My heart is heavy today like the dense, grey clouds that seem to be pressing in on me, my eyes misty like the persistent drizzle falling from the sky, proof that even the heavens are crying. These are hard days. Especially for those of us who dream. Of the beloved community that Martin Luther King Jr. spoke of, a vibrant, multiracial nation where poverty, racism and violence are defeated. And yet, today that dream seems farther away than ever. As I listen to community leaders, many of whom are women and people of color, we are weary. Social media is a dangerous place. Many are opting out to preserve their mental health. And then there’s the onslaught of media. We must be vigilant to guard the amount of news we ingest, lest we lose heart. With the constant barrage of tensions around immigration, borders, bans, race, #metoo, misogyny, gun violence, power mongers, and fundamentalists that seem to be against all that is good and holy, is it any wonder that I am struggling to fight back the tears.
But perhaps I should stop fighting. A good friend, Rachael Clinton, practitioner and author at The Allender Center, reminded me in her beautiful post that lament is part of hope. We as embodied creatures feel the dissonance and the fragmentation of our communities viscerally; and we need practices in which we can move through grief. It may seem paradoxical for those of us who are warriors and social justice fighters to surrender to the sorrow and let the tears overflow from our eyes, but grief enlarges us like a woman in childbirth.
In Rachael's words, "Yesterday evening I drove to the spa (in my flannel pajamas and a puffy coat nonetheless because they were open until midnight and I was trying to be efficient) so I could pray and meditate, wrapped in heat, sweating out the toxic. I wanted to hear from God. I wanted to find courage and hope and strength. I've developed many a sermon at the spa, so it was not an unrealistic expectation.
But as I sat there, surrounded by women of many different ethnicities and ages, tending to their bodies, all I could do was weep. I felt that groaning of the Spirit who intercedes with language too deep for words when we do not know how to pray (Romans 8), like a woman in labor, birthing new life. The lament was holy, powerful, and paradoxically brought me to the rest and comfort I was actually seeking.
It's always humbling to be ushered into an embodied experience of something you talk about all the time...that lament is a part of hope."
And so today, though I believe more than ever in God’s Dream, I am going to surrender to the tremendous sorrow I feel in my own body for all the bodies. Black bodies. Brown bodies. Women’s bodies. Assaulted bodies. Hungry bodies. Dehumanized bodies. Denigrated bodies. We are all part of the human race, inextricably linked together as children of God, meant to live in harmony as one body.
If one part of the body suffers, all the other parts suffer with it. And if one part of our body is honored, all the other parts share in its honor. [I Corinthians 12:26]
by Jessica Ketola
But perhaps I should stop fighting. A good friend, Rachael Clinton, practitioner and author at The Allender Center, reminded me in her beautiful post that lament is part of hope. We as embodied creatures feel the dissonance and the fragmentation of our communities viscerally; and we need practices in which we can move through grief. It may seem paradoxical for those of us who are warriors and social justice fighters to surrender to the sorrow and let the tears overflow from our eyes, but grief enlarges us like a woman in childbirth.
In Rachael's words, "Yesterday evening I drove to the spa (in my flannel pajamas and a puffy coat nonetheless because they were open until midnight and I was trying to be efficient) so I could pray and meditate, wrapped in heat, sweating out the toxic. I wanted to hear from God. I wanted to find courage and hope and strength. I've developed many a sermon at the spa, so it was not an unrealistic expectation.
But as I sat there, surrounded by women of many different ethnicities and ages, tending to their bodies, all I could do was weep. I felt that groaning of the Spirit who intercedes with language too deep for words when we do not know how to pray (Romans 8), like a woman in labor, birthing new life. The lament was holy, powerful, and paradoxically brought me to the rest and comfort I was actually seeking.
It's always humbling to be ushered into an embodied experience of something you talk about all the time...that lament is a part of hope."
And so today, though I believe more than ever in God’s Dream, I am going to surrender to the tremendous sorrow I feel in my own body for all the bodies. Black bodies. Brown bodies. Women’s bodies. Assaulted bodies. Hungry bodies. Dehumanized bodies. Denigrated bodies. We are all part of the human race, inextricably linked together as children of God, meant to live in harmony as one body.
If one part of the body suffers, all the other parts suffer with it. And if one part of our body is honored, all the other parts share in its honor. [I Corinthians 12:26]
by Jessica Ketola
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