Today’s service will be about how our tendency to be judgmental can negatively impact our lives and the lives of others.

John Green is a son of the South, striving to become the best version of himself in the time allotted. John and his wife Nancy have been attending First Unitarian for over 30 years.

Music will be provided by David House and Neil Bartholomew.

We worship in person in the Meeting House. If you cannot join us, click here to tune in to our YouTube channel.

 

This Body of Mine – Message present by John Green at the First Unitarian Church of Providence, July 21, 2024

From out of nothingness-save the passion of our forebears, we are called into being. As with all mortal souls, we are at best, merely tenants here, just passing through. But, while we are here, this body of ours – serves – as the repository of our consciousness. This body of ours, reflects our familial lineage, as surely as it does, our collective kinship.

And yet, it is this body of ours, that is routinely perceived as being nothing more than the convenient scapegoat upon which to inflict that non-objective and judgmental blindness, of our bigotry; yes, bigotry, whose hateful delusions, pander only to our worst impulses, fomenting a toxic legacy of needless division – and all too often, bloodshed. Be mindful too that this body of ours – does not lie; for it not only reflects how far along in life‘s sojourn we’ve traveled-it also reflects – something – of the toll that’s  being exacted along the way.

My twin sister and I, just happened to have been born at home. We shared a tiny, two storied frame house, with our parents, and seven other siblings. In looking back, I see now – that money – as well as privacy, were always in short supply. Of course, when I was around eight years old, none of this occurred to me. At that time I was mainly concerned, about feeling somewhat ‘lost in the shuffle’ at home. So one day, I asked my mother,  ‘which one of us kids, do you love the most?’

When Mom turned around, I could see she was smiling. ‘I love all my brown babies the same, she said. I was not impressed. ‘Mama’, I asked, ’if you love us all the same – then how do you – tell us apart?’ Still smiling, she paused for a moment. And then, leaning down, she gently cradled my face in her hands, and spoke these words, ‘You – are my beautiful baby with the searching brown eyes.’ I had no idea what she meant. But, I can tell you, in that moment, Mom was no longer the only one who was smiling. I’m pretty sure, Mom had a special moniker for each one of us. And I’m just as sure, each one began with the same six words; ‘You are my beautiful baby with…’

I was raised by devoted and committed parents, in a home, where love – was never in short supply; a nurturing, safe haven, where love, was unconditional, and where my siblings, and I were truly valued, and very much seen – as individuals, individuals of whom much was expected. It wouldn’t be long however before I realized, that my family’s sense of self, was very much at odds with the larger culture’s, deeply entrenched negative assumptions and outright hostility, towards people of color, people like us. And so it began, as it begins for all of us.

You see, it’s as children, that we begin our immersion and indoctrination, into the norms, the nuances, the nooks and crannies – of the cultures we are born into. As children, we begin our lifelong reckoning, with the how – and the why – behind the do’s and don’ts of assimilation. We’ll inevitably discover – that ‘the rules’ don’t apply equally to everyone and – that it’s not by accident. Because we’ve all been raised within the pernicious construct of caste;  a status that is not always earned or just; it is conferred and then passed down, a counterfeit rite of passage that becomes a part of us, clinging like a tawdry family secret we can’t seem to disavow. It’s not just an American problem, it’s a human one. Every form of bigotry is an injustice. But, it’s also a deliberate choice, based largely on something none of us ever has a choice about- namely, the culture we are born into and the body we are born with.

In his Letter From Birmingham Jail, Dr. King pointed out ‘how segregation gives the segregator a false sense of superiority and the segregated a false sense of inferiority.’ I believe a warped sense of entitlement, to be the ‘demon seed’, at the heart of every kind of bigotry. As with any form of discrimination, there are those who are meant to suffer and those who are meant to profit. My Dad believed, ‘that the people who are the first to resort to threats and violence, are usually the ones with the weakest argument’.

Threats and violence are inherent and indispensable, to every form of bigotry that exists, because threats and violence are the primary means of keeping those being specifically targeted-, ‘in their place’, while also presenting a formidable deterrent to any would-be supporter of equal rights. Bigotry is an abuse of power. So, every form of bigotry, confronts us, with an inescapable moral imperative. Consequently, so much depends – on how we choose to respond.

On whatever side of this self-made dilemma we find ourselves, please understand, that our destinies are linked. This means, that all of us are being diminished, – where, and whenever we normalize injustice.

As a six year old, I was, in the eyes of my family, a little boy; my parents’, beloved middle child. All of this would change howerver. Because, I came to find, that in the eyes of the outside world, I was no longer regarded as just a little boy. I was now, a little ‘colored’ boy, a little ‘black’ boy, a nigger. Over time, I’d only grow more aware of the hostility and the dismissiveness, baked into the culture, coming at me from so many directions. At times I’d be overwhelmed by the anxiety I’d now acquired from the awareness of the mortal danger, simply having a ‘colored’ body placed me in.

My growing understanding of caste, specifically in regards to race, led me to feel outed, and yet, invisible in some ways, because of the color of my skin.  I became very self-conscious and so frustrated. At times, my dad would take me aside and remind me, ‘You are going to be labeled. It’s your job to make sure it’s a good one’. I nodded in agreement, But Dad certainly understood, as I now did, that life won’t always be easy, life won’t always be fair.

My Dad‘s Father, was the only grandparent I never got to meet. He was only 53 when he died. I believe he had some unspecified stomach ailment. Dad explained, ‘Back in Selma at the time, there were no black doctors. If any white doctor agreed to treat you, you had a chance if not…’

Dad then lapsed into silence, and I was left to fill in the blanks. What my Dad couldn’t say was, if not, you found yourself abandoned, and simply went on suffering or, as in my grandfather‘s worst case scenario, left to die an untimely and ignominious death, at the hands of doctors who’d taken an oath to do no harm, yet, who also knew they would never have to face any consequences, for refusing to treat my grandfather and possibly saving his life. Dad spoke in measured tones, that also seemed so matter-of-fact. Perhaps unwittingly, he was not only revealing just how painful this all still was, but also, how used he’d gotten – to this kind of terrorism.

It also struck me as something of a miracle, that my Dad never gave in, to the temptation of hating white people. I asked him how, and why he’d been able to do this. ‘You can only meet people one at a time’, was his reply. I took what he’d said to heart. Because this not only spoke volumes about my Dad’s still intact sense of optimism, fairness and compassion, it also mirrored my own ‘impossible dream’ – of being able to actually see others as individuals, and having them reciprocate, now come into sharper focus; as something I might actually accomplish.

This was and remains – the measure of my heart. But with that said, I often found myself becoming sidetracked. Because the signals I was picking up from the larger culture, were unmistakably hostile, and were having a detrimental effect across the full spectrum of my ‘colored life’. Racism, like all forms of bigotry, is an irrational and unwarranted punishment. I was becoming compartmentalized, estranged and alienated- from everybody- including myself. I was coming of age ‘way down South in Dixie’ in the 1960s, struggling against what Dr. King aptly described as – ‘a degenerating sense of nobodiness’. To find my way out, I’d follow Dad‘s example. My challenge now became, as his and Mom’s had been – of just finding a way – to keep hope alive. Until then, I’d spend a lot of time just feeling sad and afraid, angry, and alone.

I was about 10 years old, when I first got interested in art. What I liked best about art is that it provided me some much-needed space; a refuge from the world where I could get in touch with myself; a space – where who I am and what I felt mattered. A space where I am not distracted; a space where I am safe, confident, and feel good about myself. A space where I am unafraid to take part in the discussion. Art-and life- are all about – possibilities. Being an artist, empowers me – like nothing else has, to explore the possibilities.

As a college sophomore, I was set to take my first life drawing class. I was the only Black kid in the class. I had no idea what to expect – or how I’d react. However, when the time came, I gazed at the model and realized, that just looking at her couldn’t take me where I needed to be. Developing an ability – to see was the only way. I of course, had a rudimentary knowledge of anatomy. But I wished to capture and convey a sense of her as an individual. I paid close attention to the size, the shape and proportions of her features; to any gestures that might give me clues about her attitude or emotional state. I now began to see her body, surprisingly in many of the same ways as I viewed the earth itself; I now see her body as this wondrous and unique entity; as something fragile, seamless, and sacred; as something ephemeral and impermanent. When the class was over, the model went around the studio to view the results for herself. When she looked at my work, she smiled. And then, she asked me out, but that’s another story.

I’ve never come across anyone, who found themselves so distracted by the size, the shape, or the color of its petals, that they failed to recognize they were looking – at a flower. It’s an understatement, to say we have some difficulty in being able to see each other like that. After all, human history is largely a chronicle of how we go on allowing ourselves, to be distracted, and  divided, on account of ‘our petals’; petals, such as nationality, who we love, gender, language, and religion, to name just a few. Instead of seeing these things, as simply dialects of all we share in common as human beings, they are used as a rationale to demonize and divide us. Why can’t we just refuse to take the bait?

I can guarantee – that things won’t improve until – we care enough to stop stonewalling each other. We need to somehow, free ourselves from the habitual expedience of merely looking, as opposed to making the concerted effort required, that allows us to see. We need to abandon the wrong headed notion, of there being no distinction between hearing and listening.  Establishing a dialogue in good faith is the only way. It’s never going to be easy. But, if we can do this, we just might be able to see something of ourselves in each other, and thus become less judgmental, less fearful and angry, more patient, accepting, rational and respectful. If we will begin to listen, we can begin to learn. When we learn, we understand, and we empathize. It is a daunting task, but fortunately not an insurmountable one. So long as we remember that our destinies intertwine and that we can only meet people – one at a time.