recently released from prison, or friends struggling with addiction—also find hope in these scriptures.

At each reading, it seems the Spirit whispers to me, alerting me to pay close attention to the relevance of these verses.

Isaiah’s prophetic song expresses a notable separation that is evident through the chapter between those who trust in God and those who don’t—between the righteous and wicked, the poor and the rich, the helpless and the powerful, the humble and the arrogant. There’s a call echoing throughout to trust in God as a refuge.

“We have a strong city; God sets up walls and ramparts for security. ‘Open the gates, that the righteous nation may enter, the one that remains faithful.’ The steadfast of mind you will keep in perfect peace, because he trusts in you. ‘Trust in the Lord forever, for in God the Lord, we have an everlasting rock’” (Isaiah 1:1-3).

This promise of security, free passage into God’s city, and an invitation to trust offers comfort to our people who have little else available to them. Those with not enough money, no pension plan, and no job security can rest in its words. They desire entry into God’s refuge and are curious and desirous of what sounds good, even if it steadfastness of mind and perfect peace is still foreign. They are willing to try trusting God without knowing exactly what this means. I want to too.

The prophet next exposes the true destiny of those which the empire prioritizes: powerful nations, successful organizations, billionaires, millionaires, rich politicians, corporate executives, cartel chiefs, and those with amassed retirement plans and whatever people imagine brings earthly security.

“For God has brought low those who dwell on high, the unassailable city; God lays it low, God lays it low to the ground, God casts it to the dust. The foot will trample it, the feet of the afflicted, the steps of the helpless” (Isaiah 1:5-6).

Here the prophet Isaiah speaks about the not-yet-visible destiny of Judah’s elite at a time when they felt and looked invincible. In the face of what appeared a “high, unassailable city,” God’s judgment is announced as more real than even visible reality. These words echo earlier words in Isaiah 2:12.

“For the Lord of hosts will have a day of reckoning against everyone who is proud and lofty and against everyone who is lifted up, that he may be abased.”

The prophet’s warnings were later realized when the Babylonian army attacked, destroying Jerusalem and carrying off Judah’s elite into exile.  Isaiah’s prophecy continued to speak to later generations, and it certainly continues to speak to our own.

Mary’s song celebrating Jesus’ coming birth echoes these same ominous words of judging the powerful and raising up the vulnerable.

“God has done mighty deeds with God’s arm; God has scattered those who were proud in the thoughts of their heart. God has brought down rulers from their thrones, and has exalted those who were humble. God has filled the hungry with good things; and sent away the rich empty-handed” (Luke 1:51-53).

In contrast, Isaiah presents a way forward for those who put their trust in God:

“The way of the righteous is smooth; O Upright One, make the path of the righteous level. Indeed, while following the way of your judgments, O Lord, we have waited for you eagerly; your name, even your memory, is the desire of our souls. At night my soul longs for you, indeed, my spirit within me seeks you diligently; For when the earth experiences your judgments the inhabitants of the world learn righteousness” (Isaiah 26:7-9).

As someone who has served as a jail and prison chaplain now for over 26 years, I regularly see people who are experiencing judgment learn “righteousness,“ which I define as Spirit-guided living in alignment with Jesus’ life and teachings.

Adversity can really humble us as we recognize our failings and need for forgiveness, freedom, and restoration. The way doesn’t immediately become smooth. But when things are rough, we readily cry out with the prophet, “Make the path of the righteous level!” We know what we’ve been doing hasn’t worked, and we are willing to be guided while trying to trust.

The prophet observes that “though the wicked (synonymous with the rich and powerful here) are shown favor, they do not learn righteousness.” Do you notice that when people’s wealth increases and they benefit from tax breaks and business successes, that they become more merciful and justice-oriented? According to Isaiah, they don’t, and we won’t either if we’re in that camp.

“He deals unjustly in the land of uprightness, and he does not perceive the majesty of the Lord. O Lord, your hand is lifted up yet they do not see it” (Isaiah 26:10-11).

READ: Subversive Peace for this Christmas Season

In contrast, the righteous acknowledge their life of bondage to other dominating powers, confessing God’s name alone.

“O Lord our God, other masters besides you have ruled us; but through you alone we confess your name” (Isaiah 26:13).

The prophet then shifts attention again to the fate of the rich and unjust, declaring God’s coming judgment:

“The dead will not live, the departed spirits will not rise; therefore you have punished and destroyed them, and you have wiped out all remembrance of them” (Isaiah 26:14).

 

There’s no us-them militancy or pharisaic superiority here!  The prophet’s own community of resisters are brutally honest, recognizing their inability to save.

“We gave birth, as it seems, only to wind. We could not accomplish deliverance for the earth” (Isaiah 26:18).

I read this with a deep sigh as I recognize, quite regularly, my own inability to save anyone.

The prophet’s subsequent confession that God alone brings salvation through raising the dead rings so true for me now as we lose person after person from our community to overdose deaths. This persists, despite our best efforts at pastoral care, drug and alcohol rehab, relapse prevention and re-entry approaches.

“Your dead will live; their corpses will rise. You who lie in the dust, awake and shout for joy” (Isaiah 26:19).

The prophet then speaks to people of faith who live between the present moment and the future victory of resurrection. This is the time we now live in, when God’s judgment is underway. This judgment involves an extended period of shaking, where a massive reversal is happening, which will not stop until God’s justice is established on the earth.

This reversal will shake the foundations of all visible systems as God brings the rich and powerful down along with every structure they’ve created to secure their power and fortunes (nations, corporations, economies, denominations, etc).  God’s justice is underway, which will result in the raising up of the poor and needy.

During this period of upheaval the prophet offers advise that may surprise us. Rather than mobilizing people to reform government or to engage in class conflict, personal defense, or any kind of violent struggle, the prophet calls people into an even more intimate and personal refuge that parallels the “strong city” behind walls described at the beginning of the song.

 

“Come, my people, enter into your rooms and close your doors behind you; hide for a little while until indignation runs its course” (26:20).

In the Greek version of this verse, the underlying word behind “room” is tameion, meaning “innermost, hidden, secret room.” This is the same word Jesus uses in his teaching about prayer in Matthew 6:6.

“But you, when you pray, go into your inner room, close your door and pray to your Father who is in secret, and your Father who sees what is done in secret will reward you.”

The Greek version of Isaiah 26:20’s call to enter your room is word-for-word the same as Matthew 6:6, apart from the verb “shut,” which in Isaiah means “to firmly shut” (apokleio).  Firmly shutting the door is urged during times of upheaval. In contrast, Jesus simply tells us to go inside and shut the door (kleio), adding that our Father is there inside awaiting us, seeing what is done in secret and ready to reward us. The Father’s presence is a stronghold.

Isaiah ends his song with words that describe a period of exposure, where injustice and crimes long covered up will be brought into plain view.

“For behold, the Lord is about to come out from God’s place to punish the inhabitants of the earth for their iniquity; And the earth will reveal her bloodshed and will no longer cover her slain” (Isaiah 26:20-21).

This is the period in which we now live, when the sins of the powerful are being brought to light. Whether that be victims of clergy, politicians (or anyone’s) sexual abuse coming forward to tell their stories, the bodies of First Nation’s children being unearthed from mass graves in Canadian residential schools, Wiki-leaks exposés of corruption, war atrocities, gross economic inequalities, or the disappearance of species and polar icecaps due to global warming, the movement of sacred history includes all the deeds of darkness coming into the light.

Going into our rooms and shutting the door must not be escapist. Rather, it involves first a deep recognition of our worsening situation that would alert us to the need to enter our rooms. Things are only going to become more dire, and we must resist denial and false hopes.

Jesus calls us to pray to our Father there in the secret place, where our identity becomes clarified as we come to more fully know ourselves as children in God’s family, in the Kin-dom of God’s Son, Jesus Christ. There, in the secret place, we listen for words, which nurture, empower, and direct our next steps, showing us our course of action in Jesus’ liberation movement.

Throughout the Gospel and the second volume of Acts, the author of Luke sets up a distinct contrast between the kingdom of God and the kingdoms of this world. He specifically sets up this contrast between the kingdom of Rome, the primary political entity in Israel and the greater Mediterranean region, and the kingdom brought about through the coming of the Messiah. The unfolding drama of the Gospel presents this contrast from the outset. 

In Luke 2, the familiar story of the birth of the Christ child subtly, but poignantly sets up this contrast. As the story opens, Luke informs us that Caesar Augustus has issued a decree for a census throughout the entire Empire. This seems to place the spotlight on Caesar and the Roman Empire. Luke does this because he desires his readers to think of all that Caesar Augustus the Empire he established represents. 

Caesar Augustus was considered one of the greatest leaders of Rome. Tradition states that Augustus’s birth was proclaimed as good news because of the coming of a savior. He was also proclaimed as Lord. His reign brought to end the many civil wars that had plagued the Roman Republic. During his reign the Empire enjoyed an unprecedented time of peace and prosperity. This peace came to be known as the Pax Romana – Peace of Rome. This peace, as with many kingdoms of this world, was upheld through military might. It also was not true peace as there remained squabbles and small rebellions throughout the Empire. People did not experience the true harmony, compassion, and provision that should come with peace. Rather, they experienced oppression, heavy taxation, and limits upon their ability to flourish. The author of Luke secretly highlights this by mentioning the census. These censuses were used for one purpose: to have a count of the subject peoples in order to evaluate taxation. In other words, they served as tools in order to further establish the authority of Rome.

Luke quickly shifts the spotlight from the grand halls of Roman power and enforced peace to a different kingdom in which true peace can be experienced. As the scene at the manger in Bethlehem unfolds and the various characters take their places the peace that God intends for all people emerges. Joseph takes his betrothed Mary for registration in response to the decree of the Roman Empire. While there, Mary gives birth to her firstborn—the labor we celebrated once again last week.

Then a curious scene emerges in the shadows of Bethlehem. Somewhere on the outskirts of town a group of shepherds have gathered. Shepherds were a despised people within Israel due to the fact that shepherds’ work often precluded them from participating in religious activities. Shepherds were among a select group of social reprobates who could not serve as witnesses or judges in a trial. They were generally viewed as vagabonds and thieves. They are a people often rejected and ignored by the world, left to their duties of tending sheep. It is to this group of social outcasts that God chooses to make an announcement of astonishingly good news—good news in which God declares a true peace that subverts the ways of the Empire. By coming first to these shepherds with this message of good news, God declares that this good news, this peace, is for all people, especially those cast out from society.

READ: Kingdom of God, Kingdoms of Men

Luke chooses to announce the good news by deliberately contrasting Christ the Lord with Caesar Augustus. As mentioned, tradition developed that Augustus’ birth was declared as good news. Augustus was also declared as Savior and Lord. The angel that appears to the shepherds uses the same phrasing. Thus, Luke subverts the Empire, declaring the Christ child as the true king. The good news is that Christ is Savior and Lord, not Caesar Augustus and the militaristic, domineering, destructive policies that came through the kingdom over which Augustus ruled.

After the initial message from heaven in which an angel announces the good news that Christ is the Lord and Savior that the world needs, a large group of the heavenly host appears, declaring God’s kingdom action through the advent of the Christ. That kingdom action is to bring peace on earth. This is not Roman peace enforced through violence, but God’s peace given through the gift of the Messiah, who will sacrifice himself for all the earth.

This peace arrives in the form of an innocent child. Through the work, grace, and love of God, this child grows to bring the kingdom of God to fruition. This kingdom is realized through the willing sacrifice of the Christ on the cross. Through this act, the Christ brings about reconciliation between God and humanity. The peace we need is established. This kingdom is also established through the formation of an alternative community, a community that should stand for God’s peace in the midst of a world, of many kingdoms that seek to create a false peace through dominance, self-centeredness, militarism, and destructive choices. Christ the Lord, establishes this community, which has come to be known as the church so that this blessed people might bring about the peace sorely needed in this world.

Those of us who claim obedience to Christ the Lord must discover how to live in an alternative manner. Rather than adopting the patterns of the kingdoms of this world—kingdoms like Rome that rule through division, oppression, and militarism—we need to adopt the patterns lived out and declared by Christ our Lord. We need to view the humble self-sacrificial attitude of our Jesus and discover how to live this out in our world.

God came to live among us in order to bring about peace on earth for all people. The kingdoms of this world and loyalty to those kingdoms will never bring about God’s peace. Instead, we must bow to the Christ, like lowly shepherds. Even though we might be cast out from the powers of this world, we can come and worship. Then we, like the shepherds finding the acceptance of God’s grace and peace, can glorify and praise God. 

Our acts of worship can then be lived out through sharing the good news of God’s peace, of God’s kingdom with all whom we encounter. Instead of sowing attitudes that bring about division and hatred we sow attitudes that reconcile people, drawing them into healed relationships. Instead of following after leaders who enforce “peace” through their violence and rhetoric, we follow our Lord and Savior who guides us into the peace he establishes.

On November 17, 1993 the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) was signed into law by President Clinton in agreement with Canada and Mexico to create the world’s largest free trade area. Following the signing, NAFTA paved the way for US manufacturers to relocate to Mexico and Central America (through CAFTA) in search of cheaper labor, displacing 682, 900 US jobs. As a consequence of the importation of cheaper crops (such as corn) from the US into these countries, rural Mexican farmers (who were not provided environmental or labor protection under NAFTA) were unable to compete with the changing and imposed market. As a result, 1.3 million farm jobs were lost. On January 1, 1994, three minutes after NAFTA came into effect, the Mexican State of Chiapas exploded into its first of many political uprisings in fear of what the new trade agreement would do to their economy. Since then, the eruption of armed conflict and displaced people has not ceased. This situation has created and enhanced desperation to survive by migrating north for millions of people over the past twenty years.

Interstate 10 is slowly illuminated by the glow of a dawn creeping over the blue terrain of Arizona. We’re winning an unintended race with an East-bound train as we head home toward Shreveport. With a week in the borderlands behind us, I am processing, and I am grieving.

Six days ago, the grey New Mexico mesas, peppered with shrubs much more stunted than our Louisiana pines, were a sight for sore eyes after the 7th hour of low-lying-everything that West Texas offers. Six days ago I knew three things about immigration and the border.

1. There is an issue.
2. There are sides.
3. I probably lean more heavily towards those yelling “no more entries” because, at face value—and with the opinions I’d ingested—it made the most sense.

We arrived at Good Shepherd after two days of road time. With air-mattresses and unbathed bodies, our intentional Christian community joined our host church for their annual Mariachi Christmas in the multi-purposed sanctuary.

Monica, one of four bandmates, belted through pipes that sounded sculpted by the best of opera schools, while a room full of warm, retired white folks sang along in Spanish.

Pastor Randy joined us in the Sunday School room we would call home during our stay and began fielding our first round of questions about the area and its ambiguously daunting issue called immigration. “This valley is and has always been a funnel for periodic migration—of birds, of wind and seeds, of people. This wall is stopping something that creation made natural, ” he explained. “And people don’t realize that we are getting Mexico and Central America’s best and brightest because of the millions of hard and educated workers who lost their jobs when the US approved free trade.”

He explained a bit of NAFTA/CAFTA and how they’ve benefited the wealthy greatly while causing so much detriment and divide for the lower middle class and the poor. “NAFTA is designed for those who have everything and militates against those who have nothing, ” Randy shared. I had never heard of this before, but it sounded oddly familiar to the US policies enforced in Haiti in the ‘90s that wiped out most of the country’s farm economy through cheaper rice imports—a tragedy for which President Clinton has publicly apologized saying, “”I had to live everyday with the consequences of the loss of capacity to produce a rice crop in Haiti to feed those people because of what I did; nobody else.” I had heard rumors of this history during my time in Les Cayes and Port au Prince, and I began to question where else in the world was my country making these deals with the devil.

READ: A Ride for the Common Good

The next morning, we followed Randy in our 15-passenger vehicle to pick up Shura, a fellow Green Valley Samaritan who would be assisting in our border crossing for the afternoon. With the rain setting in for a day’s worth of steady trickle, we came upon a water station set out by the 200+ Samaritans on the private property of an acquaintance. It is not abnormal for a migrant—dehydrated and on death’s door—to be seen walking through someone’s backyard in this part of desert-country. We noticed the border patrol vehicle as we unloaded our own and moved toward the watering site. Shura waved. “I try to get them to be silly, ” she says, “Because the minute you start butting heads, we’ve lost and the migrants have lost.”

They showed us the blue flag posted high above the scraggly tree indicating that maybe help and hydration can be found there. Information typed out in Spanish was stuck to the side giving instructions on how to call for help and where one might go. Shura explained how white supremacist groups periodically make their rounds to these sites, defacing water stations in their child’s play quest to “kill a migrant.” I shuttered at the hatred.

We then set out for our 30-minute drive to the border of Nogales, Arizona and Nogales, Mexico where we would be crossing for the day. Along the way, Shura explained how over 2.9 million acres in the area are run by the Cartels. She shared that as desperation increased in the southern countries, organized crime increased alongside vulnerable migrants whom they could now prey upon to an ungodly extent. “Coyotes used to be a mom and pop business where you’d pay a guide to help you find a better life. Now it is assumed that most Coyotes are working for the Cartels. Largely these Coyotes are solicited by Assassins who monitor the border’s every move during their own crossing desperation—a fate they can now only escape through death.” Ninety percent of women crossing are raped at least once by Cartels, Coyotes, fellow travelers, etc. It is not uncommon for a Mexican woman to begin taking birth control months before she begins her migration, we learned.

We were told that when people are picked up in the desert, they have often traveled for months with nothing but the shoes on their feet and a backpack, all in the drive to provide for their families that cannot survive in Mexico and Central America’s current situations. “When they are found by Border Patrol, all their possessions are taken (money, glasses and cell phones with every number they know included), ” they explained, “Thirty-eight thousand dollars have been taken by the US from deported migrants as a means of ‘deterrence;’ and yet, they almost always return.”

Our group crossed the border into Mexico unchecked and with ease. I ran my hand alongside the gate through which they herd the deported back across the line. “Cattle, ” I mumbled toward the tall wires.

The first stop for our time in Nogales, Mexico was at El Comedor, a Jesuit-run food program for deported migrants at which the Samaritans serve each week. A mural of the last supper (complete with hispanic women, children, and men with backpacks sitting beside a Jesus with a backwards cap) stretched the wall. A 29 year-old dad from Phoenix sat at one of the tables where they cut bread. He shared how he’d lived in the states since he was 5, had a wife and kids (all US citizens), and is a lawyer. However, through means of a traffic violation, his illegal residency was discovered; without signing papers, he was deported in the night with zero family in Mexico to which he could return.

We walked several miles through the city, meeting men like Angel at his tamale stand and seeing shelters where US families have moved to take care of the homeless. Along one stretch of our 12-mile day, we came upon a part of the 21’ wall which was spray painted with pictures of candles. It was a memorial for a boy shot nine times by border patrol. A few men had attempted to jump the fence that day, but our hosts said he was simply walking alongside the wall when he was gunned down. Not far from this site hung signs declaring “Justice for Jose Antonio, ” a 17 year-old who was shot by US border patrol for throwing rocks over the fence. I thought of Ferguson and New York and had trouble breathing as we continued our trek toward the Posada.

A Posada is a traditional reenactment of Mary and Joseph’s search for lodging prior to the birth of Jesus. We followed a young Mary, Joseph, and their angel throughout the city of Nogales while the crowd read immigration reform liturgy through the fence asking, “Is there any room in the inn?” Mary’s donkey caused her purple umbrella to bob up and down as they sang through the rusty steel for reform, while men on the other side sang back “We are scared.” I realized in this moment that there were people in our group who could not, no matter what avenues they took, be granted permission to be on the other side of that wall. And here I, and the man singing in response, were able to come and go as we chose.

With achey feet and soaked shoes, we crossed back through the border check with nothing but a flash of our driver’s licenses as Cartel assassins called from the bridge’s overpass towards our group.

I thought about how Jesus’s first few years were met with threat in his homeland, causing his and his family’s necessary migration. I thought about what it would have been like if Egypt had erected a wall and an impossible system of entry to where our Lord would have not been allowed passage, forcing him to be in direct threat of Herod’s infanticide.

I thought about the season of Advent and its reminder that we are waiting on a world not yet made right with the promise of a God who came and will come again. I thought about all the ways that the world must be made new that we’d seen that day.

I thought about the radical mark of the Christian to be hospitable to the stranger. I thought about the pregnant virgin and her travels, the pregnant migrant and her travels, and my own child within me that came along for the journey that day. I thought about the obedience in all of those who have said yes to the suffering on both sides of the line—of all those who have opened doors when it wasn’t safe or esteemed.

I thought about the complexities of this issue and how, indeed, borders are important to a country’s functioning. I thought about how the song that is being sung is that no one wants anyone to be here illegally—not the right-winged citizen, nor the hiding migrant. I thought about how our greed has caused a desperation so deep, and more money has been pumped into the militarization of the border rather than the revitalization of the countries of origin.

I thought about all the references in scripture to how we should treat the alien among us.

And I thought about how I didn’t know any of this, truly didn’t care about any of this, 48 hours before, and how powerful Jesus’s “come and see” model is.

I asked for wisdom and words as my mind began to change.

Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy.

“We met a woman who broke her hip falling off the border wall!” 

He was yelling so I could hear him over the wind.

“Later on, while we were riding along the border wall, we saw someone fall and break their leg!!” 

I peddled my bicycle faster, so I was near enough to hear him, while also listening to the car that was coming behind us. 

“It’s built just high enough, if you jump or fall off, you won’t be able to walk away!” 

I am riding across the state of Florida on the final stretch of a 3200-mile cross country bicycle ride with the group We The People Ride. The purpose of the ride was to highlight the need for better immigration policies that do exactly what our faith asks of us: to welcome the foreigner and the stranger (Lev. 19:34), to remember this land is God’s, and we are all immigrants (Lev. 25:23). 

I joined the group in November for the last section of the ride. I didn’t know anyone in the group. When I flew into the Tallahassee airport, two strangers driving from Ohio picked me up. I was provided with a bike, food, and a place to sleep each night. This little community was living out the very way of life they were asking our larger country to live out: to welcome and care for the stranger.  

Though I wasn’t able to ride along the border, I was able to learn a lot from the riders who did. I found that immigration is at the intersection of so many of our deep struggles in the U.S. At the core, immigration speaks to our tendency to devalue life. We The People Ride spent the first 1600 miles of the trip riding along our southern border meeting immigrants, refugees, border patrol, and communities who are directly impacted by our immigration policies. It became very clear that the purpose of the border wall isn’t just to deter immigrants. It’s meant to permanently harm and kill people. The term used is “Deterrence by death.” 

The border wall used to be 10 feet high. Then, it was increased to 17 feet high. Now it is 30 feet high so that, if you fall from 30 feet, you won’t be able to walk away. Our group not only heard stories about this but saw the effects first hand. The border wall is also strategically placed to funnel people into death traps, such as the desert in Ajo, Arizona. The wall stops and invites people to try their luck crossing the desert. Thousands of people have died trying to make this journey as they run out of water and food. A wall doesn’t deter desperate people, and neither do deserts. In June 2021, 380 people died in this Arizona region attempting to reach safety. 

People try to cross the wall and desert in hopes of a better life. As people of faith, we know these stories. This is the story of Hagar in the desert, the story of the Israelites in the wilderness, the story of Mary, Joseph, and Jesus fleeing to Egypt—all searching for life and hope and freedom. 

READ: Jesus is Waiting at Our Border

Our government doesn’t track migrant deaths, but the communities on the border do. These cities and towns care deeply for the immigrants and refugees. Groups from these communities travel into the desert and leave food and water hoping people might find it and survive their trek through.  Maria Singleton lives in Ajo and shared that they’re deeply impacted knowing people are dying around their community. Bodies are found all around the desert and even just outside of town. In Arizona, over the past 10 years, almost 4,000 migrant bodies have been found. Surely, more people have died since it takes as little as three weeks for a body to disappear in the desert. 

As our group road through these communities along the U.S. border, we asked the same question to everyone: “What do you know that you wish everyone else in our country knew?” Citizens, mayors, people of all backgrounds answered the same way: “Would you please tell people that it’s not dangerous here. It’s not true what people are saying about us. It’s not dangerous to live on the border.” 

What is happening on our southern border is a result of the false stereotypes we have created. We’ve been fed the story that living on the border is filled with immigrant criminals, rapists, drug lords, and the cartel. These are lies that feed our fear of strangers, of non-white bodies, and of people who are poor and from poor countries. This has created the extremely toxic narrative in our country that everyone coming across the southern border is a threat. 

This is not what the communities who live on the border in the U.S. experience though. These communities care deeply for immigrants and refugees. They advocate for a change in our immigration policies. These cities and towns are teaching us how to live and work for the common good of all people. 

As people of faith, and in my own United Methodist tradition, we are called to advocate for Common Good immigration policies. We The People Ride understands the “Common Good” to mean “setting policies leading to the inclusion of immigrants, refugees, asylum seekers through a clear, fair, accessible path to migrate into the United States.” Every person I spoke with on the ride agreed that our immigration system is not working, but most people don’t understand how harmful our border policies are for immigrants.

Take for instance the policy coined “Remain in Mexico” – a Trump era policy that is continuing under President Biden. This policy massively reduced the number of asylum seekers to a record low of 15,000 and requires anyone seeking asylum to wait in Mexico. Now, tens of thousands of asylum seekers are in make-shift camps with no money or resources. Everyone to whom our group talked said they paid to make the journey (many selling everything they had) and ended up in debt to criminal cartels along the way. They are to pay off the debt with the money they make in the U.S., which would also guarantee the safety of their families back home. Now they are stuck in Mexico, with no money or resources, at the mercy of the cartels.

While the Biden administration has raised the number of asylum seekers, it still isn’t high enough to fix the problem we’ve created. People came to the border, not only with the hopes of gaining asylum, but of being able to wait safely in the U.S. as their case is adjudicated (which can take 6 months or more). By drastically lowering the number of people granted asylum, and by requiring everyone to wait in Mexico, we have trapped people. They cannot come, and they cannot go. They cannot find a safe place. 

We have strengthened the power and influence of the cartels and we have created more desperation, which will lead to more people taking more chances . . . which will lead to more deaths . . . 

Our immigration policies have been, and continue to be, literal death sentences for thousands of innocent people.

But, there are people who want to change this. 

People who are doing amazing work. 

People who know that we need Common Good immigration policies. 

People who know our faith demands it. 

Find out more about We The People Ride and help make change here.

It is the time of year when our collective consciousness turns to virginity: the season when the entire Western world is unduly interested in the un-penetrated hymen of one Israeli teenager. After all, without the Virgin Mary, there would be no Christmas. Her anatomy is pretty much the crux of the miracle we empty our wallets to celebrate, whether or not we even believe it to be true. The patriarchal tradition of majority Christian culture has promised us that Mary’s “purity” is at the center of our Christmas story.

But what if Mary’s virginity—the very part of the Nativity story we think we know so well—is actually a mystery we have yet to fully unravel? 

For 2,000 years, Christians have held fast to the belief that Mary’s conception of Jesus was miraculous—sexless. I’m not here to object; after all, inexplicable phenomena are a part of spiritual experience (and if California Condors can reproduce without a male, why not Mary?). But it’s also undeniable that the Church has a dicey relationship with the carnality of human sexuality. The critique of Christianity’s hyper-fixation on sexual purity is more than fair, yet if we look back over the canon of mythology throughout human history, we see pretty quickly just how often the symbol of virginity was evoked to tell a deeper story.

In myths and fairy tales, a virgin is a young woman who suffers some hardship and must go inward to discover the depths of herself. Her virginity is imperative because it represents self-belonging. She is not the property of a husband—not physically, emotionally, or spiritually, either. Neither is she under the protection of a father.

While the well-documented archetypal male “hero’s journey” is one that requires radical sacrifice on behalf of others, the less acknowledged virgin’s journey is one of becoming self-determining: her heroism is not in rescuing others but in finding her own voice through an awakening.

We see this in mythological tales like that of Inanna, who must descend alone to the underworld (i.e. the unconscious) and strip herself of one protective power at each gate she comes upon in order to continue journeying deeper inward. We see it too in fairy tales like that of Little Red Riding Hood, who also journeys inward—as represented by the dark woods—and must face the breakdown of the construct of her world that she once thought to be infallible. In both stories, the virgin is tasked with an awakening deep within her psyche that invites her into a womanhood of self-belonging.

And so if we hold the virgin archetype up against Mary of Nazareth, we might be surprised by what we find. What if Mary’s virginity tells us not just about Jesus’ significance, but equally, about hers?

The virgin’s journey calls Mary to be self-determining. When approached by the angel Gabriel, she gives her own consent to a pregnancy that will stigmatize her for life, consulting no one else first, male nor female, peer nor elder. She would have been well aware that her fiat would make her a legally valid candidate for a public stoning; but with courage, she moved toward union with the Holy One when it was offered to her. Mary accepted a hero’s journey that would call her not outward to conquer the world, but inward to conquer the temptation to look to others for direction, validation, and permission. 

READ: Jesus is Waiting at Our Border

While the entire Christian church holds to the belief of Mary’s miraculous conception of Jesus, Catholics take it one step further to the dogma of perpetual virginity: the belief that Mary remained a physical virgin all her life, even after marrying Joseph. (Non-Catholics are usually unaware of this teaching, and Protestants are likely scratching their heads with confusion since the New Testament mentions Jesus’ brothers and sisters. But the Catholic Church interprets this to mean “cousins.”) The teaching of Mary’s perpetual virginity is often scoffed at by those both outside and inside the Church to be archaic, sexist, and puritanical. These are not irrelevant objections and should be held under feminist critique.

But what if the doctrine of Mary’s perpetual virginity communicates something far deeper than the church fathers and popes understood? What if deep in our human consciousness we needed her as an archetype to remain metaphorically whole through the course of her life and motherhood, ultimately belonging only to herself and her own experiential knowledge of God? What if perpetual virginity is meant to prophesy to us about the union between the soul and the divine, free of any third-party intervention?

Of course, there is a wider story at hand. The fleshiness of the Silent Night promises us that whoever the good and gracious mystery that is God might be, they ardently desire to be in union with human beings. 

In this current season of Advent, I find myself particularly struck by the profundity and audacity of hope—that we are called to be present to the depths and darkness that surround us, all the while practicing eager anticipation for the light that is to come. In hope’s reality, we celebrate the joy and promise embedded in Christ’s birth while knowing our work on earth is far from over. 

I think about the overwhelming injustices that have happened in the past year alone: the lives that were taken from unnecessary gun violence and police brutality, the souls we’ve lost from a persistent and divisive pandemic, the people we’ve locked up or executed in the name of “justice.”

My heart is both weary and hopeful as I cling to the familiar lyrics of O Holy Night, beckoning us all to a better Gospel than we often see enacted these days.

Truly He taught us to love one another 

His law is love and His gospel is peace 

Chains shall He break for the slave is our brother 

And in His name all oppression shall cease 

And in Jesus’ name, all oppression shall cease. In this Christmas season, we celebrate the miracle that Christ is coming, that he has come; and yet we know there is still much redemptive work to do to carry out Christ’s vision for love, justice, and true peace. 

I believe that, in order for us to experience true peace, justice, or love, we must begin by telling the truth. Too often, we have numbed the aches and groans of the world in a false peace that seeks to resolve and explain away our neighbor’s pain (or worse yet, to blame them for it). Again and again, we refuse to examine the rotten roots of a withered tree, preferring instead to label the fruit a ‘bad apple’ and blame it for its own worms. 

In the Introduction of Right Here, Right Now: Life Stories from America’s Death Row, a collection of first-person stories written by men on America’s death row, Editor Lynden Harris challenges us to examine the roots of one such rotten tree, America’s criminal justice system: 

No other society has imprisoned as many of its own as we do here in the United States. What we hide in the dark obscurity of prisons and jails are real people, shredded by mental illness, violence, abuse, and poverty. As one young man told me, “Poverty and prison go together like Kool-aid and sugar. Without sugar, you got no Kool-Aid. Without poverty, you got no prison.” 

READ: The New War on Christmas

Ms. Harris goes on to discuss our racially and economically targeted prison system through the lens of “American apartheid,” and presents the need for our own truth telling process, much like the Truth and Reconciliation Commission was established in South Africa to address the long, gaping wounds of Apartheid. She writes:

Perhaps we would benefit from our own Truth and Reconciliation process. Who needs to tell the truth? Who needs to listen? Surely we all do. We need to tell the truth about who it is we incarcerate. We need to tell the truth about why we think it’s OK. Too often, what we accept as truth is simply some form of It must be because it is. Stay within that circular world, and those statements hold up. You can’t see the river till you climb onto the banks. But clamber up, and suddenly the river is defined. It stands out against a larger landscape of possibility. 

Landscapes and riverbanks: the imagery of fertile ground. Growth, life, and healthy planting abound, but only if we’re willing to tell the truth about the systems in which we so often ignore the soil. This Advent season, I am finding deep meaning in reading books like Right Here, Right Now, reminding me of the work that is still to be done, as we live in the “Here and Not Yet” of it all. 

During this miraculous season, may we remember the celebration of Christ’s birth, rejoicing that he came to bring a law of love and a gospel of peace for all humanity. And may that spur us on to dream of a larger landscape of possibility for our siblings currently tangled up in the rotten roots of suffocating systems.

I live in the town where Ahmaud Arbery was murdered, and I’ve seen many things that I will not soon forget. About eighteen months ago, I stood at our courthouse—the one you saw on TV for weeks—with hundreds from our community all stunned at the video we could not unsee. We demanded Justice for Ahmaud and a change in Georgia’s citizen’s arrest law. And just a few weeks ago, I joined a quieter gathering of our local clergy and community at those courthouse steps as the sun rose over the oaks and the reporters set up cameras while the courthouse lights flicked on for another day of trial. We prayed for our town, all the families involved, justice, and healing. And when the hundreds of Black clergy assembled from across the nation to support the Arbery family, I joined my husband and other locals on the fringes. 

I could share more of the moments etched in my mind, but what I’ll remember most is what I didn’t see. Let me explain.

My first hint came when I learned that our Black community affectionately called Linda Dunikoski, the lead prosecutor, “Auntie Linda.” On the night of the verdict, the phrase popped all over my social media. I wondered if Ahmaud’s own Aunt Theawanza started it, so I searched. That night, over 3,000 posts mentioned Auntie Linda. I recognized names from our local Black community, but many also posted from across the nation and most invited Linda Dunikoski to Thanksgiving dinner. “She can sit at the head of the table.” “She gets to carve the turkey.” “She can have the first scoop of mac and cheese.” Auntie Linda was everywhere, and Auntie Linda was family.

Then the week after the verdict, the absence became clearer when I listened to The Daily podcast, looking for insights into the prosecution’s strategy. The hosts commented on the risky and surprising choice to exclude the racial context of Ahmaud’s murder. I followed the trial closely and I remember: Dunikoski only mentioned race once, and it was a small note in her closing arguments. One of the podcast hosts wondered out loud if the family disapproved of the state’s handling of the trial. But his cohost explained, “Ahmaud Arbery’s family was extremely pleased with the way Ms. Dunikoski conducted herself in court before there was even a verdict. And from other conversations with African-American people in Brunswick, Georgia, after the verdict, you got this sense that for a lot of people it felt like a more poignant victory…”

A more poignant victory.

READ: The Cross and the Lynching Tree: A Requiem for Ahmaud Arbery

That’s when all the dots connected and I saw it: When the prosecution left race out of the trial, all that was left was equality, humanity, and dignity.

That is what I didn’t see. I did not see a trial about what white men can do to a Black man. Of course, race matters, and of course his murder was all about race. But by leaving it out, Dunikoski and her team dignified Ahmaud Arbery as a human. It was not about Ahmaud’s skin, but about his death. About his life. About his right to live. Full stop.

Of course, our Black community understood. They listened to Dunikoski speak of Ahmaud Arbery as a man of equal standing with other men—as it should be in the eyes of the court, as it should be in the eyes of our nation, and as it should have been that February afternoon in the quiet streets of the Satilla Shores neighborhood. And because of this, they trusted Dunikoski with a kind of trust that is often only extended to those closest to us—family—and called her Auntie to prove it.

But this is why it matters to me and why it should matter to all of us. As I watched Dunikoski guide the jury through the trial without focusing on categories and colors, she showed us all how the American judicial system should work, with equal rights, equal standing, and equal dignity.

I don’t know if Linda Dunikoski believes in the same already-but-not-yet Kingdom of God as I do, but all that I did not see in that courtroom reminded me. We are siblings, sons and daughters and children of God. And through the gatherings on our courthouse lawn, Auntie Linda’s strategy, the dignifying of a fellow human being, and the outpouring of Thanksgiving invites, I saw how we belong to one another—how we are all equal, how we are all family, and how we can live in an America with justice for all.

On the night of the 2020 presidential election, hundreds of migrants gathered in an all-night vigil to pray for deliverance for the type of prison they were in at a make-shift asylum camp on the Mexican-American border. They believed that God would deliver them. Though the prayers may not have been directly for a Biden victory, the prayers were that the election would lead to a more compassionate stance towards immigration. It was somewhat ironic as on the other side of the border, many Christians, particularly those who belong to the same evangelical/Pentecostal tradition of many of these Central American believers, were praying for the exact opposite result to occur. 

The individuals that were in the camp in Matamoros, Mexico across from Brownsville, Texas had been there for many months. Some had been there for over a year. This was due to the Trump administration’s Remain in Mexico Policy (or it’s official Orwellian name, the Migration Protection Protocol) and the subsequent Title 42 immigration restrictions that were enacted during COVID that shut down the border for asylum seekers completely. 

The majority of these individuals in this initial camp in Matamoros under the Remain in Mexico policy were allowed to enter into the United States in the early spring of 2021 after Biden became president. One of the leaders in the asylum camp, Sandra, would later state that it was God who delivered them from the camp. She believed it would occur despite all the reasons to doubt. This move at least allowed these individuals to have their asylum hearing heard, though in many parts of the country, particularly in the Bible Belt, the rates for asylum are abysmal due to anti-immigrant judges. Our ministry, Practice Mercy, was able to work directly with these migrants over the course of many months. Though we did bring in supplies to assist and tried to direct them towards legal aid when appropriate, our primary purpose was to be a presence of Christ for them in the camp, to pray with them, and for them to know that there were people supporting them in the struggles they were going through.

Though there was an initial sigh of relief when many of these individuals were able to enter the country, the more insidious aspect of our border policy continued under the Biden Administration under the Title 42 COVID restrictions. While the camp closed down at Matamoros, due to this policy another makeshift camp opened up within months in neighboring Reynosa. Thousands of people are forced to sleep on the streets in horrific conditions where kidnapping, sexual assault, and violent crime are a daily reality. One of the most heartbreaking things we have seen are mothers who talk about how they can only sleep a couple of hours a night because of the fear of what will happen to their children in the middle of the night. Of course, many people do end up crossing through the river, but they have to pay the cartels to do this or they can be killed. The restrictive policies have essentially strengthened organized crime even more.

In in the fall of 2021, even as the US began to allow tourists to come from Mexico and made requirements for any individuals entering the country to have a COVID vaccination, they kept the restrictions for asylum seekers at the border. This demonstrated that this policy no longer had anything to do with COVID (if it ever really did). It was a roundabout way of keeping the border closed. There have certainly been some improvements under the Biden administration including not deporting minors entering the country by themselves and for the most part also allowing families with children under six years of age to remain in the country to have their asylum hearings. However, the widespread closure of the border continues. In December of 2021, due to the ruling of the U.S. Supreme Court, the Remain in Mexico Policy is also being reestablished. Advocates are deeply concerned that this will cause an even greater humanitarian crisis at the border. 

In the midst of this situation, our organization has continued to work with migrants, particularly indigenous women and children who are often mistreated by even other asylum seekers and are some of the most marginalized groups in Latin American society. Their faith, courage, and love for both God and their children is something that would put most of us to shame. The majority of these women have family in the United States. They are not looking for handouts, but rather they are simply looking for a place of safety and security in order to raise their children. 

READ: Protecting What We Have

We believe firmly that Jesus called us to welcome the stranger as we welcome him. This is our duty as Christians. To reject the foreigners at our border is in many ways to reject the very face of Jesus. Unfortunately, much of the church in the United States has not only ignored the stranger but actually acted in hostility towards them. It has been at the forefront of more xenophobic policies. They are one of the groups that helped embolden Trump to implement more restrictive policies and has made Biden hesitant to reverse them. 

One of our primary goals is to ensure that the American church understands what is occurring at the border, so it least can no longer claim ignorance about the stance it takes and the situation it is putting its brothers and sisters in. We are asking for those who are torn on the issue to come and see what is occurring and for those who are already sympathetic to become more engaged. We would love for you to come join us at the border. 

Due to the less blatantly anti-immigrant stance of the current administration, sometimes the resistance to immigration policies are more muted, and unjust policies are allowed to continue. We ask for you to continue to contact your members of congress and demand that we actually allow asylum to resume. As people of faith, we implore you to continue to relay the pleas of those who are crying out to their father in heaven for deliverance and a chance to share in the goodness and plenty of his world, which we have covered with borders and walls. Jesus is waiting at our door. He’s knocking, however, when he knocks he might be in the form of a Guatemalan mother and child seeking not only a better life, but in some cases the chance to live at all. Will we welcome them in?  

When I first encountered a prayer using “kin-dom” instead of “kingdom,” I remember thinking that it was a sort of liberal watering down of the robust vision of Christ the King in glory, diminishing the power of his lordship. The noted theologian Ada María Isasi-Díaz recalls originally hearing “kin-dom” from a friend who was a nun as an alternative to the language of “kingdom,” a word fraught with colonial oppression and imperial violence. “Jesus,” she wrote, “used ‘kingdom of God’ to evoke . . . an alternative ‘order of things’” over and against the political context of the Roman Empire and its Caesar, the actual kingdom and king at the time.

“Kingdom” is, however, a corrupted metaphor, one misused by the church throughout history to make itself into the image of an earthly kingdom. Indeed, Christians have often failed to recognize that “kingdom” was an inadequate and incomplete way of speaking of God’s governance, not a call to set up their own empire. Isasi-Díaz argues that “kin-dom,” an image of la familia, the liberating family of God working together for love and justice, is a metaphor closer to what Jesus intended.

If that sounds more like contemporary political correctness than biblical theology, it is worth noting that Isasi-Díaz’s “kin-dom” metaphor echoes an older understanding, one found in medieval theology in the work of the mystic Julian of Norwich. Julian wrote of “our kinde Lord,” a poetic title, certainly, summoning images of a gentle Jesus. But it was not that. Rather, it was a radical one, for the word “kinde” in medieval English did not mean “nice” or “pleasant.” Instead, in the words of theologian Janet Soskice:

In Middle English the words “kind” and “kin” were the same—to say that Christ is “our kinde Lord” is not to say that Christ is tender and gentle, although that may be implied, but to say that he is kin—our kind. This fact, and not emotional disposition, is the rock which is our salvation.

To say “our kinde Lord” was to say “our kin Lord.” Jesus the Lord is our kin. The kind Lord is kin to me, you, all of us—making us one. This is a subversive deconstruction of the image of kingdom and kings, replacing forever the pretensions and politics of earthly kingdoms with Jesus’s calling forth a kin-dom. King, kind, kin.

This excerpt from Diana Butler Bass’s newest book Freeing Jesus was featured in her newsletter The Cottage. Sign up here to begin receiving The Cottage and register to join us on December 19th for our RLC Book Club discussion of Freeing Jesus.

Christians around the world are remembering the birth of the Jesus, the “Prince of Peace.” But this year, pictures are going viral of families standing beside their Christmas trees holding assault rifles. This is the new war on Christmas.

It comes at the end of a hectic year. 2021 began with the storming of the US Capitol, and we’ve seen many images since of armed militia marching in the streets. This year we’ve seen the historic trials of the armed vigilantes who killed Ahmaud Arbery in Georgia and of Kyle Rittenhouse in Wisconsin. Gun sales are skyrocketing again this year, just as they did in 2020, hitting around 20 million guns sold in a single year. And our gun deaths are also hitting a record high – over 100 deaths a day, nearly 40,000 lives lost in a single year.

This week also marks the 9^th anniversary of the Sandy Hook shooting (December 14), one of those all-too-familiar moments when our country said, “Never again”… and then let it happen again and again.

What does the birth of the baby Jesus 2,000 years ago have to offer the violent, troubled world we live in? Or what would Jesus say to the NRA?

I want to suggest — a lot.  A whole lot.

Jesus entered the world from a posture of absolute vulnerability — as an unarmed, innocent child during a time of tremendous violence. The Bible speaks of a terrible massacre as Jesus was born, an unspeakable act of violence as King Herod slaughters children throughout the land hoping to kill Jesus (which the church remembers annually as the massacre of the Holy Innocents).

Perhaps the original Christmas was marked more with agony and grief like that in Connecticut than with the glitz and glamour of the shopping malls and Christmas parades. For just as Mary and Joseph celebrated their newborn baby, there were plenty of other moms and dads in utter agony because their kids had just been killed.

From his birth in the manger as a homeless refugee until his brutal execution on the Roman cross, Jesus was very familiar with violence.  Emmanuel means “God with us.” Jesus’s coming to earth is all about a God who leaves the comfort of heaven to join the suffering on earth. The fact that Christians throughout the world regularly identify with a victim of violence — and a nonviolent, grace-filled, forgiving victim — is perhaps one of the most fundamentally life-altering and world-changing assumptions of the Christian faith. Or it should be.

So what does that have to do with the NRA? Underneath the rhetoric of the gun-control debate is a nagging question: Are more guns the solution to our gun problem?

READ: Buddy Stouffer’s Execution Was the Last of 2021. Will It Be the Last to Be Proved an Error?

Everything in Jesus’s world, just as in ours, contends that we must use violence to protect the innocent from violence – which is the very thing Jesus came to help us un-learn through his nonviolent life and death on the cross. Surely, we think – if God were to come to earth, he should at least come with a bodyguard … if not an entire entourage of armed soldiers and secret service folk. But Jesus comes unarmed. Surely, we think – if God were about to be killed he would bust out a can of butt-kicking wrath, but Jesus looks into the eyes of those about to kill him and says, “Father forgive them.”

The Bible goes so far to say that the wisdom of God makes no sense to the logic of this world, in fact it may even seem like “foolishness” (or at least utopian idealism).

When soldiers come to arrest and execute Jesus, one of his closest friends defensively picks up a sword to protect him. Jesus’s response is stunning – he scolds his own disciple and heals the wounded persecutor. It was a tough, and very counter-intuitive lesson: “The one who picks up the sword dies by the sword … there is another way.”

That lesson that Jesus taught his disciples is as relevant to us, and the NRA, as it was the early movement of Christians in the first century. Violence will not rid the world of violence. You do not use swords to get rid of swords or guns to get rid of guns. There is another way.

Many Christians have begun to speak of Jesus as an interruption to the “myth of redemptive violence,” the assumption that we can use violence to get rid of violence or that we can destroy a life to save a life. The myth of redemptive violence has many ugly faces. It teaches us that we can kill those who kill to show that killing is wrong. It teaches us to live by the law of “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth”—a law that Jesus firmly spun on its head, saying, “You’ve heard it said ‘an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth … but I tell you …”    There is another way. Killing to show that killing is wrong is like trying to teach holiness by fornication. The cure is as bad as the disease.

At one point Jesus even weeps over the violent world he lived in, lamenting that “they did not know the things that would lead to peace.” The fact that Jesus carried a cross rather than a sword has something relevant and redemptive to offer our violent-possessed world. After all, the Bible has a lot to say about loving enemies, and “Thou shalt not kill,” but doesn’t even mention the right to bear arms.

So let’s imagine. What would Jesus say to our nation, where these things are true:

• Our gun deaths have hit a record high, even amid the pandemic — 40,000 deaths a year, over 100 per day.
• In the US, we have about 5% of the world’s population, but nearly half of the world’s guns (more than 42%).
• There are nearly 5 times more gun dealers than McDonald’s restaurants in the US.
• In the US, we manufacture 9,458,172 guns per year.  That’s 25,912 per day.  1079 per hour… 18 per minute.  1 gun every 3 seconds.
• Guns are the #2 cause of death for children and youth, and they are the #1 cause of death for African American youth (10 times more likely to be killed by a gun than white kids)
• In my lifetime (45 years), we’ve lost more lives to guns than all the casualties of war in all of America’s wars combined throughout history.
• Gun sales have also hit a record high.  Even though two-thirds of Americans live without guns, we have more guns than people in the US.

There is a reason we talk about “Peace on Earth” so much around Christmas. There is a reason why we talk about Jesus as the “Prince of Peace.” He consistently taught that we can disarm violence without mirroring it, and that we can rid the world of evil without becoming the evil we abhor. So let us recommit ourselves to Peace this Christmas season and new year — in honor of Jesus, and in honor of the holy innocents.

On Thursday (Dec. 9), Oklahoma executed Bigler “Buddy” Stouffer, a 79-year-old deeply committed Christian who has maintained his innocence since being convicted of murder in 1985. It was the last execution scheduled for 2021.

This execution came on the back of last month’s halted execution of Julius Jones, one of the clearest cases of innocence in the United States, which had stirred protests all over the world and pleas for clemency from folks like Kim Kardashian and Bishop T.D. Jakes.

Stouffer’s execution was also the first since a horrific series of botched executions in Oklahoma, in which Clayton Lockett lay dying 43 minutes as his body convulsed and John Grant, who was killed in October, yelled, convulsed and vomited before being pronounced dead.

Oklahoma’s record on executions prompted even the state’s Pardon and Parole Board to vote to stop Stouffer’s.

Stouffer’s execution otherwise didn’t get all that much attention. In fact, when I first spoke to him, I didn’t even know there was a question about his guilt. But in our conversation he was very clear that he did not commit the crime he was being executed for. He even gave me a name of the man who knows exactly what happened. Others have now come forward to help prove his innocence.

I will not be able to forget his telling me matter-of-factly: “I would love to be able to prove my innocence while I’m still alive … but I just hope that the truth comes out, even after I am deceased.”

There is a team working hard to prove Stouffer’s innocence, despite his execution. One of the obvious problems with the death penalty is that you can’t bring someone back from the dead when you get it wrong.

It’s why a growing number of people, including many who lean conservative, are joining the fight for alternatives to the death penalty. Those who mistrust the government as an imperfect human institution are beginning to wonder whether it should have the irreversible power of life and death.

Stouffer’s case exemplifies many of the things that are so wrong with our criminal justice system, especially when it comes to capital punishment. He was convicted based on faulty evidence by a forensic scientist named Joyce Gilchrist, known as “Black Magic” for her alleged ability to work magic with evidence that didn’t match the facts. She testified in his case and hundreds of others in her 20-year career in Oklahoma. She helped send 23 people to death row before she was fired.

In Stouffer’s case, Gilchrist worked closely with the prosecutor, Robert H. Macy, as she did in dozens of death penalty cases. With Gilchrist’s help, Macy sent 73 people to death row in his 21-year career. About 20 of those have been executed. Two, Curtis McCarty and Robert Lee Miller, have been exonerated and released, a number that squares with our tragic national track record: For every nine executions, there is one exoneration.

Imagine if, for every 10 planes that took off, one crashed. That’s the United States’ track record with the death penalty.

READ: Julius Jones was spared by a governor who prayed. Let’s all now pray to end the death penalty.

As I talked to Stouffer three days before his execution, he told me what really happened that day in 1985. He also told me about his faith, about how his love for Jesus has gotten him through it all. He was joyful, fearless, compassionate.

He shared his sympathy for the family of Linda Reaves, the schoolteacher whose life he was accused of taking, and even talked about how he has forgiven those whose lies in court resulted in his death sentence.

We talked about baseball, the year he had a batting average of .415, and where he got his nickname “Buddy.” He told me about how he had reached out to all 113 of the men who have been executed while he has been on death row, as a pastor, as a friend and as an evangelist who wanted to share the hope he has found in Christ. He told me he would die with forgiveness on his lips and peace in his heart.

He kept that promise. His last words were, “Father, forgive them,” reflecting the last words of Christ, aimed at a system that was killing him in similar fashion. One of his last requests was to have Communion with his pastor. That request was denied because prison officials did not want him to choke on Communion as they killed him. Let that sink in.

We ended our conversation in prayer, which I think would have gone on for a lot longer had we not been interrupted by an automated voice telling us we had “one minute” left to talk. He later called in one last time to greet everyone at the prayer vigil the night before his execution. On that call, he praised God for all the people working to stop not just his execution but all executions. We prayed for Oklahoma’s Gov. Kevin Stitt.

Stitt is an active member of Woodlake Church in Tulsa. In a Dec. 1 Twitter post he wrote, “From day one, I promised Oklahomans I would sign every piece of pro-life legislation that hit my desk. I am proud to have kept that promise and make Oklahoma the most pro-life state in the country!” A week later he permitted the execution of Stouffer.

Oklahoma has the highest execution rate per capita in the country. It is the latest reminder that the Bible Belt is the death belt in America, where 90% of U.S. executions occur.

It was Jesus who said: “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.” If Christians demanded that their governors, judges and legislators be as pro-life on this issue as they are on abortion, there would be no more executions in America.

This piece first appeared at Religion News Services.