How Shall We Live? Part VII: On Justice Making
The Rev. Joshua Mason Pawelek
The Unitarian Unversalist Society: East
Manchester, CT
January 13, 2008
Every year at this time I preach on justice-making in honor of Martin Luther King, Jr. I take great pride in doing so. I am mindful of certain white liberal ministers who preach about civil rights and anti-racism in reference to the national commemoration of King’s life but then never mention these topics again for an entire year. I promise this is not the only time in 2008 you will hear about justice-making from this pulpit.
One of the reasons I am proud of this congregation and proud to serve as its parish minister is its steady drum-beat, week after week, month after month, of opportunities to engage in justice-making, whether it’s tutoring with the STARS program or at the Washington School; stocking shelves at the food pantry; fixing homes with Rebuilding Together; supporting the Unitarian Universalist Service Committee; participating in the work of the Greater Hartford Interfaith Coalition for Equity and Justice; working with Congregations United for Racial Equality and Justice challenging environmental racism; lobbying with Love Makes a Family for marriage equality; lobbying for the inclusion of gender identity in the language of the federal Employment Non-Discrimination Act; or participating in various efforts to confront global warming—and that just begins the list. I promise you will feel and hear that justice-making drum-beat in 2008. In response to that drum-beat I hope and pray each of us, in our own way, in our own time, in our own place will have “burning bush” moments when we are beckoned to take off our shoes, step onto holy ground, and hear the call to become agents of liberation.
This morning I continue my series of sermons on the Unitarian Universalist principles entitled, “How Shall We Live?” I’m reflecting on the second principle: justice, equity and compassion in human relations. I love this language. Not only are justice, equity and compassion deeply resonant values for religious liberals, they are beautiful sounding words—flowing words, soft words. They are simple words with profound meanings that are immensely difficult to live by. Though perhaps over-used, they can be words of great power. Spoken at the right time, in the right place, in the right way, they can shift the direction of a conversation or a policy; they can guide us toward healing in a painful situation; they can challenge and transform oppressive social, political, and economic structures; they can help articulate our spiritual path. Justice, equity, and compassion whisper from burning bushes, calling us to be agents of liberation.
How shall we live? We shall live as people who strive to create and practice justice. We shall live as people who strive to create and practice equity. We shall do so ultimately not out of rage or anger, not with violence, not with an overblown sense of our own righteousness—not even with a firm conviction that we know how to create and practice justice and equity. We shall do so with a deep and abiding love—a humble, heart-centered concern for the suffering of others—a humble, heart-centered compassion.
I am reminded of the compassion God professes for the Israelites in Exodus as God speaks to Moses from the burning bush: “I have observed the misery of my people who are in Egypt; I have heard their cry on account of their taskmasters. Indeed, I know their sufferings and I have come down to deliver them.” The God of the Hebrew scriptures is moody. On any given day God may be loving, vengeful, tolerant, jealous, permissive, punishing and so on. But here, in this central moment in the Torah where God initiates the Israelite exodus from enslavement, God is motivated by compassion. Compassion generates the call for liberation. Whatever work we do for justice and equity is most authentic and most enduring when grounded in compassion for those who suffer.
There is a message I hear among people who engage in justice-making. It takes many forms, but distills down, finally, to this: justice-making is hard work. I agree. Organizing for justice is hard work. Advocating for justice is hard work. Lobbying, rallying, testifying, witnessing, protesting, marching, fundraising, writing, singing and dancing for justice: hard work. It is hard because the arrangements of social, economic and political power holding injustice in place are so entrenched and longstanding. If you are poor or oppressed in some way, justice-making is hard work because you are likely already tired from living under the conditions of poverty and oppression; you are likely already tired from daily insults to your human dignity, from having to prove yourself worthy, from being second-guessed, silenced and ignored. If you are privileged in some way, justice-making is hard work because once we’ve inherited or gained our own social and economic privileges, we don’t always feel compelled to struggle on behalf of those who still lack such privileges; we harbor a deep-seeded fear we may lose our privileges if we enter such struggles. Justice-making is hard work because it requires so much time and energy. Our lives are so fast-paced and full that in those moments when the work of justice-making calls and we’re asked to be at this meeting, that rally, this legislative hearing or that educational forum, we don’t necessarily feel able to go. We may just want to rest. We may feel one person can’t possibly make a difference. We may feel we will be out of place. We may feel we won’t be taken seriously. We may feel powerless.
Moses certainly felt this way. Out beyond the wilderness on Mt. Horeb, tending to his sheep, he encounters God speaking from a burning bush, calling for the liberation of Israel. But God isn’t going to do the work. God says to Moses, “So come, I will send you to Pharaoh, to bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt.” When Moses hears this call, does he want to go? No. It’s going to be hard work. He has a wife and children. He has no idea how to liberate his people. He doesn’t feel up to the task. He says to God, “I don’t speak well. They won’t understand me.” He asks, “What if they don’t listen to me? What if they don’t believe me?” At one point he says “Lord, please send someone else.” God’s response to Moses’ resistance is compassionate: “I will be with you.”
There’s a story I’ve heard many times about Martin Luther King, Jr.—one of his burning bush moments. I’m quoting here from a book called Bearing the Cross by David Garrow. “King was a young minister in the town of Montgomery, Alabama, in the 1950s when unexpectedly he found himself in the middle of a boycott of the local bus company in protest for its treatment of Blacks. It seemed that almost by accident he had been elected president of the Montgomery Improvement Association, the organization coordinating the boycott. Soon his prominence caused him to become the target of those opposing the boycott action, and one evening around midnight he received a threatening anonymous phone call: ‘If you aren’t out of this town within three days,’ the caller said, ‘we’re going to blow your brains out, and blow up your house.’”
“While his young family slept, King sat in his kitchen, battling his fears. Later he would explain what happened that night: ‘I discovered then that religion had to become real to me, and I had to know God for myself…. And it seemed to me at that moment that I could hear an inner voice saying to me, Martin Luther, stand up for righteousness. Stand up for justice. Stand up for truth. And lo, I will be with you, even unto the end of the world.’” “I will be with you.” He’s quoting Exodus.
I hear an inner voice saying to me, “Josh, stand up for righteousness. Stand up for justice. Stand up for truth.” I was socialized to hear this voice. It is the voice of my Unitarian Universalist upbringing, the voice of my parents, the voice of my seminary education, the voice of my mentors in the anti-racism organizing movement. I strive mightily to heed that voice. What I haven’t heard yet is a divine voice saying, “I will be with you.” I read about God’s call to Moses in scripture, about how God holds Moses. I read about the threats to Martin Luther King’s life and about how God’s voice, mediated through scripture, gave him strength and courage. I hear Christian, Jewish and Muslim colleagues in greater Hartford professing their conviction that God is with them in their struggles for justice. But I don’t hear a divine voice saying to me, “I will be with you.” I sometimes lament the absence of such a voice in my life. Its presence would make spirituality so much easier. Its presence would make dialogue with people of other faiths so much easier. Its presence would make the links between spirituality and justice so much clearer. It would be comforting. It would inspire courage.
I could use such a voice these days. Two of my major justice-making commitments, which are two of this congregation’s major justice-making commitments, face challenges that feel potentially insurmountable. The Greater Hartford Interfaith Coalition for Equity and Justice, ICEJ, a coalition of 32 congregations that began organizing about six years ago with the goal of overcoming some of the region’s most entrenched and systemic injustices—a coalition which I currently serve as Chairman—has run into deep financial trouble. Two major grants we hoped to receive at this time have not come through. ICEJ will run out of money by March 15. Although we are developing a strategy to survive this crisis, as the Chairman I can tell you it is not clear we will make it. UUS: E members and friends have dedicated thousands of hours and thousands if not tens of thousands of dollars building ICEJ. From the beginning there has been a compelling prophetic vision, the promise of building the kind of power necessary to create justice in this region, and the real potential to bring people together across lines of race, class, and faith to be the beloved community. I’m heartbroken at the prospect of having to lay off our staff. I’m heartbroken at the prospect of losing ICEJ.
A few weeks before we received that news, my good friend, the Rev. Alvan Johnson of Bethel AME Church in Bloomfield, called to inform me he is leaving his position to become a Presiding Elder in the New York Annual Conference of the AME Church. This is a great honor for him, a wonderful new ministry to finish a truly amazing career. I am happy for him. Rev. Johnson and I lead Congregations United for Racial Equality and Justice, or CUREJ, a small coalition of three Unitarian Universalist congregations and Bethel AME, dedicated to educating ourselves about institutional racism and countering environmental racism in the greater Hartford region. Rev. Johnson has played a major role in sustaining CUREJ through the years and keeping his congregation involved. Rev. Johnson is also a rare individual, dedicated to interfaith and interracial dialogue and committed to social justice activism. We don’t know yet who his successor will be. We don’t know if his successor will have any interest in providing leadership to CUREJ the way Rev. Johnson has. I am hopeful CUREJ will continue, but there is uncertainty regarding how it will continue. Rev. Johnson’s departure is bittersweet for me both personally and professionally. When you called me to serve as your parish minister, he was the first local pastor to congratulate me. He was the first local pastor to say to me, “Come, get involved, there is much work to be done.” I will miss him.
No one ever said it would be easy. Everyone has always said justice-making is hard work. But I’m not giving up; I hope you aren’t either. Here’s what I’m going to do: I’m going to keep my heart open and believe. I’m going to believe justice and equity matter. I’m going to believe compassion matters. I’m going to believe liberation matters. I’m going to believe ICEJ matters, and efforts to save it, even if they fail, matter. With ICEJ I’m going to believe that everyone deserves affordable, quality healthcare, every child deserves the highest quality education, that it is possible to stem the tide of gun violence in our state, and that it is possible to reform our tax system so that the working poor have real opportunities to transcend poverty. I’m going to believe CUREJ matters and efforts to sustain it, even if they fail, matter. With CUREJ, I’m going to believe the lungs of children who suffer respiratory diseases due to an abundance of polluting facilities in their neighborhoods matter. I’m going to believe it is possible for people of different races, classes and faiths to sustain dialogue, to build lasting relationships, to work together for justice, to strengthen communities and saves people’s lives.
I’m not stopping there. I’m going to believe in burning bushes. I’m going to believe there are moments in each of our lives when we must take off our shoes, step onto holy ground, and listen deeply for the call of that which we hold most sacred. I’m going to believe it is possible there is a God who calls us to the work of justice and equity, who stays with us through all our times of challenge and struggle, whose primary motivation is compassion and whose primary concern for humanity is liberation. And what if that God never calls? What if there is only silence? What if there is no voice speaking the words, “I will be with you ?” What if no precious Lord takes my hand? What if there is no amazing grace? Well, then we’ve still got each other. And I’m still going to hold my heart open, put my shoes back on, and get to work, because there is much work to be done, and it is hard, hard work.
In his Nobel lecture Martin Luther King, Jr. said “every man lives in two realms, the internal and the external. The internal is that realm of spiritual ends expressed in art, literature, morals, and religion. The external is that complex of devices, techniques, mechanisms, and instrumentalities by means of which we live. Our problem today is that we have allowed the internal to become lost in the external.” The results of this, he said, were racism, poverty and war. For me, the path back to the internal, and thus the path away from racism, poverty and war, is the willingness to believe justice, equity and compassion matter, the willingness to believe in burning bushes.
How shall we live? We shall live as people who create and practice justice and equity. We shall do so with humble hearts full of compassion. We shall live as people ready to encounter burning bushes, ready to take off our shoes as we step onto holy ground, ready to be called. Amen and Blessed Be.
