The Cry
The Cry
Rev. Amanda Hendler-Voss, August 28, 2011Part of the Ordinary Time series, preached at a Sunday Morning service
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“The Cry”
Rev. Amanda Hendler-Voss
August 28, 2011
A few weeks ago, Seth and I pounced on a rare opportunity to go to the movies. As we sat in the theater, a preview for “The Help,” flickered over the big screen. Though the book had been highly recommended, the preview presented the film as rather…well, vanilla. And then I began reading the reviews, particularly those of black feminist thinkers sent to me by friends.
One started this way, “’The Help’ is a feel-good movie…for white folks.” Another points out that the movie focuses on the good white protagonist, a stock character in American films delving into our racial history. As I read the reviews, I was broad-sided by how blind I was to the dynamics of which they spoke. I learned that Kathryn Stockett, the author of “The Help,” grew up with a maid named Demetrie. She notes, “I’m pretty sure I can say that no one in my family ever asked Demetrie what it felt like to be black in Mississippi, working for our white family. It never occurred to us to ask…I wished for many years that I’d been old enough and thoughtful enough to ask Demetrie. She died when I was sixteen. I’ve spent years imagining what her answer would be. And that is why I wrote this book.” Professor Duchess Harris observes, “It would have behooved Stockton to ask her burning question of another Black domestic, or at least read some memoirs on the subject, but instead she substitutes her imagination…And the result is that The Help isn’t for Black women at all.” Whew. We don’t all have to agree with Harris, but I believe we do need to listen to voices like hers. And, for the record, I have not read the book or seen the movie.
Now some white women have responded with the frustrated feeling that the baby is being thrown out with the bathwater. They say this really is a good book that gets at the overt racism in 1960s Mississippi. The Times calls The Help, “A warm girlfriend of a book about female love that transcends race.” So how did it provoke such divisive debate? The point here is not to brand Kathryn Stockett a racist or blame white folks who find this a feel-good film. The point is to highlight the larger pattern into which this book-made-movie fits. The pattern is one in which the white protagonist emerges as a hero, around which the black characters orbit. The pattern is one in which we are drawn into the emotional struggles of the white character, although the black character bears far heavier burdens. The pattern is one in which white authors speak for black characters, rather than collaborating to fashion an authentic voice. The pattern is one in which the white voice is paid handsomely for the black story. It’s the pattern that reveals the insidious nature of racism. My own inability to recognize the pattern until women of color spell it out for me points to racism entangled in my own heart, part of the duplicitous nature of systemic sin.
Yes, I’m using the “s” word. But, as we like to do here at Land of the Sky, I want to redefine sin. Maybe you grew up hearing sin defined as pride or personal moral failure, but this morning I want to talk about systemic sin. Systemic sin is what happens when human brokenness becomes embedded in society. Systemic sin “shows us how easily human nature bends toward using power to preserve privilege at the expense of the” most vulnerable[1]. Systemic sin is what we’re talking about when we unpack the historical context of this morning’s scripture.
Now if I had to choose just a handful of the most significant stories from the Hebrew Scriptures, the exodus out of Egypt, led by Moses, would be in the top two. The story that we’re engaging with today is that important. It sets the stage for who God is, how God discloses the divine heart, and our work as people who belong to God. It offers an unequivocal definition of salvation as liberation from bondage. Not just the spiritual or emotional bondage that is so common in the human experience, but the concrete socio-political bondage through which our ancestors in the faith emerged. How we tell the story of the Exodus changes how we tell the story of the crucifixion and resurrection. We either choose to pluck out the historical piece about empire and spiritualize the struggle, or we choose to use oppressive empire as the lens through which we understand systemic sin.
Author Rob Bell sets the scene like this: “Imagine a slave girl living in Egypt asking her father why he’s got a bandage on his arm. He tells her he was beaten by his master…She wants to know why. He explains to her that the quotas have recently changed and…he’s been falling behind in his brick production…She then asks why his master couldn’t just let it slide—why the beating? He explains that if the quotas aren’t met, his master will be beaten by his master. And if his master doesn’t make the quotas, he’ll be beaten by his overseer, and so on up the chain of command, which goes all the way to Pharaoh. The father tries to make the daughter understand that yes, the beating came from one particular man…But his master is part of a larger system, a complex web of power and violence and technology that exploits people for its…profit.”[2] This is systemic sin. And so the Hebrew people cry out.
The cry, Bell asserts, “inaugurates history. It kicks things into gear. The cry is the catalyst, the cause, the reason that a new story unfolds…and God always hears the cry of the oppressed…this is central to who God is.”[3]
Our story of the burning bush, in fact, is the scene in which Moses asks for the name of the divine one. “If they ask who sent me, what should I say?” And God utters that ancient name that has been used down through the ages, to give words to that which is beyond words. God says, “I am Yahweh,” which translates as “I am who I am,” or “I will be who I will be,” or simply, “I am.” The Great I Am names the essence of divinity right there from the burning bush. Central to the divine purpose is the act of hearing the cry, and taking action. God says to Moses, “I have seen the affliction of my people who are in Egypt, I have heard their cry because of their task masters, I know their sufferings.”
This is a God who is intimately involved in the human drama of history—a God who listens and acts. But God does not act alone. Theologian Bruce Epperly notes, “this passage describes a divine-human synergy that is essential in achieving God’s vision for the world.” God does not crush the unjust Pharaoh. Instead, God activates Moses. As Rob Bell states, “God needs a body. God needs flesh and blood…so that Pharaoh will know how this God acts in the world.”[4] In other words, God needs us. God invites us into the divine-human synergy that heals the broken world. God call us—Moses, you, me—to confront the powers and principalities of oppressive empire. God calls us to resist the lure of empire values that promise fulfillment through wealth and status. In Jesus, God calls us to participate in redemption from empire, liberation from occupation, and salvation from systemic sin.
Centuries later, from the shadows of the towering Roman Empire, the apostle Paul writes to a new church start in Rome. He speaks of how we are called to live differently as those who follow in the ways of Jesus. Listen between the lines for liberation from empire values, for the mutuality that unhinges oppression: “Let love be genuine; hate what is evil, hold fast to what is good; love one another with mutual affection; outdo one another in showing honor. Do not lag in zeal, be ardent in spirit, serve God. Rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering, persevere in prayer. Contribute to the needs of the saints; extend hospitality to strangers. Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse them. Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep. Live in harmony with one another; do not be haughty, but associate with the lowly; do not claim to be wiser than you are. Do not repay anyone evil for evil, but take thought for what is noble in the sight of all. If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all.” The Message translates that first verse as “Love from the center of who you are…discover beauty in everyone.” In the context of empire, of a system that privileges some and devalues others, of wealth built on the backs of the poor…in this context love is not an amorphous feel-good flash in the pan. In this context, love is the hard work that dismantles structures of domination and reconciles us to one another and to God. It is not trifle work. Rilke said, “For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate…the work for which all other work is but preparation.”
Perhaps some of you heard the news that the Asheville Police Department apprehended the suspect of a recent hate crime. Luke Hankins walked into Ingles last month and was confronted by three people hurling homophobic slurs. After shopping, Hankins left the store and the perpetrator struck him in the face, causing multiple fractures. Luke wrote a stunning poem about his experience called “The Way They Loved One Another.”
What to be more astonished at:
my calm as the fist made contact
and I saw a flash of white
and the world went silent
as if I had stepped out of it
momentarily, only to be brought back
with a rush of sound and visible objects—
the way I asked them to help me
find my glasses, expecting them
(even as they taunted me,
even though they had just assaulted me)
to feel underneath the violent tribal urge
the obligations of empathy—
the way even as one of them found my glasses
and smashed them again on the ground
I refused to believe that was really
what he wanted to do—the way
they loved each other
in the most primitive manner
but loved each other nonetheless
despite feeling the need to punish” one
“who did not dress like them, because
he did not dress like them—
the way tears and nausea overwhelmed me
nightlong much more than had the blow itself—
the way such small suffering can feel
unbearable—the way no strength is found
for what seems to have no explanation,
a troubled mind more harmful
to the body than fractured bones.
Hankins commented, “I don’t feel anger against the perpetrators, only confusion…and sadness. I also don’t take credit for not feeling anger. It’s simply the natural course my mind and heart have taken. But it has allowed me to recover psychologically…in a way that I don’t believe would have been possible if I were plagued by anger…I’m grateful for this grace.”
This, my friends, is the grace of a God whose mercy is beyond all comprehension. It is the forgiveness that trumps vengeance, the compassion that cools righteous anger. This is how we are called to live as followers of Jesus, as beloved children of the Great I Am.
Will we speak for peace in a world perpetually at war? Will we confront the Pharaoh’s of our day? Will we stand in solidarity with the poor and unemployed? The good news, my friends, is that God always hears the cry. And no matter who we are, God invites us into the divine work of repairing a broken world. We are called, and God is faithful. God accompanies us into places of power, God emboldens us to speak in the face of injustice. God loves us into loving ourselves, so that we might love others from the center of who we are. May it be so with us. Amen.
