rage

I went to church this past Sunday. That’s not exactly breaking news – I know lots of other people did, too. The thing is, except for a few memorial services, I haven’t been to church in a long time. I guess Monica and Ross would say we were taking a break and like many breaks, it’s a long story that involves a toxic man or two – the kind of men who feel threatened by women who don’t agree with them. Sound familiar? Anyway, I’ve had enough of that dung to last a lifetime, and I surely don’t need it at church.

But nothing like watching an unarmed American citizen be shot in the head (three times) by a masked ICE agent to drive me to seek some divine intervention. Honestly, I couldn’t think of anything else to do – I was desperate to find some peace. And so, my dear wife and I bundled up on a brisk January morning and made the familiar drive to our former church.

And we were greeted by a tsunami of smiles and hugs – big fat hugs – long ones that you feel in your spine. We were almost a bit embarrassed, but good Lord, it felt so good to held by kind folks who were feeling the same way we were after the horrible events of last week – last month, last year. I was glad I had come even before I sat down.

The priest began the service by asking for a moment of prayer for Renee Good and I swear I could feel the weight of those prayers pressing on my shoulders. I’ll be honest – I’ve had a really hard time praying for a really long time. It’s hard to pray when your heart feels rage. I hate that feeling and it was so lovely to have it extinguished for a few hours.

I’m a lifelong Episcopalian and the liturgy of the Book of Common Prayer (BCP) has always comforted me. No matter how long I’ve been away, those words remain the same. They are the words I spoke as a child in a world that was so different than the one we’re living in now. Don’t get me wrong – even as a kid, I knew that world wasn’t perfect, but it seemed like Walter Cronkite was telling the truth and that everybody agreed that masked men shooting unarmed folks were the bad guys.

To be fair, I’ve been a bit of a prodigal daughter when it comes to the church – drifting in and out only to return in times of grave distress. That was the case in November of 2016 following Hillary Clinton’s soul crushing loss to Trump. I was devastated and didn’t know what else to do – besides rage. Are you picking up on a pattern here? I will never forget that Sunday – it was a lifeline to the hope of better days. That was 10 years ago and here we are and I’m getting some strong Job vibes as the locusts continue to swarm over Minneapolis.

And yet, once again on Sunday, sitting with a group of diverse folks who share a lot of the same hopes and fears as I do, made me feel better. A guiding mantra of my life has long been “safety in numbers” and maybe that’s what led me to church. And this prayer in the BCP is a more eloquent version of that sentiment:

A Prayer of St. Chrysostom

Almighty God, you have given us grace at this time with one accord to make our common supplication to you; and you have promised through your well-beloved Son that when two or three are gathered together in his Name you will be in the midst of them: Fulfill now, Lord, our desires and petitions as may be best for us; granting us in this world knowledge of your truth, and in the age to come life everlasting. Amen.

I’m certainly not here to proselytize. Religion is not everyone’s lane, and my own faith has wobbled plenty over the years, but one thing that has not waivered is my belief in community – two or three or a thousand. And that is what is saving me these days. The brave citizens of Minneapolis-Saint Paul have been preaching the gospel of community in all manner of ways since the horror of last week. My friend Mitch sent me a beautiful essay by Maribeth Romso, a writer who lives there. Here’s the link to the entire piece, but I’m sharing the last few paragraphs that read like a prayer to me.

Minnesotans know that grief can hollow a place out if it’s not met with care. But we also know the assignment.

Show up.
Feed people.
Listen.
Protect one another.
Name the harm.
Love anyway.

Right now, life in Minneapolis feels like being in the belly of a whale: dark, disorienting and heavy with sorrow. We have been here before, but our broken hearts are not alone.

Two or three… Keep gathering, friends. You know the assignment.

Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, Truth Teller.

I haven’t felt this gutted since the late hours of November 8, 2016. I watched every minute of the Senate Judiciary Committee hearing yesterday. I had to see it for myself and I will never forget some of the images.

I started crying as soon as I saw Dr. Christine Blasey Ford sit down at the hearing table. She looked completely and justifiably terrified. I swear I didn’t breathe for the first few minutes of her opening statement. The raw gravity of the moment was palpable. I wanted to puke. I don’t know how she didn’t.

Dr. Ford was genuine and refreshingly unrehearsed and the rarest of all things – non-political. She came not to destroy Judge Brett Kavanaugh, but to tell her story – to be heard – because she felt it was her civic duty. And tell her story she did. It was excruciating to hear her recount the laughter she heard as Kavanaugh held her down and put his hand over her mouth.

There’s not a woman I know who hasn’t had that hand over her mouth – sure, maybe some of them not literally, but figuratively time after time after time. Me, too. Me, too. Me, too.

I won’t even address the absurdity of those questioning Dr. Ford’s veracity except to say that NO ONE would blow up their own precious life to share such a shattering story if it were not true. The End.

When she finished her testimony, I actually stood up (alone) in front of my TV and applauded through my tears. This unassuming professor and mother of two had told her truth with poise and grace and staggering courage. And for a couple of hours – sweet, sweet hours – I truly thought that it would matter – that she would be heard. What a glorious feeling that was. Today, it feels like a gauzy memory from long ago.

Angry. White. Male. Privilege.

Kavanaugh was up next and he took a page from the oldest playbook of them all. See: Adam in Genesis. The man as victim. He ranted and screamed and attacked those who would dare question his path to his promised prize. He was loud and rude and tried to bully the Democratic women on the committee. If a woman candidate – for dog catcher – had shown such temperament, she would have been dismissed and destroyed. But guess what? Kavanaugh’s foaming rage worked like a charm and this afternoon, the Judiciary Committee will vote and advance his nomination to the floor.

I feel that heavy hand on my mouth this morning – trying to suppress my absolute rage. I’m just too old for this shit. I am over it. OVER. IT.

One of the most heartbreaking parts of yesterday was reading so many painful stories of sexual assault posted on social media – some by friends that I was not aware of – others by strangers. All of them gutting. I was so moved that those people felt empowered by Dr. Ford to share their stories – some for the very first time. I thought about them last night when I went to bed with the sense of dread over Kavanaugh’s inevitable approval.

The same old story.

I’m lucky. I don’t have such a story to share. I have never been sexually assaulted but I have been professionally assaulted by some angry white men who felt threatened by my power. Those men took a job I loved away from me because one man yelled louder than me and played the victim card. It worked for him in spades and I wasn’t even given the opportunity to speak my truth. I was never heard, and I can still feel that hand on my mouth.

I know how difficult it has been to put my experience in a place where it doesn’t interfere with my everyday life and I cannot fathom how you do that when the assault is physical and violent and sexual. It must be a never-ending nightmare. I thought about you all when I couldn’t sleep last night. I worry about you today.

So, what’s the answer? We vote? Yep. Done that. We march? Yep. Done that. Yell louder? Well, that might just be a start. I follow author and activist Glennon Doyle on social media and she has, as always, been a righteous prophet for many of us. This morning she tweeted:

If a woman tells her story and no one in her government hears her – does her government exist at all? No. Women have no government, so we will become ungovernable. Way to radicalize women, @GOP. We will now become strategically and relentlessly disobedient.

I’m ready and not waiting.

A Reckoning is coming. You’ve been warned.

Bookends

Two writers. One blog.

Prayers of the people

Supreme rage