Christianity, indeed Christ himself, has been lost to much of us. It is at its most potent, raw self when it advocates for we who have our backs against the wall. In fear or shame, poverty or depravation, Jesus Christ holds the greatest meaning for those who are without choice, framed by defeat, caged by rejection.
What does it say that Christ is most accessible to the downtrodden? He said himself: I have come to save the sinner. Howard Thurman, doctor of the church and radical theologian, could not have captured the scene better, digging out the rotten marrow of civil disobedience in the age of ’60s racism. For there were two distinct groups that hallowed out a home for themselves in that America—a family of decided racists, whose own faith rested on the inferiority of blacks and the supremacy of whites, and those who fell victim to their racism. It was, indeed, the cruelty inflicted on African-Americans that characterized our free nation. And why? Because blacks inherited this lower place in the social strata of the modern world? There was no explanation, except for a preservation of identity—us vs. them. And so, as blacks had once been slaves and roughly abused, so they continued to be. And for these sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers with a dark complexion they could not help, it was Christ they turned to. It was Christ, because he had a message for the marginalized: You are the chosen ones of God.
In instances of marginalization, there are three ways we choose to react (for it is in us to choose). We can either, in an effort to retaliate, fight back against those who force us to the periphery of existence. We hurl invectives, we insult, we physically attack. But this, though perhaps offering a brief satisfaction by acting on our anger and shame, relegates us to a position not much greater than our oppressors. And, even more so, we reinforce the division between us. It is instinct, of course, to defend oneself when attacked, and there is hardly a better place to start building our salients than defining ourselves ever more distinctly as over and above the other.
The second way to react is to ignore. But this option is almost never employed in serious abuses. Could every African-American shrug and go about their way when family members and friends were lynched with impunity? When violent murders flashed briefly on late-night news and were casually swept under the legal rug? Such would assume that these men and women were not in fact human, that they possessed no semblance of emotion. Clearly, they are human as much as the rest of us; instincts and emotional cries are as normal to white people as they are to black.
There is a third option—giving over the fear and anger in one’s own diminution to God. Let me be very clear in this: I do not mean a God with a white beard sitting on a heavenly throne waiting to hear our pleas and concerns. God has no single human face; he, it, and they are manifold in creation. At the same time, however, there is a communion of being that exists in a realm we do not understand, but which understands us and is intimately involved in our lives. This is the God to whom I refer.
But “giving over the fear” is not quite as simple as mailing off a letter of confession to a celestial address. It requires emptying oneself of the need to control one’s own existence. It requires recognition of the higher authority which guides and orchestrates the unknown and mysterious. And, ultimately, it means trusting that this communion of being knows better than we what should and shouldn’t transpire in our lives. This, above all, pains us. For, as sentient, intelligent beings, we have decided that we must control ourselves. We are masters of our personhood. But that is not entirely true.
Yes, we may affect change. We may keep ourselves in good health to the best of our ability. We may foster and nourish healthy relationships. But there are still instances when our change is blotted out, our good health turned to terminal cancer, our healthy relationships ended in bitter and acrimonious argument. We do not, nor can we, know everything. Indeed, as long as we do not fully understand all people and things with which we interact, we will never be able to be in ultimate control of our lives. For we are affected as we affect, and in the mysteries that gird this life, we are subject to things beyond our explanation.
And so, we are afraid. We feel this fear precisely because these are things we do not understand or cannot control—or both. If we had a grasp on it, what would there be to fear? Our instinct, however, is to command our lives fully. And so, instead of admitting to our fear and acknowledging there is something that can affect us which we cannot alter, we exhaust ourselves trying to find a way to manipulate it.
But when we know, truly know, that there are these things that will be part of our lives but are beyond us completely, we begin to give over our fear. Isn’t fear dreaded simply because it is us, in our vulnerability, worrying that something BAD will happen to us? The great victory over fear is stepping back from our instinctive trepidation to see that the immutable mysteries may be for GOOD, even if that good is not manifest immediately or in visceral ways. It is recognizing that GOOD, as a product of a communion of being enveloping all of creation, must do what is for the benefit of that creation.
How do we know that this body of power, whatever it may be (and we often call it God), wishes to act to the greatest good of us in sum? It is simply this: that whatever he, or it, may be, it is a part of us. While it does not suffice to say that this God works to protect him or herself, it is a way of understanding it that way can grasp. God, being a greater entity than we, and encompassing us, acts for all because He is in all.
But this also means that when we give our fear over to God, accepting that He commands control over all for the GOOD, we admit that we are a part of GOOD. There is individuality only in the sense that we contribute to a greater good, that we foster life, and we work as a part of God, through God, and in God, to preserve ourselves as a community of being. And so, when the life acts in a way that dismantles our lives—even tears them apart—we are challenged to see the greater good in it. But our sight, our lives, our power are limited. And so, if the good should manifest in unrecognizable ways at a time far past our own, we think God has not worked in us for good. He has, in fact, abandoned or abused us.
But how can we say this, unless we see the good He envisions? So we have the choice to trust Him, or fight against Him. In either case, we will die a physical death. What happens beyond this death, who can say? But is there not something to be said for preserving a greater peace and goodness in life when it leads to peace in death? For death is only feared because it is an end we have not ourselves ordained. But that end is but a temporary pause in the greater scheme of human life; if we live in sum, we can recognize this.
Which is why the African-Americans of the oppressive ’50s and ’60s banded together. Some even reached out to white men and women—knowing that God lived in them, too, no matter their prejudices and persecutions. They were truly a people with their backs against the wall. Years ago, I found myself against the wall—my sexuality threatening to keep me from the ministry to which I felt called. But that was bigger than me, and the call had little to do with me specifically. Did it matter that I would struggle with my sexuality in the church? Did it matter that gays weren’t allowed to marry and hold onto committed relationships in the church which I loved? It mattered in the ministry I was committed to accepted, but very little for me personally. I will fight for these things because I once feared them; I have been able to give those fears over to God, and he has translated them into a passion. In that passion, I leave all trepidation behind. For energies, and gifts, and blessings from God are far better used to pursue the good for all, than what I think is the good for me.
Whatever I know, or think I know, I have painfully learned that God knows better.
