Letting the Light In: An Advent Reflection

On Monday, I posted on Facebook a comment that got some attention from my friends, including a few tearful hugs.

Driving up Lake Ave, waiting for a pedestrian to cross at Elizabeth St. Two 9yo-ish Boys on scooters racing downhill. One sees me and yells out "Ching Chong", darting away, laughing. I am tired of being told "to get over it". Raise your kids right.

Needless to say, I was caught off-guard by this rude shred of racism. I was coming back from stopping by a store where I was looking at stocking stuffers for my nieces and nephews. The store and my heart were in a Christmas spirit. And I had been marinating in the Advent spirit of waiting penitentially for the hope and Good made incarnate with the coming of the baby Jesus. I was also getting a last-minute item needed to roast a turkey the next day for the Homeless Memorial and Dinner at All Saints Episcopal of Pasadena. And the prior night, I sang with my choir at the beautiful Lessons and Carols evensong service. Needless to say, I was in positive mood.

And then these two boys shook up my Monday.

My last sentence in that post seemed to imply that I had problems with the kids themselves. I didn't mean to do so. I was upset with the parents and other adults in those children's lives who taught or at least enabled the children to say such a pointless, mean remark. The comment was directed not towards the kids but towards us adults.

You see, this wasn't an isolated incident. If this incident happened for the first time in the last decade, I'd be shocked and I'd be glad it was over. Like some freakish accident, I don't expect it to happen again soon. But it's not unusual. It happens to me now, and it's happened to me in the past, and while I'm alive I'll probably have it happen again. Good grief, I can tell you about the fear that coursed through me when I was chased by pipe-wielding guys in gay West Hollywood.

Admittedly, it's not common to me, and for that I'm thankful. It's not common, but it's not unusual. Comments or actions that are based on racism come to me several times a year. And I'm one of the lucky ones because we all know people who experience racism on a daily basis. Well, those of us who have friends or acquaintances who are not in the ethnic majority for their area know such people; a surprising number of people live in segregated enclaves, intentionally or not, where they simply have no opportunity to be in relationship with a minority.

That's not to say that ethnic minorities don't mistreat each other. There's no doubt that there can be as much racism directed from one minority onto another. But racism isn't just a dislike for a minority. It's coupled with power.  So a person of one minority disparaging a person of a different minority class doesn't harm the person as much as a person of the majority, a person with power. Now, a child who calls out names like I experienced typically has no power, but that child represents and is the product of someone who does.  Whether children or adult, these acts are enabled by a society that stays silent about the hurt sustained from the malice. We must dis-enable all who diminish our mutual humanity.

In the past, I've been told "get over it". Well no. No, I won't.

This blog post is a step to "not get over it", to not let it slide, but to call it out publicly. I want to let the light in and shine it on this sickness.

This was NOT an isolated incident. It happens here, in "tolerant" California like elsewhere. I haven't shared these stories in the past, but they happen, and I am just one of the many who experiences unacceptable behavior.

The boys said "Ching Chong". In the past, people have spat out at me "faggot", "chink", "go back to your own country", and "old fat fag"

There have been heroes to help me when these happened. And there are those who turned away.

I am grateful for everyone's words of love and support this past week. I also think that what I experienced was not just youthful indiscretion. I don't think it's just a sign of these political times. I don't feel it's unique to me, to this year, to this location. I don't feel that I'm the only person who experiences this.

I weep when I know this is happening to others. I weep knowing it happens more often and with more physically painful ramifications to others. And I weep when this story surprises my friends. We all suffer, those oppressed AND those who oppress, when these aggressions and microagressions happen. All of us in the human family are diminished.

I have faith that the arc of history bends toward justice. But all of us must speak like the prophets and call out the injustices not just in our lives but in the daily lives of all around us. And all of us must follow and be the shepherd who cares for the fallen, the hurt, the pained.

This country and the world should be bigger than this incident. I pray for it. I dream of it. I want to share my stories so we know what we face.

And while I'm at it, I'd like to bring up one more point. I know of too many friends who defensively make self-directed jokes. "Oh I'm Asian and we ARE the worst drivers" for example. It's considered acceptable for a minority to call others in their community by slurs. I know I've done it, as a Filipino, as an immigrant, as a Pacific-Islander, as an Asian, as a gay person, as a guy, as a geek. It's an easy laugh that we can share with each other, a laugh that is not permissible by those who are not of that same class.

I wonder how hurtful it is that this continues, as we perpetuate stereotypes in such jokes. It's really incorporating the hurtful stereotypes into our own community. The behavior can mask a self-hate. In the gay community, it can mask (or perhaps reveal) internalized homophobia.

None of this is holy. Holy is lifting up, not casting down. We don't have to step on each other to bind ourselves to each other. We don't have to step on minorities to build ourselves up.

We can heal this sickness, this sin. To do so, we have to face the illness, or at least face the fears that prevent us from healing. I recently had a colonoscopy where I (finally) confronted a fear of cancer by actually getting a checkup. I remember that same fear when decades ago I went finally for an HIV test. Those fears impair our ability to heal, but we must accept that we can't begin to heal without first facing the realities of the disease.

Every day we forget who we are, forget that we are made in the image of God, forget what life without fear is, forget what love means. I won't get over this unless by getting over it we mean let's heal. Let's remember. Let's love.

So let's use this time to remember. We can remember who we are and what life and love mean. We can pray in this time of Advent for a future that's filled with love and hope, for a chance to heal what was broken, for a promise to end the sickness of sin.

I heard a sermon recently that pointed out that you can have two rooms, one in light and one in darkness. Open the door between them, and the light pours out of the light-filled room into the dark room. And the light-filled room doesn't look any dimmer. It's still just as light. But the dark room is transformed, with almost as brilliant a light as the adjoining room.

As I pondered that sermon, it struck me that you could have countless rooms of darkness, all connected to that light-filled room. We can open the doors to each and every room and they will immediately fill with light. And the room with light itself does not go dim.

Christmas is coming. We await the Light to fill our darkness. May His promise of hope and salvation be shared with all.

Light and Truth - Advent Meditation II

We light the candle of light and truth this coming Sunday on the Advent wreath. I find it interesting that it comes after the candle of hope and expectation. In some ways, I think hope and expectation is driven by visions of light and truth, not hope before the light.

But it's not often that way. Many times, hope and expectation comes long before you have a glimmer of light and truth. John the Baptist did not yet see the light before he offered the waters of baptism, the hope of new life, to those who came. He acted and then saw the Light appear before him.

The readings for this coming Sunday are from the his story.

In those days John the Baptist came, preaching in the wilderness of Judea and saying, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” This is he who was spoken of through the prophet Isaiah: “A voice of one calling in the wilderness, ‘Prepare the way for the Lord, make straight paths for him.’" John’s clothes were made of camel’s hair, and he had a leather belt around his waist. His food was locusts and wild honey. People went out to him from Jerusalem and all Judea and the whole region of the Jordan. Confessing their sins, they were baptized by him in the Jordan River. But when he saw many of the Pharisees and Sadducees coming to where he was baptizing, he said to them: 

“You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath? Produce fruit in keeping with repentance. And do not think you can say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our father.’ I tell you that out of these stones God can raise up children for Abraham. The ax is already at the root of the trees, and every tree that does not produce good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire. 

I baptize you with water for repentance. But after me comes one who is more powerful than I, whose sandals I am not worthy to carry. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing floor, gathering his wheat into the barn and burning up the chaff with unquenchable fire.”

Matthew 3:1-12

It's truly the fire and brimstone words you'd expect from a preacher out on the streets of any city. It's full of hope and at the same time warnings for those who don't repent. And this was before Jesus came up to him to be baptized. He had expectations and hope for something when in the midst of what he saw, he should not have had hope.

To me, that's what makes the light and truth so powerful as the second candle. You don't yet see the light but you've lit the candle of hope.

We must be able to hope first. We must act to be hopeful first. We must expect the coming of Christ first.

After that, the light appears.

Last night, I saw Bernie Sander speak to a packed auditorium in Glendale California. An event sponsored by Vromans Bookstore of Pasadena, the talk was supposed to be at my church All Saints Pasadena but had to be relocated to a larger venue because of the high demand. Many in the crowd were Bernie supporters, many were curious about his message now after the election. And he spoke with us, with a short period of questions and answers hosted by comedian Sarah Silverman.

And what did this Jewish Presidential candidate say when he spoke?

I heard a message of Advent. I heard a message that said we must hope, we must act, and we must plan on seeing the light and truth shine eventually. I heard that together we can rid ourselves of the vipers that got us here. And I heard that to act, we must repent, acknowledge the concessions of our souls that yielded too much power, too much of our free will to personless entities lacking humanity, that finds it easier to scapegoat than to heal.

As we approach this weekend, when we light the Advent candle of light, may we all lay the groundwork for the light that comes after today.

Footsteps of the Flies

Some times of our lives or of the year, we seemingly seem to be bumped by death from the left and by the dying from the right. We hear our mortality creeping up behind us, and we see tears and pain in front of us.

It's easy to let loose, go full on emo and drown ourselves in the sorrows of nihilism and fate. We drift alone on an island, fearful of what life has in store for us next.

Last Friday I saw the staged version of Lord of the Flies for the first time. My niece performed in an all-girl production, where they changed the characters from Ralph, Simon, Jack, and Piggy to Rachel, Simone, Jackie, and Piggy. It added a new dimension to see young girls in a classic modern story.

The broad themes stayed the same: the natural tendency for order and rules vs the natural tendency for tribalism and war, the Christ-like lover of peace being misunderstood by all, the innate criminality in some, the futility of intellectual blindness. But the use of girls ensured that these themes were understood to be truly across the human race, and not just among men. The cast was not allowed to lean on a simplistic boys-will-be-boys crutch. And the emotions felt ever more raw.

I bring it up because this show preceded a weekend that also included a memorial for a family member who passed on. That loss of innocence described in the book often times accompanies the departure of a friend or relative. It's part of our nature to question life and our natural place in it.

Lord of the Flies as a title arises literally from Beelzebub, or Baal-ze-bub. That deity is now viewed as a demon or devil. It's as though the devil arises when we're adrift on an island alone. The book implies that the devil is in us, and we hear the footsteps of the devil when left to our own devices.

But we aren't alone on an island. We have each other and most importantly, we have those who brought us here. Unlike the story, we weren't left here by accident. Our ancestors and friends paved a way for us in ways small and large.

Which brings me to this All Saints and All Souls day prayer that I've been saying for the past few years. It's obviously a slight reworking of Hebrews 12 and the prayer attributed to Saint Francis. But it merges them into a journey of hope.

We aren't adrift on an island, cast away to fend for ourselves. We have footprints in the sand that we can follow. And we can lay a path for those who come after us. So yes, like the beast in Lord of the Flies lurking in the shadows of our darkest night, we may find ourselves crawling in fear. At first. For now.

And then we can awake to a dawn, strengthened by the sunlight, supported by those clouds of relationships new and old, walking on the paths that were paved to bring us to this place of beauty. We may not be on this earth for very long, but we are not alone. That sound we hear is not the Lord of the Flies buzzing out of death. It's the prayer of hope that willed us into being. We exist because the love of others brought us here and we too can bring life to those who follow.