The Journey for Justice: How Lament Powers Repair
We are a world in tremendous pain, and as we convulse with it in our inner being, Jesus is standing at the door knocking. His spirit is knocking urgently at the door of the church, his Body. He's here, looking for the sick and those who welcome resurrection. We are each individually and through our local expressions of church now making decisions to answer that knock, or not.
Pursuing God's ways of dealing with pain through lament are the strong foundation from which we can engage productively and perseveringly in the work of justice and healing. Unless we figure out what to do with pain in an ongoing way, we won't last in the cross-bearing partnership Jesus is calling us into.
Unless we figure out what to do with pain in an ongoing way, we won't last in the cross-bearing partnership Jesus is calling us into.
In this 3-part series I will share what I’m learning about running a marathon against injustice, and the interrelated centrality of pain, lament and repair. This first reflection attempts to bring some texture to the pain I am seeing in others and in myself.
We Are in Pain
We are in pain. I bear witness to it here, in my limited way, and pour out my anguished cry out before God now and in the presence of those who might have an ear to hear.
Selah.
There is a pain that no human can really hold consciously in its fullness: the depth of the suffering of even one person who faces chronic systemic dehumanization from white supremacy culture and systems. Only God can fully bear the parental soul pain of having "the talk", the bone-deep exhaustion of the black tax, the mental trauma of being continuously gaslit when you've tried to name the systemic pattern throughout your life, and for generations.
This is the pain of fighting to honor your imago dei when your experience at school, at the doctor's office, with the loan officer, or with the police, screams otherwise. And now, in this unexpected moment opened up by the straw-break of one horrifying video, there is the jolting pain of seeing the world you've been living in suddenly perceived by those on the outside.
And as this other world outside your door seems to be waking, as white strangers kneel along a funeral route honoring George Floyd, Breonna Taylor and Ahmaud Arbery, as targeting systemic injustice becomes a thing, there is the pain of daring to hope that this will lead to something. And another kind of suffering manifests: the pain of figuring out a new way to be and to lead, in the face of eager white folks wanting to make it all better but not ready to face the cost to them of what repair might entail.
Selah.
There is another kind of pain: the pain of having your understanding of the world blown up into cinders. The pain of deconstructing a comforting world that has rested on the myth of meritocracy, on the myth of American exceptionalism, and the misguided understanding that there are good and bad people in the world and all rests on individual choices, untethered from systems and their behavior. The pain of betrayal of where you put your trust (your parents, your schooling, your history), and worse: the pain of sensing some level of responsibility now that you know something is deeply wrong.
And when, finally, you come to terms with this new world, and decide to step forth into the struggle against systemic injustice, there is the pain of not knowing what to do, of making mistakes, of having your good intentions mean very little in the face of the impact of your actual choices. Here too is the pain of not knowing where to take your pain, because the world that has been oppressed does not have room for it.
Selah.
And there's the kind of pain I know best: the pain of being part of a group dehumanized by white supremacy while at the same time cooperating with white supremacy in order to survive it.
This is a diverse nexus with many kinds of pain and expressions. The pain of white-presenting Latinos who've gone along with being "white" and have let go of their roots. The pain of non-white-presenting Latinos who've gone along with being tokens. The pain of black-presenting Latinos marginalized within their own community because of colorism and anti-blackness in it. The pain of seeing other people of color (POC) weaponized against our efforts for justice. The pain of seeing POC standing on the sidelines of those efforts, like when recent immigrants are quick to separate ourselves from historically disenfranchised groups here and distance ourselves from their cause.
I well remember my first cries at school in Boston of "I'm Colombian! I'm not Puerto Rican!" when my 8-year-old mind subconsciously tuned into that demonic wavelength broadcasting that Puerto Ricans were less than, as I witnessed my white teachers routinely chastising them and expecting little from them. So much pain that the disease of white supremacy has caused the non-white immigrant communities as it has dehumanized and divided. And as if that was not hard enough, there's the pain of coming to terms with the fact that we were also carriers, that the infection of racial/ethnic hierarchy was spread by us too.
Selah.
There is great pain amongst POC when we've left each other behind. The pain is not just between white and black, it's amongst us all.
The pain of indigenous people: decimated, blamed for their community's uphill battles—and mostly forgotten by other POC and whites alike as we fight for resources on their ancestral lands. There is the pain of Southeast Asian immigrant communities left behind, invisibly falling short of the ridiculous "model minority myth," their youth in battle with other kids of color in the fight for street cred, looking for respect where it can be found. There is much pain in the realization that we are often just fighting each other for crumbs in the heirarchy of the white supremacy table.
Selah.
What can be done with all this pain—these "tips" and the icebergs that they represent? So many of us have trained ourselves to not look at such horrors, to ignore them, to overcome by focusing on what we think we can do and control. But regardless of whether any of these different streams resonate with you or not, whatever your story is with injustice, I believe we MUST look at the pain and suffering, that the Spirit beseeches us to stand in its presence and see the extent of the desolation, the valley of dry bones before us corporately.
I believe we MUST look at the pain and suffering, that the Spirit beseeches us to stand its presence and see the extent of the desolation, the valley of dry bones before us corporately.
Only by walking with God's spirit amongst these bones can God begin to transform us into a people who can be cross-bearers in Jesus, into a Body who can prophesy over dry bones, that they—that we—might all come alive and live.
While Ezekiel prophesied with words, I believe we must prophesy with action. Today’s dry bones need the flesh of repair-- actions that have the chance to rehumanize what has been dehumanized, to bring to thriving what has been chronically attacked by the systems we live in. I am convinced that biblical lament is an essential fuel for our prophetic action, what will give us the courage to do what needs to be done. Part II will speak to why that is.
Liza Cagua-Koo
Assistant Director
Liza Cagua-Koo pursues racial justice & healing at home in a Latino-Asian family, at Emmanuel Gospel Center with a multiethnic team of urban ministry practitioners, and in life with her BFFs and church community in Dorchester, MA. She is on the long journey of decolonizing her mind and longs for the day when the church is best known for being an agent of justice in our racialized society. Or the day Jesus comes back and delivers us all. She'll take either.
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EGC is issuing a series of 1st person reflections in response to the killing of Mr. George Floyd, in the hope that each unique voice might be heard, that we might each speak to the part of the Body that we are nearest to, and that together as a team we might disrupt the sin-cancer of white supremacy and our beloved church’s addiction to simple answers.
