Three Days of Jesus, and the word "God"

Filed Under anecdotes, events, islam, photos, questions, religion, spiritual practice | 6 Comments

What does it mean for this agnostic to use the word, “God?”

Ever since attending the three-day convocation for the retiring Rev. Dr. Hector Lopez of the United Church of Christ, I’ve been infused with an extra dose of religious feeling. I’ve been using “language of reverence” for several weeks now, including masha Allah (God did will it), alhamdulillah (praise be to God) and even insha Allah (if God wills it). A few times I’ve caught myself almost concluding conversations with, “And God is the Knower of All Things,” a common expression in the Qur’an.

It’s curious to me to find these words on the tip of my tongue almost every day, especially when my agnosticism is at its strongest.

During the three days of the convocation - an opportunity that Rev. Lopez used to hold a conference on Racial Justice - I was the only Unitarian Universalist present. Not knowing anyone there, I sang along with songs about Jesus, and listened to sermons about Jesus and the God of the Bible. I enjoyed all of this within the UCC and people of color context. Throughout the first day I looked around at the people standing in the room and asked myself if I could be a Christian. Could I accept that Jesus died for my sins? That he was sent by God? I considered this carefully and went to sleep with the question in my heart.

The following two days I learned much about the history of race relations within the UCC, and greatly appreciated the multicultural worships, music and performances. But more than any of this, I was grateful to meet the Rev. Dr. Dorsey Blake, senior minister at the Church for the Fellowship of All Peoples in San Francisco. I had never heard of him before, but when he spoke, I was riveted. I could have spent three days listening just to him, but he only had about 40 minutes. I went to the library on the second day and borrowed a collection of Howard Thurman’s writings and began reading it. Rev. Blake, who is not a member of the UCC, was the highlight of the event for me. For the first time in my life, I wanted to say to someone, “Will you teach me?”

Not wanting to be (or be thought of as) insane, I did not. I returned to thoughts of Jesus; maybe Jesus could be my teacher. On the bus ride home I sat with my head against the window, looking out at the rain. Was it possible that Jesus loved me? Just the thought of it softened my heart, and I did cry a little.

At the end of the last, long day of the convocation, I watched the Samoan youth from a local congregation dancing, and I thought to myself, how wonderful it would be to be a part of this, to say that these people here are my family. Then I thought of my UU family and it occurred to me that there was little difference. People go home to their respective places and that is where they are themselves. Jesus and racial justice had brought this particular group of people together, but they were not the only ones doing this work. My family was all those I chose to love.

At Thanksgiving dinner, my Catholic grandmother asked me, out of the blue, “Why don’t you join a Black Baptist Church, or the Methodists!” I glanced at my Muslim mother, with what was probably a startled expression on my face. I think my grandmother wants me to be saved. She frets about many things; as a Catholic of 70+ years, it makes sense that she would fret about me going to Hell, even if she has never said so to me. After all, I used to worry about her going to Hell when I was Muslim, and I never said anything, either.

I love my grandmother, and my good news for her is that neither of us is going to Hell. I wish I could alleviate her fears by taking communion or being baptized, but this would be false. I have no particular love for Jesus, anymore than Christians have a particular love for the Prophet Muhammad. As it stands, I possess, in this moment, a particular love for all the good people who have come into my life.

I am thankful. I want to thank God for everything. When I say thank God, I am not speaking of Jesus or Allah. I am thinking of Fortune, the Spirit of Life, the mysterious workings of the universe. “May randomness favor you,” I might as well say. “I hope that Life is sweet to you,” I sometimes write to friends. “If Fortune smiles upon us, our paths will cross again.” “May the peace of God settle over you.” All of these are well wishes, from one person to another. Good will. Fellowship. We recognize life’s countless uncertainties. We want good things for one another.

I do not believe in a seated God who decides what will happen to you. But it’s possible that Life fulfills our needs sometimes when we have our hands outstretched, and that we are spirits that never die. God is to me the magnificent infinity, both terrible and beautiful - all the possibilities of the future and every known and unknown comprehension of the past. God is the way of the universe, wherever it goes.

Knowing myself as I do, I bear witness to the fact that I want more for you now, and have more faith in you now, than I did several years ago when I worshipped God. Nothing has been taken away from us. If one day I should believe in God again, what would change?

(photo by HSA, San Pedro Guatemala, 2005)

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Nov

7

The Margins Are Beautiful

Filed Under ao resources, books, current affairs, from the heart, life changes, pop culture, questions, quotes | 17 Comments

Sometimes I encounter online political discussions that feel pointless for me to become engaged in. White men discussing white men’s problems. So much debate over which of their rich, white, capitalist men lies the least … and I am drawing close the curtain.

There has to be another world.

I’ve spent the past week pondering my place in this one, with all its consumerism, celebrity gossip, fear, redundancy, and trivia. Are any of these people worth listening to? Two nights ago I turned on my television to watch Hotel Rwanda and ended up catching half an hour of Jeff Cohen on cable access. For the first ten minutes I watched him critically, observing that he was emotional about his subject: the journalistic demise of mainstream media. But when he mentioned Clear Channel, I felt a surge of connectivity. I recalled their continuous lawsuits against the City of Portland (for showing “preferential treatment” towards murals over billboard advertisements), and the frustration I have that ordinary, working people have to spend precious resources engaged in battles over their own community spaces. Suddenly, Jeff Cohen’s emotion no longer struck me as weird. The word “radical” is losing its derogatory connotation for me, and I have never felt closer to the margins.

There have been moments in the past week when I’ve felt my heart breaking. I never dreamt as a child that I would grow up to be an activist; it hadn’t seemed necessary. The world was complicated and troubled, yes - but it was not for me to fix. Only God could “sort these people out,” my dad would say. But I no longer perceive God as an entity that will one day enact justice. There is only that “monstrous” eye* of our unwritten future, staring at me.

Every where I turn, I am met with encounters. Every day, there is a fresh arrow pointing me in the same direction.

Two More Examples
a) Bernardo Alvarez, Venezuela’s ambassador to the US, spoke recently in Portland about the changes occurring in his country. One of the first things the Chavez administration set out to do, he said, was reclaim the natural resources. “The natural resources of Venezuela belong to the Venezuelan people,” he said. The profits earned from the sale of oil are being used to address the two main problems identified in Venezuelan society: poverty and social exclusion.

It was several days before I felt the weight of this concept. Clearly, this is not a belief that we hold in the United States. Here, and for the most part - the natural resources belong to whoever has purchased the right to sell them. The only claim the rest of the community has to the profits is through taxes. Sunday morning I woke up to a news story on NPR about a miner who was suing the government over some mineral-rich land he’d prospected in the wilderness. At first I merely rested beneath the blankets, listening to the story as an excuse to not rise from the bed. Then I heard the miner complain that since he had “paid” for the land the government had no business restricting his “rights.” Suddenly, I felt a pain in my head. More arguing between entitled persons. More white men’s problems.

b) Today, I was passing through the lunchroom at the office and saw that the television was tuned to Fox News. The big story of the moment was emblazoned in red across the bottom of the screen: Why are the Muslims turning on France? I took a deep breath and exited the room. It should come as no surprise that a revolt against racist institutions and policies has been utilized as more axis-of-evil, East vs. West, justification-of-war pandering. What kind of “solutions” can we expect from these talking heads?

I’ve heard the call of activism murmuring for some time. I’ve been watching it, in my peripheral vision, steal up on me. I didn’t want to become a radical person. I wanted a pleasant, comfortable life. I am not entirely ready to let loose my grip on what is familiar and easy. But, in the words of Nietzsche, “I want to learn more and more to see as beautiful what is necessary in things.” There is no longer a home for me in the mainstream.

In his primary contribution to Soul Work: anti racist theologies in dialogue, George Tinker writes:

Change requires going to and staying in the margins. People of color, oppressed people, do indeed live on the margins. Those of us who refuse to commit violence upon ourselves in the guise of adaptation are at the margin. When we demand that our story be heard and validated, we are moving to the margin. When we insist upon being seen, we cling to the margin. And our brothers and sisters who are committed to anti-racism, you must make the journey toward the margin, always fighting the centrifugal force of the dominant culture that will pull you back to the center. This work that we call anti-racism is dangerous work, and our participation in it makes us dangerous people.

*from Nietzsche’s “Toward New Seas”
(photo by HSA, 2003)

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