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
As a Catholic, I accept the basic truth of my faith that underlies the sanctity of human life. That basic principle is that we all derive our dignity from our creation as individuals in the image and likeness of God. We are created as one family with great diversity. Our faith teaches that God is trinity, a community of love, and we, made in God’s image and likeness are to be the same.
As election day is upon us, I take my faith to the voting booth. The general feeling of the nation is that the vote tomorrow is a referendum on Trump. I cannot argue with that, he chooses to say a vote for a republican is a vote for him. Most of his party has voted in lock step with him over the past two years. Politicians who berated Obama for his spending, voted to increase the deficit with their tax cuts for the wealthy. All but three of his senators voted to destroy the Affordable Care Act (Obamacare), with no replacement agreed upon. All senators but one voted for the confirmation of an accused sexual abuser for a seat on the supreme court.
Trump’s rhetoric over the past few weeks, makes it clear that the racism of which he has been accused is verifiable. I cannot tell if his is inherently racist or simply finds it helpful to advance his agenda and power up his MAGA followers. But I have no doubt is is a very ill individual. His rhetoric led to the deaths of two blacks and eleven Jewish worshippers last week and motivated a disciple to send fifteen bombs to political leaders who believe Trump is leading the nation away from its founding ideals.
As I enter the voting booth, I will not see Trump’s name, but will vote against any member of his party on the federal level. Anyone who denigrates minorities, immigrants, people who are poor or disabled, or who embraces those who do so, is not deserving of a leadership role in America.
Some will say “But he appoints right to life judges!” To them I say, motive matters. If Trump believed in our common humanity his “right to life” position might have some weight. However, since he is willing, if not eager, to use nuclear weapons, berates anyone who disagrees with him, proposes cuts to child nutrition programs, and cares little for the violated immigrants of Central America who seek asylum on our nation, I believe his right to life position is simply manipulation. It allows for continued male domination of women’s bodies and their health. The Access Hollywood tape two years ago made it clear to us all the high regard in which he holds a woman’s body. In addition, the judges Trump appointed, as are those appointed by Bush, are myopically pro-business/anti-labor…but my objections to that are for another post.
There are so many more reasons to use this election to vote against Trump and his cronies, but believing in our common humanity is all the reason I need.
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.
We are outraged by the current treatment of refugees massing and being turned away at our southern border. The greatest offense comes from the abhorrent, immoral, abusive and destructive separation of children from their parents. The God who welcomes little children and who over and over again, tells us to care for widows, orphans and “strangers”. Will not look kindly on how our nation acts today—and none of us are innocent.
Today, on World Refugee Day, I put my outrage aside for a few moments to celebrate the refugees I have come to know and to encourage readers to follow the advice of Pope Francis to “Share the Journey” with refugees.
For almost 12 years I visited immigrants in detention in our NJ jails with First Friends. A few have been characters who I will not miss, but the overwhelming majority have been people whom I enjoyed sharing hours with speaking on a phone and looking through a plate glass window under the strict supervision of the jailers. About half of those who I met were deported, the others have been returned to their former lives. Although I visit only in New Jersey facilities, none of those I visited came from New Jersey. They either lived in New York City of were refugees who arrived at the Bergen County Jail from the borders where they asked for asylum. I have brought wives and children to the jail to say good-bye before deportation, brought parents to visit, given a few bucks to their —accounts and helped post a bond a couple of times.
The large majority of those I visited do not keep in touch and I understand because that time is one they want to forget. A few have kept in touch over the years through Facebook and phone calls, and one lived with us for nine months after his release.
I was also blessed by the four weeks I spent at a refugee camp in France where I met so many good people looking to start their lives in places where (relative) peace reigned.
Each of these men and women have helped open my heart and helped me to see how blessed we are in the US, and to realize the truth: that I did nothing to deserve my birth to a good Irish-American family in America. No one has anything to say about the country into which they were born or the color of the skin they will live with. We all have a right to live in peace. That realization helps keep me humbled and aware that I should be sharing the good news I have received.
Pope Francis, last September asked us all to “Share the Journey” with migrants and refugees. He recommends we learn four verbs to govern our responses to migrants and refugees who now number over 65.6 million worldwide. That number is still growing.
First, we are asked to welcome them, to make it easier and simpler for them to come to our country…working to put a stop to separation of mothers and children at the border is a start. Secondly, we are asked to protect them, an ongoing effort to defend their rights as newcomers. We do not want them detained indefinitely even with their children. Thirdly, to promote them is to create paths they can follow to achieve their potential as human beings. Finally, we are asked to integrate them into our society in a way that is respectful of, and does not cause them to lose, their own cultural identity,
Over the years, I’ve had many opportunities to share the stories of refugees so I am so happy to pass on the pontiff’s suggestions. You can read about some encounters of my friends and I in earlier blog posts such as The Tables Turned.
One practical way to “Share the Journey” is to sit down and “break bread” with migrants or refugees. You can do it in your home, or in a larger group, such as your congregation. Pope Francis hopes we will listen and hear some truth they have to share that we may need to hear. Get beyond discussing what we do for a living and how many children we have to sharing what our dreams and hopes are and what fears we have. If we are honest in our sharing, we will see that the hopes and dreams are the same. When real listening takes place, the walls that already exist between us begin to crumble and the need to build more walls becomes just a bad memory.
What is most exciting is that sharing the journey present an opportunity for “us and them” to become “we”.
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.
Pope Francis, last September asked us all to “