​“Courage is what it takes to stand up and speak; courage is also what it takes to sit down and listen.” -Winston Churchill

Nine fifth grade boys in Clark, New Jersey stood up and spoke. They’ve been playing on the same CYO basketball team with two girls, who were recently told that diocesan rules don’t allow boys and girls to play on the same team. Given the choice between forfeiting their season and playing without the girls, the boys stood up and spoke, saying that they would rather not play than play without their teammates.

Faced with this courageous stand, the archbishop, Cardinal Joseph W. Tobin, did an equally courageous thing – he sat down and listened. The girls are playing, two cancelled games were rescheduled, and the team is in the playoffs. The boys set aside their privilege to stand on the margins against an injustice. In doing so, they caused someone with immense power to use his privilege to correct that injustice. Both are acts of courage.

It’s not always our inclination to sit down and listen. It’s never easy to admit we’re wrong. It’s uncomfortable to acknowledge our place in causing or sustaining an injustice. When we stand up and speak we might feel a sense of purpose and determination. When we sit down and listen we expose ourselves to having our sense of purpose called into question. Both require us to, as least to some degree, set ourselves aside. Both are acts of courage.

Lent is a time when we’re called to die to self. That means setting aside our privilege and power. It means calling into question all that we know. It can mean standing up and speaking, and it can mean sitting down and listening. Dying to self is how we experience the fullness of life, as we live into a deeper relationship with Christ.

Peace for the journey,
​Pastor Steve 

​“How long will you forget me, Lord? Forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long will I be left to my own wits, agony filling my heart? Daily?” Psalm 13:1-2a

We awaken this morning to reports of even more horrible violence in our nation, with the shooting deaths of five Dallas police officers, and wounding others, at an otherwise peaceful protest against the shooting of African American men by police in Louisiana and Minnesota. The level of violence in all of these events is both shocking and overwhelming, and we, like the Psalmist, wonder how long we will be left to face these tragedies.

Our prayers go up for the victims in all of these events, their families, and their communities. We pray for police officers everywhere who do incredibly difficult and dangerous work every day. We also pray for those who don’t feel safe when confronted by police. We pray for an end to the violence that feels all too common. We pray for peace.

I wonder, however, when I hear the Psalmist’s cry, if perhaps God isn’t responding with the same question – “how long?” How long will you allow yourselves to be consumed by fear? How long will you allow your anxiety to guide your actions? How long will you hide the light of Christ that is the hope of the world? How long will you stand by paralyzed while race divides you, fueling hatred and violence?

We must not allow fear to consume us. We must let God’s light shine through the mist of anxiety. We must be diligent in our work to confront and end racism, and support efforts to reconcile the police and those they protect. Instead of waiting for God, we must realize that God has been waiting for us.

​That Psalm that begins with the cry of “how long?” quickly turns a few verses later to hope: “But I have trusted in your faithful love. My heart will rejoice in your salvation. Yes, I will sing to the Lord because he has been good to me.” (Psalm 13:5-6) We must not be consumed by despair, but instead live in the sure and certain faith that God is, and will be, our salvation.