By Cynthia L. Hale, M.Div., D.Min.

On July 5, 1968, Christianity Today published an article titled, “Can We Awaken the Sleeping Giant?” Author Ronn Spargur argued that the church was too lethargic, too complacent, too sleepy, too unbothered about doing the work of living like Christians. “Here is the Church’s weakest link: those who confess Christ and then do nothing for him.” Too many Christians were unbothered about giving “tangible meaning” to their asserted beliefs that they should love their neighbors as themselves.

Over 50 years later, has the church awakened? Or are we sleeping, silent — or worse, self-satisfied? The charge continues to be leveled against the church. Obery Hendricks, in his book, Blow the Trumpet in Zion: Global Vision and Action for the 21st Century Black Church, says:

Generally speaking, our churches today are so engaged in hyper-spiritualizing worship, building churches into big business, and turning themselves into gospel entertainment centers, that we sometimes lose sight of the real mandate of the gospel. In this sense, our focus is often fixed on “Church-ianity” rather than Christianity.

As he explains, church-ianity’s concern is institutional maintenance rather than ministry to the world. Too many churches (and not just Black ones) are focused on maintenance or providing for the people on the inside while the people of the world perish, spiritually and literally.

It is time for the church to speak up! The world needs to hear from us, because many believe that the church is irrelevant and that we are indeed a silent giant with no desire and no power to change anything.

SALT AND LIGHT

This assessment of the church does not square with what Jesus says about us in Matthew 5:13­–14: “You are the salt of the earth . . . you are the light of the world.”

Jesus spoke these words to his disciples, both then and now, as he sat on the Mount and taught them kingdom principles and practices by which they were to operate in the world. He wanted us to know who we are. He wanted to make clear our position and responsibility in the world.

When Jesus came into the world, he came as light to dispel the darkness of evil, ignorance, sin, oppression, devastation, dishonesty, despair, and death. Anyone who claims to follow Jesus is rescued from darkness and given light and understanding to make the right decisions and choices, along with the power to walk in the light as he is in the light.

Salt is a basic commodity today, but in the ancient world, salt was highly valued. The Greeks used salt as currency, medicine, and sacred offerings. The Romans had a kind of jingle, Nil utilius sole et sale, which means “Nothing is more useful than sun and salt.” Salt is a preservative, and when rubbed into meat, it keeps it from spoiling. Christians are to have this kind of influence in the world. Without our godly presence and participation in the world, this thing will spoil; the evidence is all around us.

Jesus wants us to understand that we have a moral obligation to be “different.” We cannot think like others think; operate like they operate. We dare not ignore the desperate circumstances and cries of the people, acting as if what happens to the people around us is not our concern. We cannot say to ourselves, As long as it does not happen to me and mine, then I don’t need to get involved.

We are already involved by virtue of the fact that we represent God in the world. We are therefore charged with the responsibility and the authority of keeping this thing on track.

THE CALL AND EXAMPLE OF JESUS

We take our cue from Jesus, who ministered in a world not much different from ours. In his book The Politics of Jesus, Obery Hendricks notes: “Jesus, his family, and, with few exceptions, everyone he encountered throughout his life were impoverished and oppressed, exploited by the religious establishment, brutalized by the Roman citizens.”

It was in this context that Jesus’ ministry was formed. He made this clear in his inaugural sermon, as he read from the Old Testament prophecy of Isaiah, recorded in Luke 4:18–19, and claimed it as his mantra, “The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”

When Jesus preached this sermon, he was making clear that his purpose on earth and his mission were one in the same. We could easily read this passage from a spiritual perspective, as I was taught while growing up in my home church, thinking that Jesus was simply addressing the needs of the souls of men and women. But when we look at the context in which he lived and read the Scriptures, particularly the Gospels, it is clear that Jesus came to proclaim radical economic, social, and political change.

Jesus came to shake up the status quo, to radically change the distribution of authority, power, goods, and resources so that all people, especially the “least of these” might live their lives free of political repression, enforced hunger, poverty, and undue insecurity.

Jesus not only sought to address the symptoms of people’s suffering, but he also wanted to alleviate the systematic causes of their suffering. Jesus spoke truth to power, calling for a reversal of the injustice that was rampant in the land.

Jesus’ style of ministry was “prophetic.” He carried out the tradition of the Old Testament prophets, who were called to transform the social order by speaking out against it. The prophet also spoke on behalf of the poor, the oppressed, the downtrodden, assuring them that one day justice would prevail. The prophet further empowers the oppressed to free themselves from all that is holding them captive.

As Jesus’ disciples, we are called to do no less. We are to be prophets and priests. James Cone affirmed this in a lecture titled “Loving God with Our Heart, Soul and Mind”: “Ministers are both priests and prophets. They care for the souls who are wounded by personal loss and hurt, and they fight for justice for the people who have been wronged in society.”

It is not an either-or, it is a both-and proposition and privilege that we are given as ministers of the gospel. We have a responsibility to be prophetic and priestly in our message and our ministry.

TOOLS FOR PROPHETIC MINISTRY

We need practical tools to develop the prophetic, social justice dimensions of ministry. I started Ray of Hope Christian Church with a group of upwardly mobile, progressive young adults who, like me, wanted to change the world. We started our church in the South DeKalb area of Decatur, Ga., the nation’s second-wealthiest African American county. (Prince George County in Maryland was number one.) At the time, the poverty level in our county was below 2 percent.

But as our community transitioned from white to Black, we were redlined and could never attract upscale restaurants, hotels, or other amenities that would sustain a healthy and prosperous community. Atlanta closed its housing developments, giving its displaced residents Section 8 vouchers. They moved to the suburbs, including ours, and gradually the number of persons living in poverty increased. By 2021, the poverty rate in our county was 14.45 percent.

When we first started Ray of Hope, even with no apparent needs in the immediate community, we were determined to provide for the “least of these.” We made sandwiches and soup on Saturday mornings at the church, boxed the lunches, and drove to Atlanta to distribute them. We didn’t have to look hard for homeless people — the homeless population was growing rapidly there. We also connected with ministries in downtown Atlanta that had homeless shelters and feeding sites.

This ministry grew to the point that we started using our bus to pick up homeless men on a Sunday morning, bringing them to our church for breakfast, a shower, clean clothes, and worship. At other times, we would get on the bus after church, go downtown, and meet the men and some women in the park. We sat and talked with them to learn what more we could do for them. It was our desire to see them off the streets.

The ministry that began in the church’s kitchen has now become the Reconnection Ministry, which services extended-stay hotels just five miles or less from the church. We provide meals, life skills training, and job fairs. The Reconnection Ministry was the beginning of our Outreach/Social Justice Ministry. Our social justice ministry started organically.

Developing a social justice ministry requires that you identify the people with a heart or passion for it, the expertise and experience to make it a reality, and allow them to do it. When we decided that we wanted to have a counseling center, a psychologist in the church helped develop the center and trained others to partner with her. Through the years, members and ministries have been invited and encouraged to dream of what was possible in line with our vision and in response to the needs they have become aware of in our community, nation, and world.

While there are programs and ministries that flow directly out of the Outreach/Social Justice Ministry for whole church participation, every ministry of our church has a social justice or outreach component. For instance, our senior ministry, The Golden Rays, collects toiletries, socks, clothes, and cleaning supplies to make baskets for those who live in extended-stay hotels and a temporary living facility for families. The women’s ministry has a backpack drive for children and delivers them to schools, shelters, and the Domestic Violence Safe Home.

The signature ministry of our church is the Hope Through Health Clinic. The clinic began by identifying the poorest county in the state who might need our services. We contacted the state representatives and other leaders in the county, partnered with them, and held our first mobile health clinic in a school building in Cuthbert, Ga. We provided dental, medical, and eye exams; prescriptions; food; and clothing. We committed to being there for three years, and county representatives worked side by side with us in every aspect of the clinic. By the third year, they could conduct their own clinic, and we were able to move to another county.

EDUCATION, ADVOCACY, ACTION

Leaders need to use every means available to educate people on the issues that rob them of a quality of life and life itself. As a pastor, I realized I have a captive audience on Sunday mornings. I use the pulpit to talk about the issues that matter to our community.

When the HIV/AIDs epidemic first surfaced, I knew there needed to be greater awareness in our community, and the stigma of it needed to be addressed. I also knew that my people would never attend a forum on HIV/AIDs on a weeknight or even a Saturday morning. I dedicated a whole service to the topic and preached on the subject. Then I invited a group of people who were health care professionals, as well as those infected with and affected by the disease, to dialogue about it. I have used Sunday mornings, along with Bible studies, to address human trafficking, domestic violence, COVID-19, voter suppression, human sexuality, and other justice issues that people are uncomfortable talking about.

We are called to advocate for policies and programs that put an end to the ills of our society: homelessness, hunger, and unemployment. We also must advocate for better wages, health care, and other employment benefits, as well as low-cost and affordable housing and daycare.

At Ray of Hope, we do this through attending Lobby Days at the Georgia State House, writing letters to the institutions known for unjust practices, and appealing to elected officials to vote in favor of laws that would benefit those for whom we are advocating. As just one example, QuikTrip planned to build a truck stop in the heart of our community. While truck stops provide vital services, they can also harm a neighborhood and the environment. We partnered with other churches and neighborhood associations to write letters and attend meetings with the Board of Commissioners who had to approve the truck stop. Eventually, QuikTrip’s application was denied on the grounds that it would harm our community.

TRANSFORMATIVE PARTNERSHIPS

We must provide programs that transform a person’s life. In 2013, I kept hearing that girls from the local high school were being recruited as sex workers and then sometimes transported out of the area. This disturbed me greatly, and I wondered what our church could do about it. My minister to women shared that the Women’s Ministry Council wanted to develop a human trafficking ministry. One Sunday morning, I hosted a panel with community partners during our worship service.

Following the panel discussion, I issued a call to action to solicit people to be boots on the ground. The minister to women formed a planning team with those who expressed interest and signed up. They researched organizations in the city to formulate a partnership; reached out to local organizations to schedule in-person meetings and to understand the needs and opportunities to develop a partnership; sent invitation letters to prospective volunteers, completed applications to the programs, conducted training, secured background checks; and developed a calendar and schedules for activity.

Human Trafficking Ministry Calendar
· January — Human Trafficking Awareness Training and Interest Meeting
· February — Attend Anti-Sex Trafficking Lobby Day at Georgia State Capitol
· Second Saturdays — Monthly Meetings
· Third Fridays — Phoenix Diversion Life Skills Training. The Phoenix Program is an alternative diversion program offered by the Office of the DeKalb County Solicitor-General. This voluntary program diverts those cases where women of any age have been charged with prostitution. Participants should be ready to change their lifestyle and head in a healthy direction. Ray of Hope volunteers attended court each month with these women and provided life skills training.
· Every Friday — Princess Night, when volunteer teams travel together in an Out of Darkness van to engage with individuals possibly being exploited in the commercial sex industry, offering prayer, resources, and hope. While engaging, they deliver roses and handmade cards, communicating to women they are valued and loved and that there are opportunities for hope, rescue, and recovery. The cards include messages of encouragement and our 24/7 hotline number. Women are rescued and brought out of bondage.

Women can volunteer at the level of their comfort; while some have a passion for street ministry, jail ministry, or more personal experiences, we also have opportunities to send cards, make blankets, prepare toiletry kits, lead life skills training, attend monthly court appearances, and more. There are many ways to participate in the ministry so that we can reach, rescue, and restore women.

Through collaboration and partnership, social justice ministry can transform lives. When the Super Bowl was held in Atlanta in 2019, we formed an alliance with others in our community to respond to the spike in human trafficking activity. And Ray of Hope volunteers assisted in renovating, remodeling, and sponsoring the prayer room in the safe home secured by Out of Darkness in our community.

I know that some say this work is only possible for a large church with multiple staff, but that is not the case. Ray of Hope’s social justice ministry is led by capable and committed lay people in the congregation and expanded through collaboration with other organizations. It is time for the church to be awake and alive, not asleep and silent, in the face of the needs around us. It is time to have our passion for social justice stirred up, and time to exhort our people to get involved and share the work. With leadership and partnership, we can impact and transform this present world for the kingdom of God.

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About the author: The Rev. Dr. Cynthia Hale is the founder and senior pastor of Ray of Hope Christian Church in Decatur, Ga. She earned her master of divinity degree from Duke Divinity School, and was a featured preacher for the 50th anniversary of the Office of Black Church Studies. This article is adapted from her Martin Luther King Jr. Lectures at Duke in April 2023.

By Edgardo Colón-Emeric

Early in the morning of October 5, 2022, a small band of Catholics and Methodists gathered in a room behind the Paul VI Audience Hall in the Vatican to meet with Pope Francis. The room was called an auletta — literally, a “little hall,” but it was only little in comparison to the 6,300-seat-capacity room next door. While we waited for Francis, a member of our group spoke of having “happy legs,” which was a more original way of naming what I experienced as butterflies in the stomach as I prepared to present the most recent report of the Methodist Roman Catholic International Commission to the Pope.

My journey to the auletta began at Duke Divinity School in the mid-1990s, when I studied theology under the great Methodist ecumenist Geoffrey Wainwright. From him, I learned the journey toward Christian unity has deep roots in church history and Scripture. The word “ecumenical” comes from the Greek oikoumene, which the New Testament and the Greek version of the Old Testament use to refer to the whole inhabited world. For instance, Luke informs his readers that around the time of Jesus’ birth, “a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world [oikoumene] should be registered” (Luke 2:1 — biblical citations are from the New Revised Standard Version unless otherwise noted). When Christian leaders met in Constantinople in 381 C.E. to argue for the true humanity of Jesus against its detractors, they referred to the previous gathering of bishops in Nicaea in 325 C.E. as an “ecumenical synod.”

Wainwright helped me understand the abiding significance of the historical ecumenical councils and the creeds they developed. Today, the term ecumenical encompasses more than geographical scope or historic landmarks; it names a way of being church that affirms diversity, rejects division, and works for unity. It denotes a new posture before God and fellow Christians, a posture of dialogue (sitting ecumenism), service (walking ecumenism), and prayer (kneeling ecumenism). This last one most of all, for at the heart of the ecumenical way is Jesus’ prayer on the eve of his passion for his followers throughout the ages: “May they all be one … that the world may believe” (John 17:21).

Since 2008, I have had the humbling privilege of representing Methodists in bilateral dialogues with Roman Catholics nationally and internationally. In these years, I have been blessed by the exchange of gifts that comes from walking toward Christian unity. There is something truly remarkable about traveling, reading, discussing, eating, and praying together with fellow Christians with whom one has substantive disagreements.

One characteristic of these dialogues I greatly appreciate is their unabashedly doctrinal character. After all, historically, one reason why Christians part ways and remain divided is doctrine. Differences between how Catholics and the Orthodox understand the person of the Holy Spirit, and differences between how Protestants and Catholics understand the role of Mary, all promoted and sustain separation. The unity Christians seek cannot downplay doctrine’s importance because faith involves thinking. A unity that papers over questions of truth is, at best, toleration and, at worst, indifference.

Clearly, what unites Christians at the deepest level is not doctrine but Christ, with whom we are one through baptism. Scripture testifies to baptism’s significance when it says, “In the one Spirit we were all baptized into one body — Jews or Greeks, slaves or free — and we were all made to drink of one Spirit” (1 Corinthians 12:13). The church is already one. The letter to the Ephesians declares this in a beautiful way: “There is one body and one Spirit, just as you were called to the one hope of your calling, one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all, who is above all and through all and in all” (Ephesians 4:4–6). Oneness does not dilute diversity. Indeed, the letter to the Ephesians continues: “Each of us was given grace according to the measure of Christ’s gift” (Ephesians 4:7). The waters of baptism do not wash away difference. Instead, they cleanse difference and prepare it for sanctification.

Even so, ecumenical dialogues often focus on doctrine. Ecumenical doctrinal statements claim baptism as the common ground for Christian unity. It is, however, a contested claim. One of the most painful moments in Methodist-Catholic dialogues comes when we celebrate the Eucharist and fail to share the body and blood of Christ. It is a scandal to see people who have been spending intense time together and share so much in common part ways at the Lord’s Supper. The ecumenical journey is not a yellow brick road but a Via Dolorosa. We are bound to fall against the stumbling blocks of divided doctrines and practices.

Stumbling Blocks

Lack of a common goal. Jesus prayed that his disciples may be one as he and the Father are one, but he did not offer a blueprint or model for unity. The statement from the World Council of Churches assembly in New Delhi in 1961 perhaps comes closest to a common vision of the goal. It highlights unity as “both God’s will and his gift to the Church.” Ecumenism has spatial and temporal dimensions — unity with sisters and brothers around the world and with church fathers and mothers throughout history. Significantly, unity does not mean uniformity. There is legitimate diversity within Christian life. Nevertheless, beyond this broad level of agreement, differences emerge.

Prior to the Second Vatican Council, the Roman Catholic model for unity was simple — return to Rome. The earliest Protestant expressions of the ecumenical movement aimed for organic union as the goal, the merging of diverse churches under one common structural arrangement. Models of reconciled diversity have also been advanced. For instance, some speak of different ecclesial forms like the Pauline (Protestant), Petrine (Roman Catholic), and the Johannine (Orthodox). In all these cases, multiple models suggest multiple ends, which necessitate multiple paths and may unintentionally provoke more estrangement.

Ecumenical skepticism. In Latin America, many Protestant churches experience deep misgivings about the work for Christian unity. Interdenominational cooperation is one thing, but a movement that embraces Roman Catholics as sisters and brothers is something else. The language itself is telling. In Latin American communities, it is still common to hear people distinguishing Christians from Catholics. The word ecumenism carries the baggage of sounding like communism and evokes external hegemonic forces. Latin American history does indeed bear the marks of a Roman Catholic ecclesial monopoly, which has broken up only in recent decades. The idea of sitting down with Roman Catholics for fraternal dialogues strikes some as a betrayal of the gospel and of the witness of hard-fought battles for social recognition.

Nostalgia for a golden age. It is common to hear that the most exciting days for ecumenism are past. The early decades of the 20th century witnessed stellar signs of hope for Christian unity: the formation of the World Council of Churches, the invitation of Protestant observers to the Second Vatican Council, the Joint Declaration on the Doctrine of Justification, and many more. The abundance of signs of unity moved John Paul II to look to the 21st century as inaugurating a millennium of Christian unity that would heal the wounds of division from the second millennium. So far, those hopes have been disappointed.

Ecumenists have often pointed to the problem of reception. The agreements achieved through official dialogues have a hard time changing the situation on the ground. The Joint Declaration on the Doctrine of Justification may have bridged gaps opened by the Reformation, but the churches have yet to cross these bridges.

Apathy about division. Simply put, we do not miss each other enough. In the International Methodist Catholic dialogue, the parable of the prodigal son mirrored the reality of this unrealized estrangement. Both sons abandoned the father’s house. The younger one lost himself in licentious living in a far country. The older one lost himself in work close to home. When Methodists and Catholics read this together, we saw ourselves. Both of us were the younger son. Both of us were the older son. Both of us long to return to the father’s house and be embraced. In Scripture, the parable ends without resolution. The older son refuses to celebrate with the father. One detail that interests me is the two brothers’ relationship — or the lack thereof. In his journey to and from the far country, the younger son spares no thought for his older brother. The older son bears only contempt for the younger one. Neither refers to the other as brother; neither longs for the other.

Dreams

The Catholic ecumenist Jean-Marie Tillard’s final book was titled I Believe, Despite Everything. He describes a vocation to dream despite the lure of going back (nostalgia), or giving up (apathy), or digging down (skepticism). And the challenges facing the ecumenical movement are cause not for despair but for dreaming. In Scripture, we find hints of an eschatological dimension to ecumenism. In the Letter to the Hebrews, we read of “the coming world [oikoumene]” (Hebrews 2:5). Difficult experiences with the edicts (dogmas) of Caesars and the ecumenical pretensions of Rome pushed Christians to distinguish the oikoumene of the empire from the oikoumene of the church. The unity of the coming oikoumene will not derive from homogenizing cultures or subjecting difference but from purifying and perfecting them. The promise of this coming oikoumene guides the ecumenical movement and inspires Christian dreams of unity. I here share a few dreams that I believe are not simply my own but reflect the aspirations of many.

I dream dreams of an ecumenical movement that goes out to the world. Ecumenism and evangelism cannot be separated. The event most frequently credited with the launch of the ecumenical movement was the Edinburgh Missionary Conference of 1910. The call to unity came from the mission field, where the denominational differences among Christians paled in comparison to the differences between Christians and non-Christians. Interestingly, in the lead up to the gathering, they called it the “Ecumenical Missionary Conference,” but the organizers judged that the absence of Catholic and Orthodox participants stretched the definition of “ecumenical” beyond the breaking point. Christian unity matters, but it does not exist for its own sake. Unity is the goal of the ecumenical movement, not the goal of the church; the church seeks unity for the sake of its credibility in its mission to the world.

I dream dreams of an ecumenical movement that goes down to the margins. The church has gone South, in the sense that the majority of its members are now found in what is often called the Global South. As the church has changed, so too must the movement toward Christian unity. The ecumenical questions emerging from the Global South are not identical to those of the Global North. Doctrine matters, but the pressures on the churches are not simply those coming from the secular age — they come from the heavy legacies of colonialism. Moreover, in the movement to the margins, we might rediscover the power of Jesus’ high priestly prayer by joining his journey of descent. Jesus voiced his prayer not from a temple or throne but from the place of rejection and suffering.

I dream dreams of an ecumenical movement that draws in the youth. Before the Edinburgh Missionary Conference, the movement toward Christian unity was a youth movement. The contributions of interdenominational groups such as the YMCA, the YWCA, and the World Student Christian Federation are underappreciated today. Youth and student groups committed themselves to Christian unity and “the evangelization of the world in this generation.” Along with recovering the role of youth, the ecumenical movement needs to place laity at the center. Clericalization has rendered the movement the work of specialists rather than the work of the people of God.

I dream dreams of an ecumenical movement that draws in the theological academy. In its list of “instruments of unity,” the Oxford Handbook of Ecumenical Studies does not mention theological schools, but these have long served as signs of and instruments for Christian unity. In seminaries and divinity schools, future Christian leaders deepen their understanding of the faith by studying, worshipping, and serving next to Christians of different traditions. An old saying directs the Christian journey toward unity: “in essentials, unity; in non-essentials, liberty; in all things, charity.” In seminaries, many learn there is a hierarchy of doctrines, and this hiearchy clarifies the terms for the theological pluralism coherent with Christ’s gospel. Admittedly, the ecumenical seminary or divinity school is a fragile institution. The forces of secularization and polarization greatly stress these communities. God’s promised vision of the church is ecumenical, however, and a school that forms people for strictly denominational (or even non/postdenominational) leadership will fall out of step with the richness of Christ’s prayer.

A Pentecost Movement

Returning to the auletta, Francis walked slowly into the room. Aided by a cane, he made his way to the chair at the center of the room and sat down immediately to my right. Official greetings followed, first by the Catholic co-chair and then by me. In contrast to our scripted remarks, Francis spoke off the cuff. He fondly reminisced about his connections to Methodist pastors in Argentina before turning to talk about ecumenism and the parable of the prodigal son. He noted the necessity of doctrinal dialogue and its limitations. Full doctrinal unity will not be possible this side of the kingdom. The parable of the prodigal opens a new way, the way of mercy. Francis alluded to a popular staged rendition of the parable. In this play, the prodigal longs to return to his father’s house but fears rejection or worse. He asks a friend to carry a letter to his father asking him to drape a white handkerchief from a window, if he is to be welcomed home. When the prodigal and his friend draw near to the house, he sees not one but hundreds and hundreds of little handkerchiefs.

The message was clear. God’s mercy is extravagant. God sends the church, as the body of Christ, into the world as the face of mercy. The signs of mercy may be as small as little handkerchiefs, but they can overwhelm in their number for those who have eyes to see. In this connection, I find it fitting that one of the names for the feast of Pentecost is Whitsunday. The name comes from Pentecost’s association with baptism and the practice of wearing white for that occasion. This is the ecumenical movement — a movement toward a new Pentecost of mercy.

Edgardo Colón-Emeric is the Dean of Duke Divinity School; Irene and William McCutchen Professor of Reconciliation and Theology; and Director of the Center for Reconciliation. He is an ordained elder in the North Carolina Annual Conference of the United Methodist Church and serves as the Methodist co-chair for the Methodist-Roman Catholic International Commission.

I raise the morsel of bread, the host. Looking into the expectant eyes, I state: “The body of Christ, broken for you.” Laying the crumby bread into the bowl-shaped hands, I smile. For a brief moment our hands touch. Then, almost reflexively, the recipient scoops the morsel into their mouth
to receive the bread of life. We share in the charity of Christ.

Even before I was an ordained deacon in the Episcopal Church, I had borne the body of Christ, this sacred bite, to hungry folks many times before. As the paten is an empty vessel to carry the spiritual meal, we who serve God in this meal or any food ministry are here as a vessel for God’s abundance.

Serving Holy Communion, the Eucharist, informs my notions of food ministry, and growing up in a Black Baptist church founded my understanding of ministering through food. Repasses after funerals,
breakfasts after Easter sunrise services, potlucks after big Sunday services — all were expressions of love to one another and foretastes of the Great
Banquet. We delighted in God’s abundance collectively, even if some did not have much individually. Leftovers in foil-tented plates may have helped a member, especially a “senior saint,” stretch the dwindling food stores until the next month’s check or charity. These communal meals were important ways to support one another and others beyond the church in accessing food.

CONNECTING CHURCH FOOD AND CHARITABLE FOOD
I could not have imagined that these early and sustained experiences with food in the church would inform my professional expertise. As an
agricultural economist, I found few ways to connect these ideas with my secular work until Martha Henk, executive director of the Food Bank of East Alabama, asked me to join the food bank board in Auburn. Serving on the board gave me new insights into the challenges of food insecurity locally and nationally. I worked with members representing vastly different aspects of society — business, ecclesial, governmental, and civil society leaders — to support the food bank and meet the needs of as many folks as possible. We were not naïve enough to think that the food bank’s work alone would eliminate food insecurity. I wonder, though, if the busyness had us so focused on the immediate need that we did not consider the larger issues faced by families in our community. Nevertheless, my participation on the board sparked a new focus of research and engagement.

Today, when I teach my Charitable Foods course at Duke Divinity, we push each other — instructor and learners — to think critically about the good work of giving food to people in need. We interrogate established institutions and individual actions with an eye toward constructive and practical ways to address the charity and justice gap in the emergency food sector (food banks, food pantries, soup kitchens, and the like).

Deeply embedded in many religious traditions is a call to care for the poor,
offering charity to those in need. That charity is frequently the work of
justice, addressing the misalignment of our ideals of a free society with the
everyday experiences of those in need. Further, many of us in the Christian
tradition feel compelled to serve the Lord unawares (see Hebrews 13:2)
by feeding the hungry, caring for the stranger, and visiting the prisoner.
Thus, a duty to serve is integral to the identity of the Christian. But those
involved in charity work must think through what we are doing and our
motivation for doing it.

When week after week, or month after month, we see the same people
cycling through our food pantry, or those individuals tend not to look
like our community, in whatever way defined, we should ask ourselves why
this is happening. Janet Poppendieck argues in her book Sweet Charity
that early creators of the charitable food sector saw it as emergency
relief. But what happens when the emergency is not temporary but is a
chronic problem? The food we are giving is not solving the root problem
that keeps certain folks returning. Is our notion of caring for people who
experience food insecurity too limited, meeting an immediate need at best?
Are we perpetuating an injustice?

Reducing the solution of food insecurity to financial or charitable transactions fails to acknowledge the complexity of the food system and the human and ecological systems that support it.

FOOD INSECURITY AS A JUSTICE ISSUE
The paradoxical solution to food insecurity in the U.S. is not food. Rather, families with concerns or limited access to food need financial resources and economic opportunities to provide for themselves. Consider two of the 10 statements that the U.S. government uses to evaluate food insecurity:

1. “(I/We) worried whether (my/our) food would run out before (I/we)
got money to buy more.”
2. “The food that (I/we) bought just didn’t last, and (I/we) didn’t have
money to get more.”

These statements focus on concerns about accessing food because of
financial resources and assert that food access would not be a problem
if people had enough money. Without a doubt, folks without financial
means cannot support their family’s food needs. Through economic
opportunities or social support, individuals can access resources to
obtain food.

Federally, we provide this social support through programs such as the
Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP, formally the Food
Stamp Program) and the Special Supplemental Nutrition Program
for Women, Infants, and Children (WIC). But is not our ability to feed
ourselves more than just our capacity to purchase foods? Our families,
social location, culture, and identity shape our foodways. Resources such
as time, health, and capacity are necessary to feed ourselves. Reducing
the solution of food insecurity to financial or charitable transactions
fails to acknowledge the complexity of the food system and the human
and ecological systems that support it. While from a technocratic viewpoint food insecurity can be considered a matter of inefficiency, fundamentally food insecurity and, more broadly, challenges in the food system are justice concerns. As a result, we need a food justice lens.

In Cultivating Food Justice, Alison Hope Alkon and Julian Agyeman
describe food justice as a broad construct that scholars and activists
use to describe an ideal food system. Some voices argue for food justice
where everyone can access the foods they need that are culturally relevant
and environmentally sustainable. Others point to exacerbating racial and class inequalities in the food system. Others demand a de-corporatization of the food system with an orientation toward local foods. While some long for agrarianism that supports small producers using traditional techniques, others believe that a technologically advanced and efficient food system will yield a sufficient food supply for the most people possible. The distinctions and categorizations suggested here are imperfect; we can find people who propose different assortments of these ideas (and others) to define what true food justice should be. The larger point is that there are different conceptions of food justice, and we need a well-informed public discussion of these ideas of justice for the food system.

In my research and teaching, I hope to engage students, faculty, community members, businesses, and policymakers in productive conversations to develop a fuller and better understanding of a just food system. Admittedly, some of these ideas of justice are in conflict. In reality, ideas of food justice highlight political and cultural perceptions of justice and rights on which we have not achieved consensus. Navigating these challenges means that a just food system, like food insecurity, is not simply about food. I am not the first to argue that food is political and also cultural. Conceptions of food and the food system reflect and refract our deepest values and ideals. Thus, we need multiple voices to have meaningful conversations on food in our society.

In reality, ideas of food justice highlight political and cultural perceptions of justice and rights on which we have not achieved consensus. Navigating
these challenges means that a just food system, like food insecurity, is not simply about food.

THEOLOGY AND FOOD JUSTICE AT DUKE
Working at Duke Divinity School has broadened my perspectives on food issues. At Duke Divinity, great colleagues like Norman Wirzba and Ellen Davis have thought critically about food in both society and Scripture. We also have amazing students who extend our conversations, especially those in the Food, Faith, and Environmental Justice certificate. Beyond the Divinity School, the engagement of the World Food Policy Center and the Sanford School of Public Policy, along with other units at Duke and throughout the Triangle region, create opportunities to see food and the food system more fully. We can move beyond discussion to create solutions to the injustices of the food system. Duke Divinity School is a wonderful place to participate in these efforts. What does this mean, however, for people beyond this place?

First, we must welcome the broader community into these conversations and seek the restoration of the food system through traditional and new modalities. Food is too big to discuss in an ivory tower alone. These conversations and solutions must have roots grounded in the reality of everyday life and needs. Thus, I hope that we can find ways to learn from each other and co-create knowledge. Second, I want to see the exchanges of ideas and praxis that I described earlier happen in settings beyond the academy. Third, I am concerned that our work and conversation about food systems frequently occur in silos with little exposure to larger and more diverse audiences. I would like to see conversations in houses of worship, businesses, community centers, and homes where people of differing views and life experiences begin to address food concerns and partner to take on problems in their local food system. Duke Divinity theology professor Luke Bretherton might provide insights into participating in these conversations and organizing in constructive and generative ways in his Listen, Organize, Act model.

THE GARDEN OF ABUNDANCE
Growing up, my parents always had a garden. I hated cutting okra. I remember the green hue of my fingers after shelling peas. Crookneck squash, which I thought was the only squash that existed, and tomatoes (for frying when green or eating directly once red) were abundant and flavorful. I always loved the collard, mustard, and turnip greens, a different trinity that this garden produced over the year and that my momma cooked to perfection. Even now, deep into their retirements, my parents maintain this garden. The mix of foods has changed, but staples are still there.

My parents have always shared the garden’s bounty with family and neighbors. The example of my parents and their garden, the take-out
meals after church repasses, and the morsel of the bread of Communion
are manifestations of the grace of the Holy Parent sharing creation’s wealth
with all of creation. Despite the real scarcity that we create, like food
insecurity, we have these experiences that show that abundance exists if
only we can see it, if only we remove obstacles so that all can share in this
abundance. The work for food justice that I hope occurs here at Duke
Divinity and in your community will move us to experience God’s grace.
As we taste and see this abundance, we will know that it is too good for
ourselves alone, and like my parents and their garden, we will share in the
abundance of truly just food.

THE WORLD FOOD POLICY CENTER AT DUKE
In addition to his role as professor of food, economics, and community at Duke Divinity School, Norbert Wilson is also the director of the World Food Policy Center with a secondary appointment in the Sanford School of Public Policy at Duke. The mission of the World Food Policy Center is to advance connected and inclusive food system policy and practice in support of equity and resilience of local/national/global food systems. The work of education, research, and convening centers on root causes and narratives of racial inequity in the food system, the role of institutions in supporting community-led food justice, economic development through food justice, food systems analysis, and public health and nutrition. To facilitate innovative thinking and coordinated action to change policy and practice, the center bridges the worlds of academia, industry, philanthropy, nonprofits, governance, community, and culture.

As just one example of this work, in 2020 the World Food Policy Center at Duke University supported Share Our Strength’s No Kid Hungry campaign. Food insecurity in children is a tragic issue around the world, and in the U.S., the issue is especially challenging in rural areas. Rural faith communities often play a central role in addressing rural child hunger, and the support needs and desires of these organizations are nuanced by their faith tradition. The resulting report, Rural Child Hunger and Faith Community Engagement, was produced by lead author Emma Lietz Bilecky M.T.S.’19, research fellow at Princeton Theological Seminary’s Farminary Project; Norman Wirzba, Gilbert T. Rowe Distinguished Professor of Christian Theology and senior fellow at the Kenan Institute for Ethics; and Robb Webb, director of the Rural Church Division of The Duke Endowment and chair of the Rural Life Committee of the North Carolina Council of Churches. The report and a podcast episode with the authors is available.

A version of this article first appeared in the Fall 2022 issue of DIVINITY magazine, published by Duke Divinity School.

By Sequola Collins

Funeral rites and rituals are of great importance to the Black Church, and Black Church funerals, for most spiritual and practical purposes, have been exempt from adaptation and change. Although we might not quite be ready to go back to bathing, dressing, and sheltering the deceased to lie in repose in the front rooms of our homes, many Black Church funeral practices have remained unchallenged as capitalization in the funeral industry has increased.

I would argue that there is a more excellent way for Americans to determine how best to incorporate dying into living, to experience death as a part of life, and to reclaim agency (a directness or closeness) in funeral processing. How best do we infuse human experience back into death in the most life-giving of ways? I propose that the Black Church’s participation in greener funeral options gives us the chance to remedy or reconcile our modern disconnection — whether perceived or actual — with death, and much more.

The Problem with Current Funeral Practices

The care of creation is the responsibility of all Christians, and therefore the Black Church has a role to play and must attend to its responsibilities seriously. Current funeral practices are problematic on two levels: first, they are a source of pollution; and second, they reflect a perversion of our relationship with God because of the way that they seek to deny our “dustiness.”

Lee Webster of the Green Burial Council and author of Changing Landscapes offers this shocking analysis:

“Each year in the U.S., 22,500 traditional cemeteries put roughly the following into our soil: a) 827,060 gallons of embalming fluid, 97.5 tons of steel, 2,028 tons of concrete, and 56,250 board feet of high-quality tropical hardwood in just one acre of land; b) Each cremation releases between .8 and 5.9 grams of mercury as bodies are burned. This amounts to between 1,000 and 7,800 pounds of mercury released each year in the U.S. 75% goes into the air and the rest settles into the ground and water; c) You could drive about 4,800 miles on the energy equivalent of the energy used to cremate someone — and to the moon and back 85 times from all cremations in one year in the U.S.; and d) With embalmers at an 8+ times higher risk of contracting leukemia (Journal of the National Cancer Institute, 11.24.09) and a 3 times higher risk of ALS (Journal of Neurology, Neurosurgery & Psychiatry, 7.13.15)”[1]

Yet, it is fair to ask whether there is space for the Black Church to participate in greener funeral practices in the midst of the pandemics and interlocking injustices of American greed, capitalism, and gentrification. In the midst of systemic racism and poverty, the denial of health care, police brutality, militarization and the war economy, and the false narrative of religious nationalism, can gains be made in regard to ecological justice in the Black Church and its community? Might a greener funeral be an opportunity to shift the concept of beauty in the Black Church funeral, where funeral aesthetics are tightly coupled with visuals and preservation of the corpse — shiny gold coffins and embalming — sold by the funeral industry?

There is never a wrong time to take a stand in efforts to be faithful stewards of God’s resources in caring for the planet. As Dr. Betty Holley, associate professor of environmental ethics & African American religious studies at Payne Theological Seminary and executive committee member of Creation Justice Ministries, notes: “Our economic woes, social unease, and environmental depletion are being shaken to the core due to our misplaced purposes and values of the whole of God’s creation. Our relationship with wealth and possession has become corrupt and idolatrous. We have been seeking happiness through things rather than through relationships. Too often we, in the church, have mimicked the values of wider society.”[2]

Therefore, I seek to point the Black Church in the direction of ecological sensitivity and justice. The prevailing thought is that as we develop “our relationship with God, our materialistic values will be challenged and transformed.”[3] By making shifts in the view and behaviors inside the Black funeral, the Black Church can be successful toward embodying ecological sensitivity and ecological faith. Ellen Davis, professor of Bible and practical theology at Duke Divinity School, would call this having wholesome materiality — where you have material, but the materials does not have you at the cost of your holiness and lessening your commitment to the Earth and what God loves.

What Is a Green Funeral?

“A general term sometimes confused with home funerals, green burials, and home burials, but is more commonly used to describe post-death care, from death to disposition, using only natural means. This requires use of nontoxic preservation techniques and organic materials with minimal carbon footprints. A Green burial allows full interment into the ground in a manner that does not inhibit decomposition. The three top defining characteristics of any green burial are: absence of vault, non-toxic preparation of the body, and use of containers made of organic materials. Green burials provide families with a rich, meaningful, and healing experience while furthering legitimate environmental and societal aims such as protecting worker health, reducing carbon emissions, conserving natural resources, and preserving native habitat.”[4]

This definition lists the top reasons people choose a green burial: “1. minimizing impact on the environment, 2. back to old tradition, 3. cost, 4. spiritual or religious reasons; and finally, 5. having a do-it-yourself ethic.”[5]

But this raises important questions: how might marginalized groups, especially the Black Church, view the idea of a green funeral? How might the green burial community gain buy-in from the Black Church and its community? To put it another way, why should Black consider Green? And does Green really want Black?

Truth-Telling in Greening — A United Front: Might Greening Be the Way?

As green funeral and burial practices gain ground in the United States, it is important to speak truth to power and keep in the forefront the history of land, land rights, and the ownership of land in America. The green burial community must (continuously) name the atrocities of those in power with regards to the possession of land of the marginalized communities, including Indigenous, Black, and Brown people.

We must tell the truth: at one time, Blacks and whites could not be buried together because white people did not want to be buried in the same cemetery ground with Blacks. Now if that has changed, it is time for the green funeral and burial community to shout out this truth. Be part of advocating and making greening in death available not only for the elite or well-off but for all people. Follow the lead of Ed Bixby, the president of the Green Burial Council Board of Directors and owner of Steelmantown Natural Cemetery in New Jersey, who argues that the green burial is opened to all people: “Ten years ago … the customer base then seemed to lean toward highly educated urbanites. Today, I can proudly say that my customer base has no predictable socio-economic or religious leanings. Black, white, Hispanic, Middle Eastern, Asian, veterans, grandmothers — you name it, we have had the pleasure to serve. I have buried and sold plots to every type of religious person and non-religious person under the sun. That is what is so exciting and unique about natural burial — it knows absolutely no boundaries.”[6]

If the green funeral community seeks buy-in from the marginalized, which I understand it does, they must not only speak truth to power but also exercise power toward truth by engaging in public efforts and opportunities in the reconciliation of land taken from original owners. Create (more) partnerships with Black Churches to get the message out. Create cross-cultural conservation and environmental certification of burial ground.

After we have looked back, and after we have told the truth, we can go forward.

Why Should the Black Church Consider the Green Funeral?

The importance of tradition and aesthetics in the Black Church funeral is often cited as a reason why green funeral and burial practices will not be adopted. I propose, however, that green funeral and burial practices are in fact more closely aligned with a tradition held dear in the Black Church, and that a strong argument can be made that the green practices provide a richer beauty aesthetic.

Covenant Relationship with the Land

The testimony of Scripture and the idea of being in relationship with God are foundational beliefs of the Black Church. Both of these essential traditions support green funeral and burial practices Not only is God in covenant with people, God is also in a covenantal relationship with the land/’eres/earth. Consider the biblical word: “The earth dries up and withers, the world languishes and withers; the heavens languish together with the earth. The earth lies polluted under its inhabitants; for they have transgressed laws, violated the statutes, broken the everlasting covenant” (Isaiah 24:4–5).

A green funeral and burial gives the Black Church ecologically friendly options to pay respect to their dead. “Know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own? (1 Corinthian 6:19). A green funeral can be a powerful, sacred way for us to “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return” (BCP 265; Gen 3:19).

Ellen Davis notes that beginning with the first chapter of Genesis, “There is no extensive exploration of the relationship between God and humanity that does not factor the land and its fertility into that relationship.”[7] Even in death and funeral processing, we, the church, must live out faithful stewardship in a covenant relationship with God. According to Davis, adamah represents fertile-soil. If this is so, it is in keeping with the covenant God made with the land. This fertile-soil is potent ground ripe for gestation, preservation, and reproduction. In other words, the soil is healthy — ripe for something to happen, for the move of God. Soil is a complex web of relationships that represents a deeply mysterious bridge, says Norman Wirzba in Thanks for the Dirt. Therefore, Wirzba contends, that soil is sacred and holy. I contend that our relationship to the fertile-soil is sacred, holy and a representation of covenant, as well.

Called to the Ground — A New Aesthetic

I propose that the green funeral can also offer the Black Church a new aesthetic of beauty in five important ways:

1. Strengthen the covenantal relationship between people, land, and God.

2. Reimagine what it means to put money in the ground — a call to re-grounding.

3. Reimagine death infused with life experience and closeness by reclaiming agency in funeral preparation and processing.

4. Be imaginative in the creation of land ownership and partnership.

5. Re-member[8] the church to create a united front of all people in an area that remains segregated. A united Black Church has power to re-member — to work toward their own health and wholeness.

As the Black Church aids the family in “carrying the load of the casket,”[9] the hope is that this work of the church is conducted in the most life-giving of ways. Certainly, there are challenges in green funerals for the Black Church, including the location of conservation or environmental certified burial grounds. But Black Church leaders need to become educated and to get involve early in the education of the Black Church and others. Leverage the partnerships with the funeral home and city planners/officials to answer questions and dispel wrong (bad) thinking or theology relating to death and green funeral practices, not only to understand “where we are?” but to create ideas of “where can we be?” The Black Church can start to take steps into green funeral practices, such as considering biodegradable caskets. At least ask the question of your local funeral home regarding the amount of emissions that go into the air from each cremation. Know where your closest environmental certified cemetery is located. Become knowledgeable about the choices and decisions (death awareness) that are made relating to death and funeral processing.

Greening in death is for all to consider: the dying, the grieving family, the funeral home, and even the Black Church.

Rev. Dr. Sequola Collins serves as director of bereavement at Russell Memorial Christian Methodist Episcopal Church in Durham, N.C. She holds doctoral degrees from Payne Theological Seminary and North Carolina A&T State University, and is a D.Min. candidate at Duke Divinity School. For relaxation, she enjoys the theatre with her daughter, Destiny.

[1] Lee Webster, Changing Landscapes: Exploring the growth of ethical, compassionate, and environmentally sustainable green funeral practices. CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, 2017; 99–100.

[2] Elder Betty Holley, “Creation in Crisis: What Jesus Offers”. The Christian Recorder August 16, 2019 https://www.thechristianrecorder.com/creation-in-crisis-what-jesus-offers/?utm_source=Th... Accessed June 27, 2020.

[3] Ibid.

[4] Webster, 102.

[5] Ibid.

[6] Ibid., 103, Kindle Edition

[7] Ellen Davis, Scripture, Culture, and Agriculture: An Agrarian Reading of the Bible (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 8.

[8] Ibid., 16.

[9] “Carrying the load of the casket” is a concept I use in The Glad Funeral to denote the church walking through the funeral practices and process with grieving families. See Sequola Collins, The Glad Funeral: An Ongoing Conversation About Funeral Preparation and Process, Kernersville, North Carolina: Marching Orders Press, 2018.

By Christopher S. Campbell

Imagine two groups playing a game of Monopoly. The first group makes several fruitful trips around the board and amasses an enormous amount of wealth, enabling them to purchase Park Place and Boardwalk and to build several major hotel chains. As their wealth continues to grow, they are able to purchase more and more property and build their net worth.

The second group has not had a chance to play the game. After some time passes, the first group is forced to give the second group an opportunity to play, and as a good gesture, the first group gives the second group $200. While the second group has the desire and skills to play the game of Monopoly, the truth is that they will never catch up, nor will they ever be equal to the first group due to the unequal amount of time the two groups have been given to play the game.

For centuries, African Americans have been engaged in a real-life Monopoly game that has significantly enriched and empowered whites, allowing them to amass and bequeath wealth to succeeding generations. The current economically “disadvantaged status of contemporary African-Americans cannot be divorced from the historical process that undergirds racial inequality. The cumulative disadvantages of blacks have created cumulative advantages for whites, resulting in a process that has cemented blacks to the bottom of the social hierarchy.”[1]

Slavery and the Exploitation of Labor

Understanding racial wealth inequality requires a consideration of the exploitation of nearly 4,000,000 slaves, which was integral in creating an economy that established the United States of America as a world economic power. According to the economist Jason Hickel, “The United States alone benefitted from a total of 222,505,049 hours of forced labor from 1619 to 1865, which could be worth $97 trillion, by modern estimates.”[2] In 1865, the nation sought to correct the wrongs of two and a half centuries of chattel slavery, and the ravages of a bloody Civil War, with significant federal legislation. President Abraham Lincoln ordered the federal government to implement the Homestead Act of 1866 and to inaugurate the Freedmen’s Bureau. General Tecumseh Sherman was to execute Field Order 15, which promised to deliver 400,000 acres of land and a mule to the formerly enslaved (thus the phrase “40 acres and a mule”). These land grants would offer the formerly enslaved the opportunity to benefit from their own ingenuity and to free themselves from white hegemony, as well as offer them the chance to accumulate resources to bestow to succeeding generations.

The Freedmen’s Bureau was an institution of social uplift that promoted self-reliance with significant funding from the federal government, which rendered aid, housing, medical, and legal assistance to the newly emancipated. John Hope Franklin said of these legislative measures: “It demonstrated the government could administer an extensive program of relief and rehabilitation, and suggested a way in which the nation could grapple with its pressing social problems.”[3] The Freedmen’s Bureau was defunded in 1872, but its short-lived impact cannot be overestimated: against insurmountable odds Blacks were able to develop hospitals, schools, and churches. Its influence on the socioeconomic, educational, political, and spiritual components of life were unrivaled.

Jim Crow and Legalized Segregation

Unfortunately, the progress of the formerly enslaved was slowed when John Wilkes Booth assassinated President Abraham Lincoln, allowing his successor, Vice President Andrew Johnson — a Confederate sympathizer — to decimate the Freedmen’s Bureau and return all land ownership to Confederate soldiers. The death of Lincoln paved the way for a new era of oppression known as Jim Crow, a legalized way to segregate Blacks and whites in public spaces in an effort to reestablish hegemony over Blacks. This racist system would marginalize Blacks for nearly 100 years until the victories of the Civil Rights Movement dismantled it.

While the legal apparatus of Jim Crow was destroyed, racist attitudes and behaviors had already infiltrated the systems and structures of America. The cumulative effects of slavery, Jim Crow policies and practices, and exclusion from New Deal social policies set the Monopoly table in favor of whites, who now have considerable social, political, and economic advantage over contemporary American life. This history of exploitation now lies at the center of American capitalism, resulting in what Manning Marble calls “the systematic underdevelopment of black people.” It is the heart of the racial wealth gap, which has calcified Blacks at the bottom of the economic hierarchy.

The Racial Wealth Gap — And what about Oprah?

Centuries of white supremacy and racism have resulted in “an overwhelming amount of evidence of a growing disparity between blacks and whites on basic socioeconomic indicators,”[4] which has led historians, economists, and social scientists to give considerable attention to the growing problem of the racial wealth gap. Many Black communities are impoverished, schools are underperforming, and health disparities have been exacerbated, especially during the COVID-19 pandemic.

Some whites believe that Black poverty and economic disadvantage has nothing to do with the legacy of slavery or Jim Crow; rather, Blacks are behind because they lack ability and motivation. Therefore, systemic and structural inequities — either historic or contemporary — are not to blame for their disadvantaged position.

Others point to the financial success of a few and ask: “What about people like LeBron James, Barack Obama, and Oprah Winfrey? They each came from broken homes and poverty, and now they have a combined net worth of $600 billion!” They imply two additional questions: First, if systemic and structural racism and the racial wealth gap were a reality, then how were they able to pull themselves up by their proverbial bootstraps? And second, why can’t other Blacks do the same?”

America’s infatuation with Black celebrity has blinded us to collective Black inequity. It has created the illusion of group progress while at the same time masking Black failure and inequality. As people like LeBron, Barack, and Oprah ascend socially and economically, some believe that there is no need to tackle the issues of systemic and structural racism, which undergirds racial wealth disparity. W.E.B. DuBois coined the phrase the decadent veil,[5] an idea that postulates “Black America through a lens of group theory and seeks to explain the illusion of group success that has taken form over a thirty-year span. The new veil of economics has allowed a broad swath of America to become desensitized to Black poverty, but also hypnotized by Black celebrity, and this distorts the outside community’s view of Black America’s actual financial reality.”[6]

Black Wealth and Reparations

In this article, I have asserted that the legacy of slavery, Jim Crow, and exclusion from New Deal social policies all set the Monopoly table to the advantage of white America. The economic and social successes of Black celebrities such as LeBron, Barack, and Oprah are no measurement for Black economic progress. Therefore, the only way to justly and adequately close the racial wealth gap is a comprehensive reparations program that seeks to undo systems and structures and offers individualized payments to the American descendants of slaves.

Exactly how dire is the financial status of Black America? According to a recent study by the Brookings Institution, a typical white family has a net worth of $171,000 — nearly 10 times that of a Black family, at $17,150.[7] The Institute for Policy Studies forecast the median wealth of Blacks will be $0 by 2053 if the current economic trends continue.[8]

This chasm in wealth reveals how accumulated injustices have created a disadvantaged status for contemporary African Americans. From slavery to Jim Crow, to redlining and school segregation, exclusion from New Deal social policies to mass incarceration, there has been a concerted effort to keep Blacks marginalized. Discriminatory policies that have consistently hindered African Americans from having the opportunity to fully realize the American dream.

Some assert that African Americans could improve their financial positioning by enhancing their financial literacy, increasing educational achievement, employing better saving and spending habits, or starting a business — and this would effectively close the racial wealth gap. While these principles and practices are important, they place the burden of responsibility on African Americans to correct a problem they did not create — nor would these options close the racial wealth gap. No autonomous actions or group decisions that African Americans can make will close the gap created by years of being shut out of the real-life Monopoly game. The solution requires broad and imaginative policies that focus on pure reparations, wealth creation, and undoing the many underlying structural contributors to the wealth gap.

According to a Gallup Poll, attitudes toward reparations remain divided, with most Americans (67%) stating the government should not make such payments, but almost a third believing it should, including a solid majority of Black Americans (73%) supporting the proposal. Among party lines, Republicans overwhelmingly (92%) disapprove of such a measure, while Democrats are divided, with 49 percent against the idea, even when African Americans continue to be their most loyal voting constituency.[9] Much of the division over reparations is possibly built on the failure to understand the history of slavery, the damages of Jim Crow segregation, exclusion from New Deal social policies, and the perniciousness of racism that continues to flow through the systems and structures of America.

Reparations is not a handout, nor is it holding individuals accountable for something in which they played no direct part, although many benefited from it in the form of inherited wealth. Rather, reparations is a justice claim against the United States federal government, because the government created the legal conditions and authoritative framework that allowed these atrocities to take place.

The only plausible reasons the United States has not already taken seriously a reparations package to African Americans are the insidious racism that has veiled itself in sophisticated arguments and an outright denial of the fact that the economy has been built on exploited slave labor. The success of a few Black people in sports, entertainment, and politics should not distract us from the ongoing, deepening wealth gap that has defined this country. The United States federal government must be held responsible for its involvement in, support of, and direct benefit from slave labor, and must address the irreparable harm done to its descendants. The call to reparations deserves to be presented and heard in the judicial, executive, and legislative bodies that represent all Americans.

Christopher S. Campbell is a Doctor of Ministry candidate at Duke Divinity School. His research interests include economic development and educational attainment, and his forthcoming book with Christian Faith Publishers is Racism, Reform, and Reparations. He is the lead pastor of The Plaza Church in Charlotte, N.C., and is a church consultant for Strengthening the Black Church for the 21st Century and 20/20 Leadership, a partnership with the Black Church Initiative.

[1] Melvin Oliver and Thomas Shapiro, Black Wealth/White Wealth: A New Perspective on Racial Inequality (New York: Routledge Press, 1997), pg. 51.

[2] Jason Hickel, The Divide: Global Inequality from Conquest to Free Markets (London, England: W.W. Norton & Company, 2018), pg. 180.

[3] John Hope Franklin, From Slavery to Freedom: A History of Negro Americans (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1956), pg. 309.

[4] Charles P. Henry, “The Politics of Racial Reparations,” The Journal of Black Studies 34.2 (2003):131–152.

[5] “The decadent veil” refers to the racial duality Blacks experience due to their racialized oppression and devaluation in a white-dominated society.

[6] Antonio Moore, “The Decadent Veil: Black America’s Wealth Illusion,” The Huffington Post, December 6, 2017, https://www.huffpost.com/entry/the-decadent-veil-black-income-inequality_b_5646472 (accessed Jun. 30, 2020).

[7] Kriston McIntosh, Emily Moss, Ryan Nunn, and Jay Shambaugh, “Examining the Black-White Wealth Gap,” The Brookings Institution, February 27, 2020, https://www.brookings.edu/blog/up-front/2020/02/27/examining-the-black-white-wealth-gap/ (accessed Mar. 25, 2020).

[8] Dedrick Asante Muhammad, Chuck Collins, Josh Hokie and Emanuel Nieves, “The Road To Zero Wealth: How The Racial Wealth Divide Is Hollowing Out America’s Middle Class,” Prosperity Now and The Institute for Policy Studies, September 3, 2017, https://prosperitynow.org/files/PDFs/road_to_zero_wealth.pdf (accessed October 8, 2019).

[9] Mohamed Younis, “As Redress for Slavery, Americans Oppose Cash Payments,” Gallup, July 29, 2019, https://news.gallup.com/poll/261722/redress-slavery-americans-oppose-cash-reparations.aspx (accessed Jan. 26, 2020).

Now it’s time to speak out against hate and stand up for each other

By Daniel Lee

Bright yellow mustard spread on two slices of white bread. Or perhaps rice with a little bit of sesame oil mixed with some ramen seasoning packets. Ask any immigrant child, and they will have a number of quick and easy recipes like these that helped them get through the afternoon — that after-school time of being alone and hungry, with parents often working long hours and without having much to eat at home. For me, it was a heaping scoop of rice submerged in water, kind of like a soup, eaten with some dried seaweed and pickled cabbage or “kimchi.”

The morning after one such afternoon, my teacher asked the class to share what they ate for snack when they went home the previous day. I began to explain what I ate and started to notice some raised eyebrows and confused looks around the classroom. I lost the room completely when I said, “dried seaweed.” I told myself at that moment that I was never going to do that again. That is one of the first memories I have of feeling embarrassed of being Korean American and feeling afraid of not fitting in or being accepted.

Many immigrants will tell you that trying to make it in another country is an everyday struggle to survive. You do what you have to do to get by; and for children of immigrants, the all-too-familiar reality is making sacrifices and following the example of your parents. Along the way, experiences like what I felt that day in my elementary school classroom encourage us to try our best to hide and not be seen. Do this enough, and it becomes a part of your psyche and way of being. For a large portion of my life, I did a great job at code switching and hiding the parts of me that were too Korean. That is what I thought I had to do to fit in or be American.

It didn’t help that whenever I turned on the TV or looked at magazines, I never saw anyone that looked like me on the screen or in print. The Asian character was always a punchline to a joke or not taken seriously. Only recently have we started to see and appreciate the stories of Asian Americans on TV, in movies, and in popular culture. Crazy Rich Asians was a global blockbuster film, Fresh Off the Boat and Kim’s Convenience have been hailed as quality television programs, and the Korean pop group BTS has gained worldwide superstardom.

For two years in a row, films that tell the stories of Koreans and Korean Americans respectively have been deemed Oscar-worthy. Last year, Parasite won the trophy, and this year Minari has been nominated. In addition to the films themselves, the directors and actors have also been nominated and recognized for their achievement and artistic contribution. As a second-generation Korean American, the only word that could capture what I have been feeling is indescribable. Pride and a sense of accomplishment for my people is a huge part of it. But what I felt in my classroom all those years ago — that sense of otherness and erasure — popped up again when the Golden Globes this year decided to categorize Minari as a foreign-language film, despite the story being about family and hard work, supposedly American values. (In fact, Minari has an American director, was filmed in the United States, and was financed by American companies!)

And yet our growing representation in American culture has not inoculated immigrants or Asian Americans from being the targets of violence. In the past year, the New York Times reports that nearly 3,800 hate incidents were directed against Asian Americans. Stop for a second to consider: that is more than 10 acts of hate per day. Elderly grandmothers have been attacked in San Francisco; White Plains, New York; and Times Square.

The murders of eight people in the Atlanta area, six of whom were Asian, and four of whom were Korean, at the hands of a white male have left me numb all over again. Even more concerning is the way that some have tried to explain that this crime had nothing to do with race or the victims being Asian, despite the reported account of witnesses that the assailant said he wanted to kill all Asians. What must be made clear is the connection between the anti-Asian rhetoric heard in our society, even from the highest levels of government, over the last several years and the violence happening today. Winning Oscars is wonderful, but not enough to protect us. Trying to hide our dried seaweed to fit in will not protect us. The time for Asian immigrants to become invisible or silent is over.

Just like the thawing and the end of winter, we are seeing signs of new life. The recent outpouring of support from those outside the Asian American community has meant so much. All the texts, Instagram posts, and messages standing in solidarity and voicing concern for what is happening have been so life-giving. On March 26, Damian Lillard of the Portland Trailblazers wore a “Stop Asian Hate” T-shirt on TV, and it provided a powerful witness and healing act.

For the first time in my life, I am feeling seen and heard in a way that I have never been before, not despite my Korean-ness but because of it. And it couldn’t have come at a more fitting time. This week as we celebrate the death and resurrection of Christ, may we all be filled with the courage and strength of our Lord to speak life and hope to those in need. May we choose incidents of love and actions of healing that will include others in life-giving community.

Daniel Lee is a third-year D.Min. candidate at Duke Divinity School and staff member at Bethel Presbyterian Church in Beaverton, Oregon. He is married to Angie and has a daughter, Harper. Together, they love cooking and traveling.

By Katherine H. Smith

It seems hard to believe that we are already deep into the season of Lent. In a typical year, this might have been a time to pause in our hectic lives. Slow down a little. Be a bit more reflective. This is the time of year that we take try to take inventory, pausing for a while to reflect on our sin and brokenness.

This year, though, it sure feels to me as though we’re already well down the road to Golgotha. We are weary travelers through this wilderness of pandemics. For some, it’s the bone tired of carrying the weight of injustice for so long. For others, it’s that constant hum of anxiety, the watchfulness that keeps us just on the other side of peace. For yet others, it’s the deep grief from wave after wave of loss.

We don’t need a church season to show us our broken parts. We see them every time we turn on the news. Our brokenness is trolling the comments section of every website and social media page. It’s on display in every fist raised in violence, every choice that puts the comfort of the privileged above the safety of the vulnerable, every apathetic eye that looks the other way as if to say, “Not my problem.”

Lent has been deep in our bones for a while now.

It feels appropriate, then, that one of our lectionary readings recounts the story of the Exodus (Exodus 19:1–9, 16–19). The people of Israel are three months into a long and weary journey whose end they can’t foresee. The initial celebration at being liberated from Pharaoh has run its course, and the realities of life in the wilderness have set in.[1]

For this people of God, walking the long road from Egypt, life doesn’t feel much like freedom. They have known the taste of bitter water. They have felt the growl of stomachs hungry for satisfaction. They have discovered that because they are following the one true God, they will be targets for attack from the outside. And because they are humans following God, they will figure out how to fight each other from within.

Wilderness is a recurring metaphor in the Bible. The wilderness is often a place of trial and tribulation. It tempts us to imagine ourselves in the place of God, relying on our own justice. There is a reason my husband and I refer to the toddler years of parenting as “the wilderness years.” You can’t trust the choices you’ll make in the wilderness.

The wilderness is where we are most likely to be weak and forget what faithfulness looks like. Just two chapters before this Old Testament text, the Israelites in the wilderness were once again quarreling with Moses at Meribah. Let’s remember: this isn’t 40 years into wandering in the desert. These Israelites have recently seen God in a time of unprecedented action and theophany. God has sent the plagues to torment Pharaoh. God parted the Red Sea for them to pass through. God showed up in a burning bush. And here, before the whole community, God shows up in thunder and lightning, smoke, and fire. We 21st-century Christians may be more accustomed to God coming in the still, small voice; but here in Exodus, God shows up like a battering ram.

So when the people keep up their petty quarreling, a desperate Moses has cried out to God — and here I am paraphrasing — “What shall I do with this fool people?”

Fortunately for us, there is another thing that happens in the wilderness. The miracle of the Exodus story is not that the people discover how to be faithful to God. They are constantly screwing it up. The miracle of the Exodus story is that God stubbornly, doggedly continues to choose to be faithful to them.

By God’s grace, they are brought out of the places of sin and death and granted a new identity. “You have seen,” says the Lord in this text, “how I bore you on eagles’ wings and brought you to myself. Now therefore, if you obey my voice and keep my covenant, you shall be my treasured possession out of all the peoples” (19:4–6). We discover here God laying the stones in Zion upon which a beautiful, spiritual house will be built. This passage is the beginning of a new treaty — another birthday for God’s people — that will be mapped out and ratified in the chapters to come.

Melba Pattillo Beals is best known for being one of the Little Rock Nine, the group of African American students who were the first to integrate Little Rock Central High School in 1957. In her memoir, Warriors Don’t Cry, Beals wrote that she was motivated to continue to fight segregation by her grandmother, who said, “We are God’s ideas [and] you must strive to be the best of what God made you to be.” She wrote that her grandmother gave her the gift of identity, so that she would know as a young black woman that she was “God’s idea.”

In establishing this covenant, God takes away the labels we wield as weapons against each other and grants us a new, shared identity: treasured possession. Holy nation. Where once the people were trod underfoot as stones, now those stones are lifted up into a living temple.

Barbara Wheeler, who served as president of Auburn Seminary in New York City for 30 years, likes to say that this choosing is not because they are God’s pets, “singled out for special favors or exempt from the worst penalties for bad behavior.”[2] God is choosing a people for a mission. They are to be priests and holy servants of all the nations of the world. Yes, they will be treasured, and in turn, they are to treasure and care for the earth that God has made.

Will the church be the place of sanctuary and shelter? In a time of constraints and pandemics, can we hear God inviting us to refocus our mission on meeting the needs of the larger community?

And make no mistake. This work will be taxing and hard. When we see the world as it really is, we are bound to find ourselves in the wilderness from time to time. Choosing to be faithful might be a daily — or even hourly — task. Because we’ve been in the wilderness, we should sniff out the Israelites’ self-deception in this Exodus passage immediately. “Everything that the Lord has spoken we will do” (19:8). We know perfectly well this isn’t true. The people will turn on each other almost immediately. We are masters of pressing our thumbs into the cracks of division.

So Lent also grants us a moment for self-examination. What opportunity does this day afford to live out our new identity with God? Will it show up in that classroom debate, that marathon Zoom meeting, the conversation with the colleague who knows exactly how to push our buttons?

We should practice reading each other charitably because we know that God first did the same for us.

“Once you were not a people,” 1 Peter tells us, “but now you are God’s people; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy” (2:10). Being a refuge for those in the wilderness begins with loving God and ends with loving our neighbor. What can we expect when we truly answer God’s call to be a holy people? Deep fulfillment. Abundant life. Healing in forms we couldn’t have imagined and which only God can provide.

What might we do as this people?

Katherine H. Smith, Ed.D., is the associate dean for strategic initiatives at Duke Divinity School and an ordained minister in the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.).

[1] Bartlett, David L, and Barbara B. Taylor. Feasting on the Word, vol. A, no. 3. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008, p. 126.

[2] Bartlett, David L, and Barbara B. Taylor. Feasting on the Word, vol. A, no. 3. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008, p. 124.

By Jerusha Matsen Neal

“I will tell you a mystery … the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed.” 1 Corinthians 15:51–52

My cousin John was a gift given to my aunt and uncle after many years of trying to have a child. He had a wide smile and bright, curious eyes, making anyone to whom he spoke feel important. He fought the demon of heroin addiction for 10 years before finding the will to live clean, and he was free for two years after that.

During that sweet, fragile season, John was my proof that positive change in the world was possible — which is, of course, an unfair burden to place on any human being.

John died from an overdose this August.

As a teacher of preaching, I work with bodies. I attend to what Kristine Culp, in her book Vulnerability and Glory: A Theological Account, calls the “vulnerability and glory” of human communities and persons. To have a body is to be vulnerable to sin and suffering, but also vulnerable to transformation and hope. Bodies bear witness to a Word that lives, and in so doing, they bear evidence that we are not alone. Perfection is not that evidence. Change is that evidence — an ambiguous assertion, as change is no simple matter.

Change and Imperishable Life

The past seven months have been saturated with change. Pandemic protocols have wiped clean our calendars and scattered our communities. Changes in our education systems have privileged the wealthy and the well. Changes in our worship have silenced our singing, veiled our faces, and left our Eucharistic tables empty. Pastors have been adapting weekly, learning the shifting secrets of video edits and live streams. They have found sacramental theologies to meet the day. God bless them. They are tired.

These changes have not felt glorious or transcendent. They have felt like the tearing of a cloth already frayed or a weight carried in the gut. They have felt like fearful knots of masked families standing at the edges of open graves.

I do not call these changes “good.” That would be cruel and dangerously naïve. Change is regularly twisted to serve the ends of insatiable markets or co-opted to distract a weary populace from its leaders’ deceits. Too often, change brings grief in its wake.

My cousin’s death has been one of too many deaths this year, in a world already reeling. Given such dizzying loss, when I turn to Paul’s resurrection promise in 1 Corinthians 15, I’m tempted to cling to his description of “imperishability” as a promise that one day, change will be no more. I imagine a resurrected body that is static and solid — suspended in time and impervious to struggle. But the scriptures have a different sort of imperishability in mind. Paul describes human transformation as an eternal joy, moving from “glory to glory” (2 Corinthians 3:18). Jesus’ imperishable body held scars, ate fish, and broke bread. Flesh that does not change is dead. To live is to move, to respond, and to love.

I do not know the mysteries of resurrected bodies, and I will not speculate about them here. But I do know that change — in and of itself — is not that body’s enemy. Change is a function of relation. For all of its dangers, change signifies that we are alive, connected to the world and the One who made that world. To live autonomous and unaffected is to live as stone — and perish as stone.

Imperishability requires something more.

Change and Enjoined Life

If the pandemic of the past year has taught us anything, it is that we live enjoined. Our lives are dependent on the well-being of our neighbors. If my child’s teacher does not have adequate health care, my family is at risk. If the worker who scans my groceries cannot stay home when she is sick, my body is vulnerable. To recognize the relatedness of bodies is not socialism; it is science. More than this, it is the created testimony of a gracious God who refuses to leave us invulnerable to life.

Truly, it is not this year’s changes that have broken my heart. It is the intransigent solidity of all that seems immovable. The videos of police violence against unarmed Black bodies are not new; they are wearying and old. Even after a summer of protests, they recur. The indecency of wealth in the face of suffering, the bold-faced lie of the politician, the ease with which God’s people trade integrity for power — none of these things are new.

Many things could be said about John’s relapse, not least that he was fighting his addiction hard the last month of his life. He did not want to die. But he was not only wrestling the demon of addiction; he carried on his back the weight of living poor. His story is not unusual. He cracked a tooth last summer and had no dental insurance. He was living with chronic pain. He had a job but was laid off because of the slow results of his COVID test — negative, in the end. He was worried about the medical bills for his new baby, born with special needs. He spent the week before his death trying to find an open bed at a rehabilitation center.

In short, it was not the changes of these past seven months that weakened John’s resolve. It was the unflinching sameness of our health care policies, economic priorities, and judicial resources that left him vulnerable to addiction’s lie.

Bigger than my fear of all that is shifting in this difficult year is the fear that, when everything is said and done, all will be the same. We will forget our vulnerability and our dependence on each other. We will forget that the suffering of one is carried in the body of the whole.

Change and the Mystery of Communion

One of the hardest honors of my life was preaching John’s funeral. The funeral home’s chapel was fuller than it should have been in the present pandemic, but John’s community wouldn’t stay away. Church members who had prayed John through his 10 years of addiction sat beside those who were still in addiction’s grip. Faces were masked and hymns unsung. We sat rigidly in the pews, willing ourselves to keep from touching.

But here is the mystery. Even as I prayed “I believe, help my unbelief” to a glory-veiled God, I heard the moan of a trumpet. Its promise was not that all would be as it had been. And its promise was more than the assurance that John was being changed even now, in the presence of Jesus — a hope I claim.

It was a promise that we would be changed: by John, by each other, and by the God who does not leave us alone. A God who chooses to live enjoined to us.

We were made for more than autonomy and self-justification. We were made for more than quarantined purity and complicit resignation. We were made vulnerable to glory, which means we were made vulnerable to each other, regardless of the risk. We were made to bear the tenderness of communion.

Communion may seem a promise too small. For those who clutch at the privileges of power, communion — and the change communion would require — seems a cross, not a resurrection. But in a nation sinking in a quicksand of fear, bound by shackles of pretense, crafting nationalistic idols and impermeable borders — such change may be exactly the cross we need.

I have been thinking about the tenderness of communion lately, perhaps because I have been fasting from my regular Eucharistic practice. At the Table, time and space are bent, the present becoming permeable to an unseen future. And in that future’s light, we become permeable to each other and to God.

My hope is that the losses of 2020, for all of their heart-sore ache, mark us with this humanity. The resurrection of Christ does not call us to permanence. It calls us to imperishability — a more fragile, relational business. Imperishability means letting go of permanence for the sake of love: bearing change — and even making change — for the sake of life.

My cousin died in Louisville. On the afternoon of his August funeral, the streets were filled with protests demanding justice for Breonna Taylor. Many cities in the United States have seen similar protests this year — with particular names chanted in memory of particular losses. I do not call this blood-seeded grief “good.” “Goodness” would be sons and daughters returned to their families’ arms. “Goodness” would be justice that did not require the shedding of innocent blood. May there be no more names to chant. May justice flow like waters.

And yet, with lament and fury, these marches witnessed to an unseen future breaking open like bread.

A month has passed, and communion seems very far away. Louisville is convulsed with news that no officers will be held responsible for Breonna Taylor’s death. The hoped-for Table is instead a familiar tomb. I tell you a mystery. Even now, there is a trumpet that sounds a greater truth. In life and in death, we are not alone. We are enjoined. And we are being changed.

Jerusha Matsen Neal is assistant professor of homiletics at Duke Divinity School. Her new book, The Overshadowed Preacher: Mary, the Spirit and the Labor of Proclamation (Eerdmans), calls preachers to leave behind the false shadows haunting Christian pulpits and be “overshadowed” by the Spirit of God.

By L. Gregory Jones

I have been reflecting on two novels, one of which has stayed with me since its publication three decades ago, the other of which I just read a couple of weeks ago. The one I just finished a couple of weeks ago is Apeirogon, by Colum McCann. The word apeirogon in the title refers to a geometric shape with what is said to be a countably infinite number of sides.

That title is revealing for the novel, which is set in the Middle East. It’s a story rooted in a true story, with the actual names contained in the novel of a Palestinian man and an Israeli man who have become friends. I was reading the novel in part because my mother, who died in January of this year, devoted a significant portion of her life and ministry as a lay person to ministry in the Middle East, especially among Palestinians in the West Bank.

Both of these men have lost daughters to the violence in the Middle East. They’ve become friends and they have formed an organization called Combatants for Peace, and they bear witness in a variety of ways, both in real life and in the novel.

The novel is told in a series of fragments, 1,001 of them in total, to allude to 1001 Arabian Nights.

These fragments reveal the complexities of the issues in the Middle East: history, geography, race politics, religion, economics — even sections about migratory birds in the Middle East that I’m sure have deeper symbolic meaning than I was able to grasp. The fragments are about the pain of the history and the realities of the contemporary moment.

And yet, in the midst of that discouragement and even despair, the novel has some extraordinary scenes of hopefulness in the story of these two men who have turned their personal pain of daughters who have died into a powerful witness in an incredible series of ways.

As I read this novel, with its fragments and the infinite number of sides, I was reminded of the difficulties and challenges that we face in 2020. We are in the reality of COVID. The underlying realities of brokenness that we have are being exposed and intensified. The pandemic is accelerating trends that present daunting issues for us all.

And that was before the killing of George Floyd and the protests in recent weeks.

The aftermath of George Floyd’s death took me to Toni Morrison and Beloved, one of the greatest novels ever written. I’ve read it and re-read it. I’ve taught it. Part of the power of that novel is the way in which it acknowledges the brokenness and the history and the legacies of slavery.

Sethe, a freed slave who had suffered horrifically when she was enslaved, had killed her own daughter to avoid being taken back into slavery. The narrator says about Sethe early in the novel, “It was never too early to start the day’s work of beating back the past.” The haunting of the past is palpable.

In a poignant and haunting characterization toward the end of the novel, Paul D is described by the narrator as a freed slave who had a tobacco tin in his chest where his heart used to be, its lid rusted shut.

Paul D says to Sethe: “Sethe, me and you, we got more yesterday than anybody. What we need is some kind of tomorrow.”

It’s a haunting word at the close of the story. And in the last two pages of the novel, Sethe is rocking in a chair in her old age and three times there is this phrase: “This is not a story to pass on.”

I’ve thought about that phrase over and over, and I’ve reflected on it being used three times. I think there are at least three different ways in which the phrase could be read. The first is, this is just too horrific a story to keep telling. It’s just too painful. The reality is too raw. A second sense is that this story is too powerful to just pass on, walk by, ignore, try to pretend it never happened. The third is the suggestion to focus on this as not a story. It’s not coherent. It’s not linear. There’s no progress to point toward. And yet, we need to be telling it, even in its fragments.

To allude back to the Colum McCann story about the Middle East, it’s in the fragments that we begin to tell the story and discover hope.

Many discussions of the power of Beloved do not comment on what Toni Morrison chose as the epigraph to the novel. The epigraph is a citation from Paul in Romans 9:25. It’s actually more complicated than that, though, because it’s actually the Apostle Paul in Romans 9 citing a passage from the prophet Hosea: “To those who are not my people, I will call my people; those who are not beloved, I will call beloved.”

Toni Morrison situates the history and the brokenness of our country, the legacy of slavery, the continuation of systemic racism and injustice, all the haunting of the past in all of its complexities — she situates all that nonetheless in the story of God told in Scripture.

It’s not a simple story in Scripture. In some of the more complicated chapters of all of the New Testament, in Romans 9 through 11 Paul is asking a question about what the revelation of God in Christ means for Israel and for Israel’s salvation.

These chapters hearken back to the prophet Hosea and the reversals as a result of Israel’s sin. They suggest that the hope that we can find the tomorrow that Paul D and Sethe are longing for is found in what might be called a scriptural imagination.

That is to say, as we live in the complexities of God’s journey with Israel, the incarnation and life, death, and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth and its meaning for the ways in which Gentiles can be grafted into Israel’s story, we begin to discover the power of what God can do and is doing in the world. It points us toward the heart of the gospel — the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus — in a way that calls us to tell the story in the fragments of our brokenness and our sin in a way that bears witness to the faithfulness of the Reign of God.

This calls us as Christians especially to be people of Easter hope and Pentecostal power. It calls us to center our lives in the gospel that calls us also in this time, particularly for Christians, to confession and repentance.

The protests that have been marking our streets and our lives in so many ways are a manifestation of centuries-long racism and injustice, complicated by a global pandemic that has created frustration and isolation, economic consequences, and mental health challenges, as well as disparities in justice. People and communities of color have suffered disproportionately in terms of the disease itself, as well as economic and other health-related issues.

This moment that we are living in now calls us to reflection, to self-examination, to repentance, and to new forms of action.

I’m calling our community to a time of witness, study and self-examination for all of the ways in which we as people of faith, as Christians, need to reckon with the history of our country and our communities and to engage in new forms of witness that would look at the intersecting realities. It’s not only a question of police brutality or racist attitudes, it’s also about the intersecting realities and the ways in which they continue to haunt and impact us.

This time calls us also to reflect on the ways in which we form pastoral leaders, to pay more attention to the role of mentoring from people who are practitioners and out in the field. We must have a deeper understanding of the role that the church can play in helping communities thrive, and that all people can thrive in those communities.

We need healthy congregations and gifted pastors serving as catalysts, conveners, and curators of gospel wisdom of that Easter hope and that Pentecostal power.

Even before the pandemic, even before the deaths of George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and even before the other horrific actions that have happened in the last few months, I had a clear sense that we needed to exercise new patterns of leadership, to strengthen the things we’re good at, to overcome weaknesses, to repent of problems from our past, and to find new ways of being faithful. That’s been intensified and accelerated.

During the Spanish flu pandemic a century ago, William Preston Few, president of Trinity College, went to see philanthropist James B. Duke. Few needed funding to keep Trinity College afloat. He asked for help, and Duke wrote some checks to help keep it surviving. In the course of the conversations, the question turned from survival to something much larger. What was the calling of higher education in the 20th century? In their conversations, Few and Duke began to realize that what had gotten Trinity College “here” wouldn’t get it “there.” What’s gotten us here won’t get us there. Those conversations became the groundwork for what became Duke University. I think we’re at a similar inflection point in our current history.

The reality of this inflection point means that whether it’s COVID, systemic racism, economic disruption and the loss of jobs, or the need to rethink the future of work and dignity and communities, what has gotten us here won’t get us there.

The good news, which I suspect was true for James B. Duke and William Preston Few back in 1919 and 1920 as it is for us, is that we are centered in God’s work in Christ as we remember the witness of early Methodists, and more remotely of the early Christians, to the surprise that entered into the world by the good news of Easter hope, the power of the resurrection. The descent of the Holy Spirit gives us a hope that we can lean into by centering ourselves afresh in God’s work, in Christ, and in the power of the Holy Spirit.

What implications does that have for new ways in which we need to be offering education, coming alongside people digitally? What new patterns of witness do we need to be engaged in to help us understand the intersecting realities of health, education, race, economics, and all the conditions that go into helping all God’s children flourish in the community? How do we need to reform and renew the kind of education that we provide to focus on being more centered in Christ in order to enable the kind of witness and the kind of integrity that our world is yearning for in terms of moral, spiritual, political, and economic leadership?

We’re still focused on what the implications of the pandemic are: How often can we be on campus in the fall, and what form will our courses take? At the same time, though, I think that this is the real question for us: How do we lean into a broader and bolder future that God is calling us to so that we will be positioned for this to be the church’s time to step forward and bear a much stronger, more faithful witness to the good news of God’s love in Jesus Christ?

Remember Paul D’s words to Sethe: “We got more yesterday than anybody. What we need is some kind of tomorrow.” My first thought is the scriptural reference to God being the same yesterday, today and tomorrow. I think of the power of Easter as the good news, which redeems us from a broken past and promises new life — not only tomorrow in the Reign of God, but also new life and power to live today.

L. Gregory Jones is the dean and Ruth W. and A. Morris Williams Distinguished Professor of Theology and Christian Ministry at Duke Divinity School

By J. Ross Wagner

On June 1, during a speech in the Rose Garden, President Donald Trump proclaimed himself “your president of law and order, and an ally of all peaceful protesters.” Meanwhile, outside the White House, officers in riot gear backed by mounted police used smoke canisters, pepper balls, flash-bang grenades and billy clubs to break up an overwhelmingly peaceful protest on the north side of Lafayette Square.

Having demonstrated his ability to “dominate the streets,” the president then walked across the square to St. John’s Episcopal Church where he posed briefly for photos. Standing stern faced and holding aloft a leather-bound Bible, Mr. Trump declared to reporters, “We have a great country. … Greatest country in the world. We will make it greater.”

Though swiftly condemned by many religious leaders, this awkwardly staged pageant of patriotism and piety provided welcome reassurance to its intended audience, often described as the white evangelicals who comprise Mr. Trump’s most ardent adherents. Perfunctory as it may have been, the president’s performance signaled his support for the foundational narrative this constituency holds dear: the story of America as a land where biblical faith leads to national greatness, where an impartial justice protects the rights of all peace-loving citizens — and where the cancers of white supremacy and systemic racism are kept safely out of sight.

During the photo op, Mr. Trump never opened the Bible. And in truth, for the story of a “Christian America” to remain plausible the Bible must remain closed, its counter-narrative confined between its covers. An open Bible is a most troubling book for white American Christians like me. For to live in keeping with the story that Scripture tells requires us to relinquish our status and privilege in order to follow Jesus in the way of self-giving service to others.

Love of God and Love of Neighbor

This summons to sacrificial love of God and neighbor is central to the political vision of the New Testament. Jesus of Nazareth knew all too well the model of leadership so prized by President Trump — brutal defense of the status quo under the guise of “law and order,” “total domination” of one’s opponents through the use of “overwhelming force” — and he rejected it utterly. To his disciples, who were jockeying for power among themselves, Jesus had this to say: “You know that among the nations of the world those who are regarded as rulers dominate them, and their great ones are tyrants over them. Not so among you!”

Instead, Jesus offered a new paradigm for human community, one stamped with the pattern of his own life as God’s Word made flesh:

“Whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all. For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.”

In the same way, the apostle Paul says that the prodigal self-giving of Jesus, the contemptible weakness of the one crucified for us, displays the true nature of divine power and sets the pattern for his followers’ lives. To those living under the dominion of an emperor who proclaimed himself “lord,” “savior” and “son of god,” Paul told the story of Jesus as the one who, though he was “in the form of God, did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage.” Rather, Jesus willingly divested himself of status and prerogatives in order to identify with human beings in all the misery of their alienation from God and from one another. He took the very lowest place, the place of a slave, and poured out his life for the sake of others, even to the point of suffering a shameful death as a danger to political and religious law and order.

For this very reason, “God exalted him to the highest place and gave him the name that is above every name.” By raising Jesus’ crucified body from the grave, God made it known that the self-giving of this man was none other than God’s own act of justice and mercy. In Jesus’ death and resurrection, God’s invincible love has overcome the power of injustice and mercifully reconciled the unjust to their creator. The ascended Jesus now reigns at God’s side. And since the day of Pentecost the Holy Spirit has been calling together a people from every nation, tribe and tongue who acknowledge Jesus as Lord. Through baptism by water and the Spirit, God’s enemies are made daughters and sons, united with Jesus the Son in one family, the church. The Spirit of Jesus is now powerfully at work in their midst, shaping their common life after the pattern of Jesus’ self-giving for the sake of the world God loves.

Living in Keeping with the Gospel

Christians claim to believe that this incredible story — the gospel or “good news” — is true. That it is, in fact, the one true story in which all other true narratives find their place.

But what exactly does it look like to live in keeping with the gospel story here and now?

For me, as a white American Christian nurtured in the evangelical tradition of Wesleyan Methodism, the president’s public invocation of the Bible has only heightened the urgency of this question. What does it mean for white followers of Jesus like me to live in keeping with the gospel story in the face of the persistent, systemic racism of American society?

To open the Bible is to confront the call to live as citizens of God’s kingdom by adopting “the mindset of Christ Jesus.” As Paul puts it:

“Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others.”

Can white Christians hear these words as a summons to relinquish status and prerogatives for the sake of our fellow human beings — not least our brothers and sisters of color in the household of faith — who disproportionately suffer the evils of racism, injustice, poverty and pandemic that plague our society? Will we answer the call to make their interests our own pressing concern: to spend the time and effort required to understand the true nature of the problem; to recognize and repent of our own complicity in systems of racial and economic oppression; to lay our reputation, resources — even our own bodies — on the line in solidarity with Black brothers and sisters who are leading the way in nonviolent resistance to injustice?

In so doing, the Scriptures promise, we will come to know Christ himself. Sharing in his sufferings, we will find the power of his resurrection working among us. And in the end, we will discover that whatever we have given up to follow Jesus in serving our brothers and sisters of color pales in comparison with “the surpassing gain of knowing Christ Jesus our Lord.”

J. Ross Wagner is Associate Professor of New Testament at Duke Divinity School