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9.25.16 Defying Hate
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“Defying Hate”
I said last week that I thought maybe our mission is, quite simply, to put more love
into the world. Simple, yes, but not easy. The flip side of putting more love in the
world is removing hate from the world—or preventing it in the first place. That sounds
nice—choosing love instead of hate—fighting hate with love—but what does it mean in
real-life terms?
Christians, especially Christian social justice activists, sometimes talk about “being
God’s hands in the world.” While that language may not resonate for all of us, perhaps
we could make an easy substitution. What would it look like if we were Love’s hands in
the world?
Some of us have seen some examples of this in the last week as we watched two
documentaries about different parts of our American history. First, on Tuesday
evening, several of us attended the viewing of the second episode of the “Eyes on the
Prize” documentary series about the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s, which is
being shown at the Peterborough Community Theatre this month and next, and which
this congregation is co-sponsoring. This week’s episode was about the integration of
schools, and as I watched, I saw Love’s hands at work in the brave students who were
the first to integrate despite being in physical danger. I saw Love’s hands at work in
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the lawyers and other adults supporting and encouraging those students. I saw Love’s
hands at work in the white students who spoke positively of integration despite the
overwhelming public sentiment against it among Southern white people.
That same night, PBS aired “Defying the Nazis: The Sharps’ War”, a documentary by
Ken Burns and Artemis Joukowsky about Unitarian minister Waitstill Sharp and his wife
Martha, who went to Europe in 1939 and 1940 to rescue people from the rising threat
of Nazi Germany. They were called upon to serve—and as those of you who have also
seen the documentary may recall, seventeen ministers said no before the Sharps said
yes. If you haven’t seen it yet, you can view it through the PBS website through
October 6th, or purchase it on DVD.
Today’s sermon is part of a “preach-in” on the topic of Defying Hate, at the request of
the Unitarian Universalist Service Committee, the modern-day descendent of the
Unitarian Service Committee created during World War II. The UUSC asked ministers if
we would preach on defying hate today, the Sunday after the release of the
documentary, and I was one of many who agreed. I knew then, a month or more ago,
that this topic is one that has relevance in our nation today, but could not have known
to what degree that would feel true in this particular week, with all that is happening
in the world around us.
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That documentary, about a little-known episode in our faith’s history, left me with
these questions:
• What am I (or are we, as Unitarian Universalists) called to defy today, in our own
precarious moment in history?
• Will I be like one of the seventeen who said no when the call comes, or the one who
says yes?
• What sacrifices am I willing to make?
• What risks am I willing to take?
We are called to defy hate, yes. But what does that mean? How is hate manifesting in
our world today, and how can we defy it?
We are already doing some of this work. As Joel illustrated in his words to accompany
the lighting of our Social Justice candle this morning, we have defied hate right here in
Peterborough both with the installation of our Black Lives Matter banner after it was
stolen, and with our letters to the editor and other articles in the Ledger-Transcript, in
which members of this church have repeatedly responded to hateful letters to the
editor with heartfelt and rational responses that strive to put more love in the world.
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Before our Black Lives Matter banner, we were already defying hate with our rainbow
flag and our Welcoming Congregation designation, showing that we are a safe and
affirming place for LGBTQ+ people.
There is still so much hate, though. It only takes a quick review of the comment
section on nearly any online news site to see it. We see hate directed at Black Lives
Matter protestors, or shown openly against people of color as a group. Hate in the
form of Confederate flags, KKK leaflets and hoods, and workplace restrictions against
traditional African American hairstyles.
We see hate directed at immigrants, especially those who come from places like Syria,
where those who fear Islam see the threat of terrorism lurking in every refugee’s eyes.
Hate in the form of signs saying “protect our borders” or graffiti on mosques and
businesses. Hate in the form of anti-Muslim language that echoes past hatreds against
Blacks, Jews, and others: Muslims not welcome here is the new version of Whites
Only.
In a broader sense, we see hate in political rhetoric that creates a dichotomy in which
there is an “us” and a “them” and which always demonizes “them,” whether talking
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about another political party, a race, a religion, a nationality. This kind of hate is fuels
and is fueled by fear—fear of the other, fear of what is different, and also fear of the
loss of privilege and power if too many of “them” get to live here, or vote, or hold
office.
Many of us feel called to work in a specific realm of social justice; we are called to
work on LGBTQ+ issues, or racial justice, or immigration, or poverty. We resist hate in
that realm, knowing we cannot do it all.
Whatever we feel called to defy—whatever hate we choose to counter with our love—
the next question is, “What are we willing to risk?” When we are asked to be Love’s
hands in the world, will we say yes, or be like the seventeen ministers who said no
before the Sharps were called, because we fear what we could lose?
Are we willing to risk saying something that might be unpopular? To risk having angry
letters to the editor written about us? To risk vandalism or theft of our banner?
What about personal risk? Are we willing to risk friendships with those who do not
agree with us? I faced this very issue this week, as a friend of mine from high school
who is now working in law enforcement challenged me, not for the first time, on my
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support of Black Lives Matter and my assertion that while there are many individual
“good cops” including her, the system itself is inherently racist and that there is in fact
a bias in our justice system that leads to grossly disproportionate arrest, incarceration,
and death of black men. I don’t know yet whether our friendship will survive, but if I
were unwilling to risk losing it, I would have to stop making public statements, or even
semi-public ones on my Facebook page, about these issues.
I thought about this in the wake of watching Defying the Nazis, and I thought, “What
if the Sharps had said no?” The Sharps put the lives of others above their fears—which
had to include the very real fear that they would not make it out of Europe alive.
That’s not a risk everyone can take—for example, as a single parent, I’d probably say
no to anything that meant I had to leave my child for months at a time, no matter how
important. But losing a friendship, when others are losing their lives? That’s a risk I
can take, even if it’s painful.
We don’t have to take measures as drastic as those the Sharps took, or those the Civil
Rights activists of the 1960s took, to defy hate. We can defy hate with our words. We
can defy hate with our dollars, refusing to do business with companies that have
policies or practices that violate our principle. We can defy hate by learning, and then
teaching, about some of the uglier parts of our history.
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When we travel to Washington, D.C., for example, we can visit the United States
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Holocaust Memorial Museum, where the Sharps’ story is one of those told. We can also
visit the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture, which
opened yesterday, and which covers much more than the 1960s Civil Rights
movement. Here’s an excerpt from President Obama’s dedication speech at the
opening:
What we can see of this building ― the towering glass, the artistry of the
metalwork ― is surely a sight to behold. But beyond the majesty of the building,
what makes this occasion so special is the larger story it contains. Below us, this
building reaches down 70 feet, its roots spreading far wider and deeper than any
tree on this Mall. And on its lowest level, after you walk past remnants of a slave
ship, after you reflect on the immortal declaration that “all men are created
equal,” you can see a block of stone. On top of this stone sits a historical marker,
weathered by the ages. That marker reads: “General Andrew Jackson and Henry
Clay spoke from this slave block…during the year 1830.”
I want you to think about this. Consider what this artifact tells us about history,
about how it’s told, and about what can be cast aside. On a stone where day
after day, for years, men and women were torn from their spouse or their child,
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shackled and bound, and bought and sold, and bid like cattle; on a stone worn
down by the tragedy of over a thousand bare feet ― for a long time, the only
thing we considered important, the singular thing we once chose to
commemorate as “history” with a plaque were the unmemorable speeches of two
powerful men.
And that block I think explains why this museum is so necessary. Because that
same object, reframed, put in context, tells us so much more. As Americans, we
rightfully passed on the tales of the giants who built this country; who led armies
into battle and waged seminal debates in the halls of Congress and the corridors
of power. But too often, we ignored or forgot the stories of millions upon millions
of others, who built this nation just as surely, whose humble eloquence, whose
calloused hands, whose steady drive helped to create cities, erect industries,
build the arsenals of democracy.
(pause)
It is my hope that as more of us learn the stories we were not taught in elementary
school, we can understand better how the very mythology of our nation has placed
some people further from the reach of love, made it easier for them to be feared or
even hated, and thus to be treated as less than fully human.
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With these lessons from the past, perhaps we can choose a better future—a future in
which love overcomes hate.
Speaking of the future, it seems impossible to talk about Defying Hate without
considering what that means in today’s political climate. As a church, we cannot
advocate for or against a particular candidate in any political race, but we can speak
about our values and we can vote based on our best understanding of how various
candidates fit those values. I hope you will all do that in November. That alone,
however, is not enough. No matter what the outcome of the election is, hate will not
disappear on the morning after Election Day.
We can resist hate with our votes, yes, but then what will we need to do in the
aftermath of the election? No matter who wins, those who have been promoting
hatred for the other side will still be part of our nation. How will we reconcile the rifts
that have been caused in part by hatred? We may even ask whether we can even
reconcile.
Part of the answer, I believe, is to go back to the idea that our mission is to put more
love into the world. Answering hate with hate is not the answer; it was Rev. Dr. Martin
Luther King Junior who told us, “The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a
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descending spiral, begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy. Instead of diminishing
evil, it multiplies it. Through violence you may murder the liar, but you cannot murder
the lie, nor establish the truth. Through violence you may murder the hater, but you
do not murder hate. In fact, violence merely increases hate. So it goes. Returning
violence for violence multiplies violence, adding deeper darkness to a night already
devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate
cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”
This does not mean we can, for example, eradicate systemic racism through “free hugs
for cops” or the other feel-good stories we see about cops and black people being
friendly. We have to use our love to fuel real work, difficult work, to make real and
lasting change. It will be hard. It will be painful. It will sometimes cost us more than
we were prepared to pay. And yet, it is the only way forward, the only way to put
more love in the world and less hate.
Let us be on the side of love. Let us be Love’s hands in the world.
May it be so.
© 2016 Diana K. McLean