brigitte - post #1, 6.19.22: and so it begins

Praying to God has never been easy for me; it's something that I've been forced to think about these past few weeks. I knew that this would pose a challenge for me, considering how the whole point of this internship is to explore the intersections of faith and social justice. I know that prayer looks different for everybody, but I find talking to God--especially in front of other people--uncomfortable. It's awkward. I never know what to say, and I'm afraid of what I do end up saying not being genuine. Talking about God goes pretty much the same way. As a result, I've been experiencing a lot of self-doubt, which has been a struggle. Giving myself grace is hard.

I'm grateful that I was able to virtually attend the Poor People's Campaign's "Everyone has a right to live" Memorial Service on Friday. It broke me in a good way; I felt seen and understood in that brokenness. The service provided people with a space to mourn the more than 1 million lives lost to COVID-19 (in the U.S.) and those who've died as a result of injustice. The second I heard Terri Small sing, "Sometimes I feel like a motherless child a long, long way from home," I started sobbing. I thought about these lyrics when I listened to Pam Garrison of the West Virginia PPC speak during Saturday's Moral March on Washington. She, like countless other low-income people, had to work multiple jobs to support her daughters while they were growing up. Her daughters are now adults, and can't remember their mom being there for them during their childhood because she was always working. This hit pretty close to home. The 140 million poor and low-income people in this country can't afford not to work; our for-profit healthcare system, a system based on employment status, makes quality healthcare inaccessible to the poor. Moreover, chronic health conditions directly related to the health of the physical environment, make working difficult. The odds are stacked against society's most vulnerable; a profit-driven system creates and perpetuates suffering, and it leaves no room for grief.

The Rev. Dr. William Barber II had my full attention as he explained two types of mourning. Here's the one that's detailed in Matthew 2:18: Rachel weeping for her children because they are no more; they were killed under Herod's orders. Rachel's children died because of bad policy. I'd never heard this interpretation before, and it kind of blew my mind. Lack of access to material resources, inadequate healthcare, poor education, and religious extremism are some of the factors that led to 319,000 vaccine-preventable COVID-19 deaths. Our government let over a million of its people die. Moral outrage should be directed at those who sanctioned these deaths, not at those who are suffering. There are people starving to death, freezing to death, dying from heat-related illness, being poisoned by the air they breathe and the water they drink, in one of the richest countries in the world. Too many Americans have become victims of mass shootings, hate crimes, and police brutality. Everyone should have the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness in this country, yet our current polices and attitudes have failed to reflect this. Basic human rights are denied to image-bearers of God. I'm under the impression that the God revealed to us in Jesus cries with us and mourns for a country unwilling to repent for its sins (like enabling mega-corporations to play God and treating humans like they're disposable).

There also exists a blessed mourning according to Rev. Dr. Barber. It's grief that lasts so long that it changes one's heart and instills within it the "desire to fight every system every system of death," to fight against regressive policies; "it makes the passion for justice irresistible." It is transformative, life-giving, and life-changing. It kind of sounds similar to the death and resurrection of Jesus in a way. Death isn't how this story ends; it is "no longer an option." I had never heard grief spoken about so openly before. There isn't space for it in the realm of "normalcy." I ironically smiled when Rev. Dr. Barber proclaimed, "We don't feel like smiling no more." Going back to normal means being okay with living in a world in which preventable death is acceptable. Normal doesn't exist for those who mourn. This was the first time I thought about my experience with grief as a "good" thing; normal kinda sucks.

I believe in a God that stands with the least of these, understands suffering, and doesn't give up on us, even when we're ready to give up on ourselves. This is a just and loving God, a God of transformation and liberation. I think of faith as an inner knowing that constantly evolves and grows (plenty of room for doubt!) through experience and relationship, as trusting that one is loved by God and is and never will be alone. There's hope in that.

Maybe that's what prayer is for. It reminds us that we have company in this absurd life.

Song of the week/month: “Hard Times” by Ethel Cain

-brigitte