What weighs on my heart this week is the racism revealed in yet another death of a black man at the hands of, or under the knee of, a police officer. My heart breaks for George Floyd’s family and for all those who live in fear of police simply because of the color of their skin. I have heard the first-hand stories of so many black mothers and fathers who live in the constant fear that a broken taillight in a car, or for no reason at all their son or daughter may be stopped by police, knowing that such an encounter could have a fatal end.
My white privilege spares me that fear for myself and my children, but care for my brothers and sisters of color still weighs me down. I care deeply that no future generation of people of color will have to live in fear in this land that promises freedom.
As we near the end of the Easter season, the question comes to my mind, “What does being saved by Christ’s death and resurrection mean to a black person in America in the year 2020? How has our faith lived up to the words of St Paul in Galatians “As many of you as were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is no longer Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, there is no longer male or female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.” (Gal 3:27-28 NRSV). To whom does Christ’s post-resurrection greetings of “Peace be with you,” apply? Does living in fear of an unjust and untimely death allow for someone to feel redeemed? I’ve studied the scriptures enough to know that the freedom that comes with “being saved” is for the here and now, not just for the future.
Not all of us in our nations are Christian, but those who profess that faith have a lot of repenting to do. We have allowed this to go on too long. Referencing the time of their oppression after the walk to Montgomery, Dr. King asked many times: “How long?” “Too long” they responded, repeatedly in 1965. Fifty-five years later maybe it is time we all take a knee together and raise our voices in prayer. Then find a way to work against the racism that lives within us, within our nations and throughout this world.
One concrete way to do that would be to join the Poor People’s Campaign that will be a virtual March on Washington, June 20, 2020. Your participation and perhaps a small donation will help those who want to speak out for themselves to fight the ongoing racism and poverty in our nation. The stories they are sharing are ones we all need to hear. As a bonus, the virtual march on the capitol will be a peace seeking protest where the scriptures will be opened and read, not held up for a camera, this protest will not be broken up by the President’s military or the flash-bangs and tear gas they employ.
Maybe the truth we hear will break open our hearts.
Long before I went to the border last fall, the conditions and treatment of refugees there has been a deep concern to me. Near the end of last week, emails arrived at work saying there would be a gathering of Catholic leaders in Washington DC, to demand an end to the detention of children and separation of families on the border. “Stop the Inhumanity!” I agreed to go but did not agree be arrested in an as yet undefined act of civil disobedience.
Sunday, I was at mass and hoping that the homilist would tie
the gospel story of the Good Samaritan into the situation on the border with
Trump’s criminal detention of migrants and their children, and his immoral
policies of separating families. Ours is a multi-cultural parish with a growing
number of Latinex members.
We have a new pastor in our Church of St. Anastasia and I was
hoping that that would mean more homilies that were adapted to the news of the
day, rather than cookie cutter pieces of piety that can be rolled out word for
word every three years as the lectionary cycles. The new pastor who was “in the
house,” did not say the Mass, nor did the homily fall to the melancholy Sunday
assistant who is a chaplain at the local Catholic hospital. It was a deacon who
preached. I’m sure he felt he was contemporary in that he celebrated his time
with the parish youth who had just returned from a two-week service trip to
low-income families and churches (our neighbors in his homily) in the
Plaatsburg, NY region.
But there was no connection made between the Good Samaritan
and the families on the border. It is not the first time my hopes for a
meaningful, contemporary homily were dashed. But God is not limited to the
homily to get a message across.
During the Offertory, the music ministry led us in singing
“Day of Peace” by Janet Sullivan Whitaker. I had never heard song, a favorite
on my playlists, sung in any parish liturgy. The lyrics of the third verse made
the connection that the homilist did not. The verse and refrain reads as
follows:
I dream of a night when all the children Slumber safe warm and fed and rise to a day of possibility Each one loved, each one free Refrain: I know there will be a day of peace For this, let us all work and pray.
I was nearly brought to tears. Instead, I resolved at that
moment to not only go to the day of action in Washington but I would also risk
arrest.
Leaving for Washington DC
I left for DC Wednesday afternoon before the action was to
take place. I was going to stay with my son and his wife who live in DC, giving
me a chance to spend a little time with my 2-1/2-year old grandson, Patrick. I
met my son on the Metro after work so we could ride home together. It was great
timing …we were underground and missed the fast-moving downpour that hit when
we were below ground. We arrived at their home to find Patrick, who has never been
caged at the border, waiting for us outside as the rain was evaporating
quickly.
We had a nice dinner, read some books together, and prepared for Patrick’s bed-time. I answered some his parent’s questions about the next day’s action but as an early riser, I am not awake much beyond the 2-1/2-year old’s bedtime. When I got to my bed, I saw that Patrick had put one of his stuffed toys in my bed and was told he did it “so I would not feel lonely at night.”
If only the president has as much compassion as a 2 year old.
My son and I traveled together in the morning to Union
Station. He had a business day trip to Philly. I had some coffee at the station
then walked up to the Lutheran Church of the Reformation where we Catholics who
were willing to risk arrest would gather for some introductions and last-minute
instructions. At the sign-in table I met Eli McCarthy, one of the day’s
leaders. I had not met Eli before, but knew of his work with the Catholic
Nonviolence Initiative just after their first meeting at the Vatican in 2016. Then
I met a fellow Associate of the Sisters of St. Joseph
of Peace, Denny Duffell, a deacon from Seattle and his son John. Denny was
in town after a trip through New England with some family members. He was
ending his trip in DC to attend a meeting with Pax Christi to discuss bringing
the UN nuclear ban treaty more into the consciousness of Americans. We chatted
a while then split up to meet some new people. I recognized and spoke briefly
with two sisters with whom I would pray at the Isaiah wall outside the UN while
the negotiations were going on for the Nuclear ban treaty in 2017. There were others
whom I recognized but did not have chance to meet like Fr. Joe Nangle, OFM of
the DC Assisi community. I’d read at least one of his books years ago. As we
were preparing to leave for the press conference and rally outside of congress,
we were Joined by Maria Biancheri of Catholic Charities of the Archdiocese of
Newark who was our parish liaison when we were resetting a refugee family from
Afghanistan.
Frank & Denny , CSJP Associates
It seemed that none of us were new to this work. Yet, when
asked how many were risking arrest for the first time most hands went up. I had
risked arrest before, during the Obama administration over the treatment of
Guantanamo detainees, but was not arrested at that time.
We were brothers and sisters in faith. We had not just come
together just seeking publicity. This was an attempt to use our powerlessness
as citizens to get the out-of-control President to treat the migrant children
with some measure of human respect. Hopefully as our action emerged it might cause
some others to pay more attention to the inhumanity of detaining children in
cages and tearing them away from their parents and guardians. We explore deeper
powerlessness by getting arrested in DC.
We left the church to walk to the Capitol lawn.
The crowd continually grew as we gathered outside on the
lawn of the Capitol. We had several speakers, the most moving was a mother from
El Salvador, who spoke holding her 17-month old daughter about the fears of
being at the border and of being separated. She was hoping to find sanctuary
and the chance to stay in the U.S. with her child. Other powerful words were
delivered by Sr. Carol Zinn, SSJ, executive director of the Leadership
Conference of Women Religious, with her
resounding call for the time to STOP the inhumanity with which our central
American brothers and sisters and children are treated at the borders.
It was very, very hot in the sun. In the heat I was nursing the
contents of my water bottle so I would have some water left until we got to the
Russell building. I was not sure they would allow water in the bottle, or the
bottle itself into the building. When it came time to go into the Russell
Office building to do the civil disobedience we were hoping for a much cooler
setting.
Those not risking arrest gathered first, then we who would
risk arrest were led into the rotunda two by two wearing signs with the names
and faces of the children who had died on our border in custody of the CBP and
ICE. We who were on the floor of the rotunda could look up to see the arches on
the floor above filled with people watching, including faces we recognized. The
support was incredible. After singing a few rounds of “We shall not be moved,”
we started praying the rosary using words from migrant interviews as new
“sorrowful mysteries” on which to meditate as we prayed the Hail Mary’s.
As we prayed, from the very first, my mouth became extraordinarily
dry but I continued in the vocal prayer regardless.
When we started the Capitol Police, using the bullhorn, began the first of their three warnings. After the third warning to “leave or be arrested” the arrests started. Many others were removed before they got to me. A police officer approached with the plastic cuffs, he looked me in the eye and asked if I understood that if I did not leave immediately, he would arrest me. I nodded as I continued praying aloud. A green wristband was applied by the officer meaning I could no longer leave the room on my own. Later, another officer returned to cuff me and accompany me out to the street to the waiting Capitol Police buses.
On the street, in the sun again, we were patted down fairly
aggressively. They took my belt, my fitbit, the water bottle, my hat, two photos
of children who had died in CBP custody and anything else I had in my pockets.
I was allowed to keep my ID, a metro card and enough money to pay the fine.
Having lost several pounds doing yard work in the heat, gravity
was winning on the fight to keep my unbelted trousers above my hips. I had been chatting with the officer assigned
to me who had come to DC from Ohio. He never took his hand off my arm, which
seemed to be procedure. I shared my gravitational dilemma with “My” officer who
laughed and shared that after a week of work at the Capitol, almost always
outside in the sun, he often lost weight and his clothes did not fit by Friday.
He told me a weekend of bar-b-que usually resolved his problem. Then he suggested stretching my cuffed hands
down lower so my fingers could engage the tops of my pants and prevent any
further descent. My shoulders complained but I managed to get to the waistband.
Further potential “exposure” charges thus resolved, I was
led to the bus.
In the bus I was seated next to Denny, behind his son, and
across the aisle from Maria. The bus ride to detention was thankfully not too
long. I was in pain from my bad right shoulder which did not like the stretch
involved with being cuffed behind my back. It was hard to situate myself to
protect against a possible bump or
sudden turn of the bus completing the tear in that joint.
We were detained at a warehouse, not a jail. There were at least
20 Capitol Police officers working the room. Multiple large fans were blowing
to move the air, keeping us relatively comfortable. On arrival, another officer
patted me down again which included sitting me down so he could remove my shoes,
pat down my feet and shake the shoes to see if anything came out.
Finally, the plastic cuffs were cut off. I could not help
but release a short yelp as the pressure on my shoulder was released. The
officer thought he had hurt me and was very solicitous, but I explained that he
was not the cause of the pain.
We were all then re-cuffed with our hands in front of us and
led us to assigned chairs where we would sit for the next hours. Men on one
side of the aisle, women on the other. We could not cross from one side to the
other.
The mood was actually very cheerful. We had done what we had
come to do and were happy, sharing smiles and some double thumbs up. The
officers, while following procedure, realized we bore them no animosity and
were no threat to them as a group. In fact, I was struck by the many smiles
around the large room. Officers responded to requests for water by reaching into
one of several large coolers to pull out ice-cold bottles of water and
delivering them to those anyone who requested one. They even opened the bottles
since the cuffs prevented enough dexterity for us to do it ourselves.
The water looked very good and I was thirsty, but I knew the
women and children in the southern detention facilities had been told to drink
water from toilets. I did not feel right asking for a cold bottle of spring
water.
The cuffs were loose but still very uncomfortable. I kept
looking down at the deep red marks left on my hands and wrists from the cuffs.
I could not move my hands freely, but I had a chair to sit in. So many of the
migrants had to stand for days with no places to sleep due to overcrowding in
the camps.
I quickly lost track of time. They had taken everyone’s
watch so we were all in the same boat. Seemingly after an hour or so they began
to call us up one at a time to sit with and officer who read us our rights. I
was asked if we would waive them so the officers could ask questions. I did so.
The only questions I was asked were, “What is your birth date” and “What is
your phone number”. All these one on ones took time. My only hint as to the
hour was that the air blown by the fans had gotten much warmer, perhaps it was
the high temp of the day? Maybe three or 4 PM?
Then back to sit again.
When almost all of us had been interviewed, the first of us
were released. Someone would have their name called by a wide grinned officer
and be told to go to a table on the other side of the room. A female officer there
asked for the money to pay the fine. A thumb print was taken, cuffs removed,
and a second officer would return the bagged belongings taken by the officers
during the pat downs. A receipt for the fine was produced and then you were
free to go.
As you turned to go up the short ramp to the exit door, the
remaining crowd still handcuffed could not applaud, so they did the next best
thing and would cheer: “Woo hoo! Woo hoo!” The response of those who were freed
was to turn and bow to those remaining behind. A simple gesture of honor between
those who were willing to put their bodies on the line to draw attention to the
plight of innocent children and terrified parents on our borders.
Will our action make a difference?
The stone-hearted president is not likely to pay attention
until the number of those willing to give up their bodies becomes embarrassingly
large.
Perhaps we can motivate more people of faith to take similar
risky actions and visibly grow the number of those will to take risks to see
the children are set free.
And so…
I dream of a night when all the children Slumber safe warm and fed and rise to a day of possibility Each one loved, each one free. Refrain: I know I will see a day of peace For this, let us all work and pray. Janet Sullivan Whitaker
I stopped in at Annunciation House at 7 AM on my way to the Centro San Juan Diego shelter where I work in search of coloring books for the bright-eyed young ladies who arrived among the ninety guests delivered to Juan San Diego (SJD) by ICE on Wednesday afternoon. No one seemed to be moving at such an early hour… it was a holiday after all, so I quietly left. On arrival at SJD I was surprised to see virtually all of the guests already at the breakfast tables. It seems that each of the seven houses in the Annunciation House network has its own character and personality.
The 90 central American migrants Ice released to us yesterday were added to the 30 or so whose sponsors had yet to complete travel arrangements from earlier in the week. Most families are a single parent with one child. A few parents have two children and I think there was only one or two couples with children. Our tasks at the shelter are to do intake, getting their information from ICE forms and contacting sponsors to decide how to have the migrant families join them. While they are with us, we provide food and shelter.
On a series of well-designed tri-fold boards, the progression of each family is tracked day by day.
Of the ninety migrants who arrived yesterday, 50 or more are already on the road, or in the air to join families. Some 16 more are due to leave by noon tomorrow before ICE releases another group to us.
The doctor visited yesterday and was back this morning to check on a young girl who came to us with pneumonia. She is the older of two children traveling with their mother. It should not be a surprise how many of the children are ill, with bad colds if nothing worse. So much coughing and sneezing, it is no wonder so many of the regular staff are sick.
The low light of my day was taking three families to the airport to find out that one of them had a confirmation code for a Greyhound bus rather than for an air flight. I accompanied the other two families to the TSA security entrance, and was chased from the security are by customs enforcement officers. So, I went to take the dad and his son to the Greyhound station only to realize I did not know where I parked my car. It is a rental, and I could not recognize it the way I would if it was my own. I must have walked three-quarters of the parking lot before I found it using the emergency button on the key fob. One can only imagine what was going through this refugee dad’s mind as he and his son were taken to the airport by mistake and then the driver cannot find his car!
A local parish brought their leftover turkey dinner for us and volunteers arrived an hour or two later to serve. There was lots of pumpkin pie!
I left SJD at 8 PM to drive two more families to the bus station. One dad and his 4-year old daughter are taking Greyhound from El Paso to Massachusetts. I hope we packed enough food drinks and toys for the ride.
Because I work closely with the shuttle driver and pass out the travel bags with foods for their journey’s, I am often at the door as families are leaving. I was caught off guard today when one four-year old young lady wrapped her arms around my legs and said “Gracias!” Her mother soon followed with some tears and a hug. They were not alone in sharing warm thank-yous and good byes. I am sure the gratitude was meant for all of the staff, but I was honored and deeply moved to be the recipient.
After leaving the bus station, on my way “home” for the evening, I stopped back at Annunciation House to look again for those coloring books. I do not want to see the light in the youngster’s eyes dimmed tomorrow if I have to say we have no “libre’ for crayons. The college age volunteer pointed me to the basement where, thankfully, I found a case of coloring books I could take—along with some more crayons.
The photo shows travel bags prepared for migrants heading to families across the United States.
Immigration and Customs Enforcement otherwise known as ICE has, under Trump, been releasing large numbers of migrant families, on parole, to the streets of El Paso, Texas. The Catholic sisters of Annunciation House here have been working for years providing hospitality shelters and a short transition for these folks, trying to get them on their way to family members and friends throughout the U.S. within 24-48 hours. These most recent large releases have overwhelmed their system as they now are running six shelters and are collaborating another seven. They issued a call for help from other congregations of women religious, and as a justice and peace facilitator for the Sisters of St. Joseph of Peace, I am able to volunteer two weeks.
The journey to El Paso to volunteer was anything but smooth, including cancelled and delayed flights and being stranded in Denver overnight for the second time this year. Even getting to the place I would be staying was delayed because of a fiesta in the area closed the roads. But as a sister-colleague chided me, I was only experiencing some solidarity with the migrants whose journey to El Paso was so much more difficult.
I had a good night’s sleep in the dorm room the first night, great prayer time in the early morning hours and started my volunteer work at Centro San Juan Diego Monday morning at 8 AM.
When ICE releases families, Annunciation house receives a text each morning indicating how many families will be released that day. The families are spread over the six shelters or assigned to some of the hotels the sisters now rent. Families start arriving at Centro San Juan Diego about 3 PM. After welcoming them with soups etc., intake begins by gathering critical information from their ICE paperwork. After intake, they are given hygiene kits and allowed to shower and pick out new clothes, Volunteers in the meantime begin calling sponsors. These sponsors may be family or friends anywhere in the U.S. and are asked to provide plane or bus tickets for the migrants and to call back when the tickets are purchased. This lets the volunteers and the families know how quickly they will be able to go on their way.
Dorm rooms are assigned, and meals served. Dinners are often brought by local parishes. The families remain in the shelter building or can play in a fenced in yard where they can enjoy the sunshine.
Travel bags with sandwiches, snacks and drinks are prepared for each family soon to depart. This was the work I was assigned Monday. Taking their information from their travel document prepared during intake, I could put a bag together for the family depending on how many were traveling together, the ages and sex of the children and whether they were flying or taking a bus. No full water bottles for air flight, and extra sandwiches for those traveling for days on a bus. Most travel without any money at all.
Each bag is a unique invitation to pray for the family receiving it. I pray they be nourished on their journey and find welcome wherever they go, and most importantly, that they know they are loved. I also prayed that they be treated as the unique, wonderful, warm and beautiful people they are.
I write this as I stay with them overnight. Soon I will wake two dads and their children soon for a 4 am pick-up by a volunteer driver who will take them to the airport. Another wake-up call to a family for a six o’clock drive to the Greyhound station by yet another volunteer driver. I’ll put out breakfast around 8:00 AM and be relieved about 10. Every hour has been a pleasure.
My one regret is my lack of Spanish. It is not that I cannot help without it, but I already miss the opportunity to have a chat with many of them, who invariably greet all of us with happy smiles, fist bumps, fancy handshakes, warm hearts and even a few hugs.
The barbaric disregard for human and civil rights displayed by the current administration in the detention of migrant families and the separation of children from parents has met with swift and strong resistance from those who hold the right to life and the rights of families as sacred to our nation and civilization. This resistance has been, for the most part, completely nonviolent, but full of passion and not without anger.
What could prove to be a significant detrimental distraction to the good resistance that is occurring at the border and at detention centers around the country, is the story of several administration members being heckled at Washington area restaurants, and Sarah Sander’s case being asked to leave.
The incident has sparked a controversy which could threaten to take the heat off the administration’s policies and lies on the border, by allowing them to paint themselves as victims, and could also lead to acts of violence. Rep. Maxine Waters’ urging her constituents to similarly ostracize Trump cabinet members whenever they see them could motivate unwise acts as well.
Admittedly, Sarah Sanders is not a nice persona in her public role. “At the podium” she shows unmasked distain for both those to whom she condescendingly replies in the press and for anyone (especially any democrat) who does not like Trump’s “my way or the highway” solutions, constitutional or not, to problems real or imagined. Her grasp of truth is tangential on the best days. Anyone of her statements can be challenged with facts and evidence and they often are. But attacks should not be personal.
Calling out any member of the administration for their words and actions is fair game and can be helpful if done is a respectful way. But the request for her to leave the restaurant has already led to threatening tweets from Sander’s boss. A restaurant of the same name—but not the one that asked her to leave—was already assaulted with eggs.
We need to keep the discourse civil as much as we can. “When they go low, we go high,” is still good advice.
This is not a sign of weakness but of strength. If we want to be witnesses to the love of Jesus we need to act like Jesus. We have do not have a story about Jesus asking anyone to leave a table. Rather, his table fellowship was radical in that it included people from all sectors of society. We could use those occasions to engage in meaningful dialogue with those with whom we disagree. Until we do so, we will grow our divisions.
Today’s Gospel says:
“Do to others whatever you would have them do to you. This is the Law and the Prophets.” Mt.7:12
When moved beyond the aspirational, these words are hard. They are even more difficult when you find a person’s actions to be rude, harmful to others, or even destructive.
That is why, in the next verse, the golden rule is referred to as the “narrow gate” that leads to life. (Mt.7:13)
The love that must motivate our resistance is not sentimental, warm-fuzzy love. It is a firm commitment to respect each individual as a human person, doing for them nothing less than what we ask them to do for others.
The morally reprehensible actions of our government at the southern border, separating immigrant children from their mothers and fathers, done in our name, and with our tax dollars, cannot be allowed to continue. The pathetic efforts of Jeff Sessions to use scripture to justify separating parents and children makes my stomach turn. To justify this repulsive program is to turn my back on the moral wisdom of western civilization passed on to me through my family and church.
These families fleeing violence in their native Honduras, or Guatemala, or El Salvador want nothing more than safety for their children, to which they have a right. The right of persons being persecuted to seek asylum is enshrined in Article 14 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the United States is a signatory to that document. Those who believe our national sovereignty is threatened by the United Nations ought to recall that our own Declaration of Independence claims that every person on earth is created equal and has God-given, inalienable rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Those are rights of all, people not just of U.S. citizens.
I have witnessed the damage done to unaccompanied youth who are denied a place to live in peace. During the fall of 2016, I met many youngsters who were coming to realize that their dream of immigrating to England would be denied. Some of these 15 and 16-year olds had trekked across Africa and the Mediterranean Sea to get to Europe and eventually to Calais. They told of the abuse they suffered on the journey, especially in Libya. Some were inflicting harm on themselves including suicide, others fell victim to traffickers, still others, just disappeared. For some of the young on the border they have faced many of the same abuses on the journey north, many are defenseless in the face of traffickers and now their hopes of living without war and violence are dashed.
Years ago, a group of my (all white) neighbors and I journeyed to a parish in Elizabeth, New Jersey to meet on a Saturday afternoon with undocumented immigrants, to ‘listen to their stories’ and share a light meal of home-made Peruvian empanadas. The young men told us how they were truckers in their home country, but that the gangs had taken their trucks and put them out of business. They had no funds to replace the trucks, no land to farm and no way to feed their children. They came to the U.S. to work so they could send money home to feed their children. One among us who was not very welcoming of refugees was moved by the sincerity of the desire of the undocumented young fathers to feed their children. When asked if he understood why they crossed into the U.S. without papers, my friend remarked, “How could I call myself a father, if I would not do the same?
If you agree that this policy of separating children must end, please contact your elected federal officials. You can find their contact information here. If you see a demonstration against this practice announced, join it, even if it is a first time for you. I also ask your prayers for the many volunteers working on the border to show love and respect to these immigrant families. There are congregations of religious sisters and Catholic Charities that could use your prayers and perhaps donations.
I cannot finish without wondering how much of the violence from which these immigrants flee is U.S. inspired. Clearly the war in El Salvador was a factor. What other military incursions have we managed? How many guns have been sold to these countries? How many of their leaders have been trained at the Fort Benning School for Assassins?
I’m currently reading a book by Kerry Kennedy written about her father, Robert. F. Kennedy. Allow me to close with a quote from RFK.
All great questions must be raised by great voices, and the greatest voice is the voice of the people—speaking out —in prose, or painting or poetry or music; speaking out —in homes and halls, streets and farms, courts and cafes —let that voice speak and the stillness you hear will be the gratitude of mankind.
Back in April, before I renewed blogging, a conference was held at the Vatican at the invitation of the Pontifical Commission for Justice and Peace, to consider putting aside the Church’s teachings on just war. The belief of many is that in today’s world, no war can be just. Nonviolence is more consistent with the teachings of Jesus in the Gospels and is considered by some the next step in the development of Papal teachings initiated when St. John XXIII wrote Pacem in Terris in 1963.
I encourage you to read the two-page document and consider its recommendations.
“The time has come for our Church to be a living witness and to invest far greater human and financial resources in promoting a spirituality and practice of active nonviolence and in forming and training our Catholic communities in effective nonviolent practices.”
Our experience at the refugee camp at Calais was an immersion in our common humanity. Understanding and accepting our unity is the basis for nonviolence. We can no longer wish harm to anyone. Some people may do bad things, but all are offspring of the same Divine author of life.
Now we all have an opportunity to affirm the findings of the conference on nonviolence and just peace and to urge Church leaders to act on its recommendations. A website has been created where you can sign up as an organization or as an individual to affirm the statement by the conference.
Even if you do not understand nonviolence or think it is too passive in the face of injustice (not at all true) this is a chance to ask church leaders to immerse themselves in understanding nonviolence and to pass on that understanding to others.
When we come to believe that everyone on earth is our sister or brother, we will be on our way to ending war and the tragedies it creates.
Nonviolence means avoiding
not only external violence
but also internal violence of spirit.
You not only refuse to shoot a man,
but you refuse to hate him.
A thoughtful reader posed some questions to an early post and rather than respond to the comment only, I thought I it might be helpful to express my thoughts here. A similar discussion came up with other volunteers in a tent in the Jungle during the same week.
How are you able to reconcile these intense, emotional interpersonal interactions with the fact that you may/must return to a privileged life while your new friends must stay there with little hope for the future? What has your being there left behind for them? What had your being there left with you as you return?
The decision to go to Calais was in part a response to a discernment (a prayerful, Spirit-led consideration of present realities and opportunities to respond) given to our CSJP congregation in the Chapter of 2014. A Chapter gathers as much of the congregation as possible to discern direction for the next six years. Our Chapter Call was a call to the kind of radical hospitality witnessed in the live and ministry of Jesus. Joining in project like the Catholic Worker House in Calais offered us an opportunity to serve, to learn more about the hospitality to which we are called and took into account the fact that our congregation is getting older and starting such a project on our own might be too formidable.
Personally, I chose to go in the hopes of learning how best to live out our chapter call to assist in my work for the congregation and to offer what charitable and pastoral assistance I could to the already progressing project. In early discussions it was made clear that it was important to keep peace within the camp between the different ethnic groups. I hoped that my experiences with and study of nonviolence would be of assistance as well.
The fact that most of my work addresses needed systemic change, I looked forward to being able to do some charitable work, which would need no justification. As reported from the first day in the camp, I found that the tables were turned.
Now that I have returned home there is a natural tension. I wished I could stay longer, the needs are so great but I have responsibilities to my family. I also was physically worn down after a month.
To suggest they are left without hope is not true at all. They are more hopeful than am I. They have traveled across deserts, seas and through outlaw countries to reach Calais. They will not be deterred. As dismal as life in Calais can be, they find it better than what they left behind. Most have great hopes of getting into the UK, despite the increasing difficulties of passing the 20 or so miles from Calais to Dover. Neither I nor they know how long the Jungle will go on. It is hard for me to believe that a “civilized” nation such as France would destroy the camp sending as many of 10,000 persons scattering throughout their countryside. It makes no sense from a humanitarian or a security perspective. Homes must be found for them.
For some in the camp, the hope may be a false hope until or unless the UK does more to welcome these men and women, instead of paying France to keep them out.
A typical dinner at St. Marie Skobtsova House
A great sign of hope are the residents and the work St. Maria Skobtsova house, the Catholic Worker House where we lived. The house residents include some faith based volunteers and refugees assisted by people from the neighborhood under the vision and leadership of Brother Johannes Marteens. Each of the refugees have applied for asylum in France and are taking French lessons 4 days a week. We were all learning to live together despite difference in languages, cultures, personal habits and skin colors. These are among the most caring people I have ever met. They have volunteered their time as translators in hospital visits. I have seen them use their own very limited resources to purchase food and treats for friends in the hospital. They use their connections and experience from being in the camp to bring to our attention those who need special help. I am delighted at the opportunity I had to live in that house and to share my life with the people there. Hopefully I have made a contribution to their lives as well.
Americans often look at hospitality as a time to perform or as an inconvenient social necessity. Our lives and agendas are too important to be disrupted. The people of Calais see hospitality as duty, delight and privilege. We have a lot to learn.
The truth is we only have one planet for us all to share. There is no far-off universe or island where these refugees will be sent. The refugees of Calais, and in Syria, and in Turkey on the Southern U.S. border and all over the globe have every right to a safe share of our planetary home as we do. We should all work to be sure they achieve the safety they seek.
I did not return home whole. Part of my heart is still in Calais with the folks in the house and those in the camp. But I came back with a resolve to help all of us understand we cannot wish these people away. Nor can we call ourselves civilized, much less Christian, if we keep them penned up in conditions like those existing in the Jungle.
We grieve at the news of the deaths of the school children and staff in Connecticut. The horror of the crime revolts us. We ask, “Why?”
Grief is abetter response than anger. Anger will seek to place blame elsewhere and seek some sort of revenge, a scapegoat. Was the shooter sick? Were the parents unfit? Was the school to blame? Eventually, a clue will be discovered, and a scapegoat blamed. It will seem to put this outrage to rest and allow us to go back to our normal routines.
One of my teachers of peace, John Dear, S.J shared on a retreat that here were only two emotions that were recommended in the Beatitudes: joy and grief. Anger had no place and needed to be converted to grief.
Grief takes us deeper and allows us to look for our own responsibility in all of this. Do our ‘normal routines’ insulate us from those who are marginalized… the poor, the mentally ill, the broken and outcast people in our communities? Are we doing all we can to keep all people connected and part of our community?
Grief ends the need to blame-ourselves or others. We may want to repent of our complicity in this tragedy. Do our ‘normal routines’ signal tacit support to the very violent society we live in? Have we become too jaded to think we can make a difference? We may be personally peaceful people, but do we express our discomfort/ outrage/ opposition to the violence all around us? If not, these tragedies will themselves become normal routines forcing us into narrower and narrower circles of engagement.
We risk being as insulated from the death of children in school shootings as we are already insulated from the deaths of children starved in our cities, or those killed by drone strikes in Pakistan and Afghanistan, or by economic sanctions in Iran. These are the children being killed in our name, for our “security.” Yet we let those tragedies continue unopposed.
We live in a culture birthed in, and deeply addicted to violence. From the massacre of Native Americans to the enslavement of African-Americans through lynching and its more legalized counterpart, the death penalty, by “winning” world wars and by “surgical” drone strikes we have been taught—and passed on—the myths of redemptive violence. “Might makes Right”
Children are raised on cartoons depicting violence as the solution to every conflict… brought to you by Hasbro’s GI Joe. For my generation, Popeye the sailor comes to mind. A can of spinach at the right time and you can rip Brutus limb from limb to save Olive Oil.
Today’s air waves are full of cop shows and detective series where the ‘good guy’ gets the ‘bad guy’ often through the use of deadly force.In the end, we are led to believe that violence saves us. And we believe it. Violence is the disease that is killing us.
And we wonder why a disturbed young man would turn to violence to fix his world?
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
Martin Luther King Jr. warned us the night before he was assassinated that our choice was no longer between violence and nonviolence but between nonviolence and non-existence.
Perhaps there is enough motivation in the deaths of these innocents to save us from ourselves. Maybe, through their intercession, we will come to see that there is no future in violence.
Nonviolence is not passivity in the face of violence, oppression or injustice.
Nonviolence, as used here, is a poor English rendition of Gandhi’s term “satyagraha” or truth force. It is a belief so deeply grounded in seeing the sacredness of each person that it recognizes people are not evil but sometimes do evil things. It and sees the hurt and pain that drives people to evil acts. Nonviolence is willing to sacrifice. It seeks reconciliation rather than victory. it does not count winners and losers. It believes wholeheartedly that love is more powerful than hate.
So we can begin a process of healing by grieving deeply over this loss of life and of innocence. Let us refrain from blaming others until we have looked within.
We cannot stay within for long, our nation needs to witness us turn away from violence in all its forms.
I believe that nonviolence is a better way. In Jesus, God demonstrated that Love conquers hate.
“They were overjoyed at seeing the star, and on entering the house they saw the child with Mary his mother. They prostrated themselves and did him homage. Then they opened their treasures and offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they departed for their country by another way.” Mt. 2:10-12
I’ve felt a need to start a blog for a while. The last words of this morning’s gospel gave me the title I’ve been seeking. You might call it an epiphany.
By another way… is about a nonviolent path of seeking peace, not through the avoidance of conflict but by creating right relationships and seeking justice. Nonviolence is not pacifism but the use of moral force to stand up against evil and injustice. Gandhi called it soul force…satyagraha.
I hope to communicate the struggles I have with this path.
I am a first born white male born into the American culture of the late 20th century raised on the myths of redemptive violence. I was raised in an all white suburb in Bergen County, NJ to be a Goldwater Republican. Our family was an early part of the Irish exodus (white flight) from the South Bronx. I was 2 years old. (Future posts will explain why after so many years of absence I spent two of the last four days in the Bronx again as part of seeking another way.)
An awakening of sorts began as a college freshman and prospective seminarian at Seton Hall University in the fall of 1970. I read some books by the brothers Berrigan and heard the gospel in ways never preached in my home church. I had a whole lot of new theology, some new actions like marching to protest nuclear weapons, but theology alone doesn’t create peace.
I left the seminary in 1977 started a family and worked as a carpenter. I lived the axiom that when you’re a hammer everything looks like a nail. I swung hard, ate and drank hard and worked long hours with no regard for the physical tolls each took.
After some hospitalizations I began to revaluate; call it a mid-life crisis. In 2003 I was offered a fresh start after the kids were all off to college. Out of necessity I began to pray anew. Finding ‘God’s will’ for my life was important and offered some surprises. My bride offered me a sabbatical to get out of the business I was in (by this time a high end kitchen and bath designer) to find more meaningful work. I went to work for Family Promise, as Director of the Just Neighbors program; we spent three intensive years doing and then leading Just Faith and we joined the Sisters of St. Joseph of Peace as Associates. We have a small faith community that meets in our home.
My reawakening to nonviolence was sparked by Fr. John Dear’s challenge to the CSJP community at our Chapter in 2008. “Become prophets, mystics and teachers of peace and nonviolence.” And so my journey continues… this year with a Pace e Bene program to train agents of nonviolent change.
The wise men of this morning’s gospel followed a distant star on a long journey to find the Prince of Peace. This blog will witness to the experiences and people I meet on my own journey to that Peace.It’s not too early to think about bringing my own journey Home. My road has not been a straight one, nor do I expect it to be be. Being a peacemaker does not come naturally. What I share may be counter cultural, or at least it ought to be. (Unfortunately.) But there are lights to follow and I count myself undeserving to have met, worked with, and loved some of them.
I can’t close this first entry without giving a shout out to one of those gentle stars on her birthday. Happy Birthday Mom, rest in the peace you so richly deserve. We miss you.
On a series of well-designed tri-fold boards, the progression of each family is tracked day by day.
