Stumbling Stones of Remembrance

 

I have been reading a very thoughtful book, “Learning from the Germans: Race and the Memory of Evil” by Susan Neiman. Neiman reflects on how Germans have sought to atone for the evil acts of their past and she contrasts that with how the United States has dealt with the racist evil of our own history. It was a fascinating read in light of the arguments about confederate symbols and monuments that are occurring in the United States right now. In Germany, there are no state-sanctioned symbols or monuments honoring the Nazis. This was a conscious decision: why would the perpetrators of one of the most heinous crimes against humanity be remembered and revered in public places?

In fact, in many cities across Europe, there are memorials to the victims of the holocaust, as a way to honor those who were tortured and murdered and to never forget the atrocities. In 1992, artist Gunter Demnig began a project that has become the largest decentralized memorial in the world: the Stoplerstiene, or, the Stumbling Stone project. These stumbling stones are small square metal plaques, placed in the last place a Nazi victim voluntarily lived or worked. The stones list the person’s name, dates of birth, deportation, and death, if known. At the end of 2019, more than 75,000 stones had been laid. And it is not only Jews who are remembered: ALL the victims of Nazi persecution are remembered: people of different ethnicities and nationalities, LGBT persons, people with disabilities, and religious and political resisters.

The stones have not been without controversy: some people argue that there is nothing that honors the memory of a holocaust victim by stepping over their nameplate. But as one of the artist’s assistant’s said, “I can’t think of a better form of remembrance. If you want to read the stone, you must bow before the victim.”

I wonder what we in the United States can learn from this? We are still arguing about the place of Robert E. Lee and confederate monuments and commemorative places. Why do we honor those who sought to break apart the Union because of their belief that it was okay to own another human being? How does this continue to embed racism in our nation’s soul?

What if we had plaques in communities, commemorating those who suffered under slavery? What if we had stumbling stones in places with black and brown skinned people were murdered? What if every community across the Mountain Sky Conference did the same research communities in German are doing:

“Stolpersteine remain a grassroots initiative. Local groups – often residents of a particular street, or schoolchildren working on a project – come together to research the biographies of local victims, and to raise the €120 it costs to install each stone.” (https://www.theguardian.com/cities/2019/feb/18/stumbling-stones-a-different-vision-of-holocaust-remembrance)

Imagine our churches doing this research, discovering a hidden history of racism and oppression and atoning by marking the place where a person of color was wrongfully treated, dehumanized, or murdered. How would it change how we walk down those streets? How would it change how we look at people who don’t look like us? How would it change the world for everyone?

The Baton Has Been Passed...to US

 

I confess, my heart is heavy.

This has been an intense season of loss, both in our conference and in our country, with the passing of our spiritual and moral giants. Three civil rights leaders—Rev. Gil Caldwell, John Lewis, and Ruth Bader Ginsburg—have fallen. These elders poured out their lives in pursuit of justice, right relationship, and equality. And they didn’t stop as they aged or became infirmed. They kept writing and witnessing for a better world.

Their work inspired us, taught us, and motivated us to keep on keeping on. Their life stories showed us that the only thing that makes something impossible is the lack of imagination and will. They showed us how faith is an undergirding force that can carry us through opposition, injustice, and oppression and help us achieve a God-preferred future for humankind.

It is easy, in the midst of grieving such loss, to fall into a hopeless despair—there is a void where once stood inspired leaders. But our faith teaches us that death is not an ending. God is more powerful than death and will break it open so that new life can emerge.

We are the heirs to the wisdom, courage, and commitment of these beloved ones. We are the ones who have been give the baton they once carried. We now possess so many possibilities: will we simply cry our tears and shirk from the responsibilities they have handed to us? Or will we, while eyes still moist, rise up to continue the work they left unfinished? Can we allow ourselves to let the Spirit empower us to carry on the creation of God’s Beloved Community?

And if not us…if not you and me…then who?

Be well. Stay safe. Wear a mask.

With love,

Bishop Karen

 

 

We Are the Somebodies Who Were Once the Nobodies

 

Recently, my thoughts have been with one of the congregations I served in San Francisco, Bethany UMC. There was a memorial for Dan Johnson, one of the members who left a profound mark on the life of the congregation. I have been thinking often of the people in that church and the ministries we shared.

One my favorite stoles was given to me by the women of the church. They had made a quilt for all the men in the congregation who had died of AIDS, and the pattern of the stole was the border of the quilt.  Whenever I wear this stole, I remember the men who died, and also the women who commemorated them, all of whom have passed themselves.

To be a pastor in San Francisco in the early 90’s, at the very epicenter of the AIDS epidemic, was to be in constant crisis and funeral mode. Yet one more positive diagnosis, one more death. It was a heart breaking experience, holding the hands of young men who looked decades older than their years as they lay dying. Often, parents had abandoned their dying sons. Others chose not to tell their parents they were ill, for fear of rejection. The song that often ran through my head during that time was the spiritual:

            Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen, nobody knows my sorrow. 

The men diagnosed in those first couple of decades knew most intimately the anguish found in this song. In those days, contracting HIV made one a social outcast by mainstream culture. Folks did everything they could to hide the signs of the disease. People lost jobs, lost housing, lost their families, if their diagnosis was discovered.

            Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen, nobody knows my sorrow.

As a country, as a community of faith, we were guilty back then of being the nobodies. We were the nobodies who averted our eyes from a disease that was ravaging an entire group of people. We were the nobodies who refused to look deep into the sorrow of those who tested positive. We were the nobodies who failed to offer a compassionate response to the sick. We were the nobodies who neglected to offer care. We were the nobodies who allowed the government to turn its back and ignore a disease that would soon spill into other segments of the population.

            Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen, nobody knows my sorrow

            But as people of faith, we know that through the grace of God nobodies become somebodies. We are called to be somebody who has empathy with another’s experience. We are called to be somebody who seeks relationship with those who are suffering. We are called to be somebody who is moved to action. We are called to be somebody who is not content with the status quo. We are called to be somebody who challenges not just institutional responses to injustice and oppression, but somebody who challenges the individuals around us to reach out, to serve, to make a difference.  We are called to be somebody who is willing to take risks and make sacrifices.  We are called to be somebody who is committed to removing the stigma of discrimination.  We are called to be somebody who is not content until together we have created a just world.

We are the somebodies who were once nobodies. As followers of Jesus, the Man of Sorrows, we will no longer avert our eyes from the troubles, we will no longer ignore the sorrow of any sibling who suffer.