#Black Lives Matter
Unitarian Coastal Fellowship
February 21, 2016
© Rev. Sally B. White
Black Lives Matter. #Black Lives Matter is a movement, asocial media campaign, a flashpoint and a divisive issue in American society and in Unitarian Universalist congregations. #Black Lives Matter is a plea for justice. Delegates to the Unitarian Universalist Association General Assembly last summer adopted an Action of Immediate Witness calling on congregations and individuals to support the Black Lives Matter movement. What does, what can #Black Lives Matter mean to us, as individuals, as citizens of Eastern North Carolina, and as Unitarian Universalists?
Reading:
Words of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr’s from “Letter from a Birmingham Jail, April 16, 1963”: [read by Brad Rich]
I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen’s Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: “I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action”; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a “more convenient season.” Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection. [
Message:
When my daughter graduated from the Rhode Island School of Design last May, she, like other graduating artists, added decorations to her cap, her gown, and her shoes. There were pink jewels on her shoes, a golden phoenix on her mortarboard, and, attached to the back of her robe, a square of black cloth with yellow letters that said, over and over again, #blacklivesmatter.
There are stories behind the jewels on the shoes and the phoenix on the mortarboard. Personal stories from my daughter’s life. And there are hundreds of stories behind #blacklivesmatter. Stories of millions of lives in America today, stories with roots that go back to Martin Luther King and Zora Neale Hurston and Frederick Douglass and beyond. Stories my daughter has been telling through her art for years – commentary on race in America, provocative and thought-provoking and heart-stopping and heartbreaking. Stories I, as a white woman, a woman of privilege and safety, can and do live without seeing, knowing, understanding. Stories she, as a lesbian woman of color, holds up through her art, as others hold them up through their activism. Because of her, sometimes I can see, know, understand. Stories of pain, fear, injustice. Stories of anger.
The pain and fear and injustice, when I can see and know and understand, make me want to cry, and to cry out.
[sing…] “What have we done? What have we done?”
But the stories of anger make me uncomfortable, uneasy – make me fearful. A part of me held my breath as my daughter walked across the stage, wearing such a strong statement, such a political statement. Wasn’t there a better time, a better place, a “more convenient season”?
That’s a well-meaning white moderate talking. My daughter knew better. Knows better.
Last month, an email came to me from Standing on the Side of Love, a UUA-founded campaign that celebrates and organizes ways in which communities respond to injustice, exclusion, oppression or violence with love. I read there a reflection by ArifMamdani of St. Paul, Minnesota, who stood with Black Lives Matter activists in November – and who articulated his own unease – and helped me to acknowledge mine. He and his two daughters participated in an action that blocked a light rail linein St. Paul, and brought commuter train traffic to a halt. He wrote,
I felt uncomfortable when we confronted the police officers blocking us from walking up from the light rail station into [the] airport. I felt uncomfortable when we took over the intersection across the light rail lines, when it became clear that we were going to occupy that intersection, and prevent trains from running. I felt uncomfortable, uncertain, and uneasy because what we were doing was very clearly confronting authority, and my tendency is to not confront authority. Confronting state power is sometimes scary for me.
Those feelings of discomfort and tension in confrontation were all telling me at a visceral level that what we were doing was wrong, and dangerous, and that I needed to stop.
But I didn’t stop.I stayed in there, and stood with Black Lives Matter and the hundreds of other people who were there with us—it is always easier to stand with when you are not standing alone. [
And then ArifMamdani quoted Martin Luther King, the words that Brad read. He realized – and his honesty permitted me to realize – that the discomfort and tension and reluctance to stand up, to speak out, to be vocal and visible; the desire to wait for a more convenient time – these reflect my own privilege. Because I am an educated white woman, living in Carteret County, I do not live in constant fear for my safety, for my freedom, for my life. I can choose to speak out, to act out, about injustice, exclusion, oppression, or violence – or I can choose to remain silent, invisible, obedient and well-behaved. I can choose to speak out, to act out, in solidarity with others whose lives I can understand if I make the effort, but whose lives of discrimination, unequal opportunity, unfairness, and struggle I can never truly know – or I can choose to be silent, invisible, absent, “busy.”
[sing…] “What will I do? What will I do?”
#Black Lives Matter has been called “a new civil rights movement” [ It began with a Facebook post in July 2013. Alicia Garza is a black woman, a community organizer, who lived in Oakland California. She was in a bar with her husband and two friends when she learned – through Facebook –that George Zimmerman had been acquitted of murder in the shooting death of Trayvon Martin – a 14-year old who reminded her poignantly of her younger brother. When news of the verdict came, Garza said, “Everything went quiet, everything and everyone. And then people started to leave en masse. The one thing I remember from that evening, other than crying myself to sleep that night, was the way in which as a black person, I felt incredibly vulnerable, incredibly exposed and incredibly enraged. Seeing these black people leaving the bar, and it was like we couldn’t look at each other. We were carrying this burden around with us every day: of racism and white supremacy. It was a verdict that said: black people are not safe in America.”
She logged on to Facebook, and wrote a post that she called “essentially a love note to black people.” She ended the post with the words, “Black people. I love you. I love us. Our lives matter.” [[
Alicia Garza’s friend PatrisseCullors, also a community organizer, read the post. Moved by Alicia’s words, Patrisse re-posted them. In the world of social media, if you tag or label a message with a word or phrase preceded by the number sign (or hash), you can create a stream or a collection or a conversation of posts related to that topic. Patrisse tagged Alicia’s note with the hashtag #blacklivesmatter, and the conversation began. Within days, people were sharing their stories of why black lives matter – and their experiences with feeling as though they – or others they knew or knew of – had been or were being treated as though they did not matter.
#Black Lives Matter is a decentralized movement, connected and woven together by social media, by individuals across the country and around the world who may never have met, may never meet. They are eyes and ears and voices that tell the stories of what is happening right here, right now. Reports are immediate. Responses can be immediate. No more waiting for the morning paper, or the evening news. And, since what is happening in Baltimore is different from what is happening in Chicago, or Oakland, or Ferguson, or Raleigh, or Morehead City, there will be many stories, many story lines, many responses which are art, and writing, and marches and demonstrations, and days of action, and teach-ins and panel discussions. From the outside, it can look chaotic, unfocused, even leaderless – but the founders (Alicia Garza, PatrisseCullors, and Opal Tometi, who name themselves queer women of color,) call this a “leaderfull” movement, drawing on the wisdom and talents and experience of many people, and broadening the idea of who can be a leader from the powerful male (think Martin Luther King, Jr.) to people of many ages, genders, and sexual orientations, saying “we demonstrate through this model that the movement is bigger than any one person. And there is room for the talents, expertise, and work ethic of anyone who is committed to freedom.” [
#Black Lives Matter is a polarizing movement. Say “Black Lives Matter,” and you will almost certainly hear someone respond “All Lives Matter.” That someone may even be you. A partial response to “All Lives Matter,” from the #Black Lives Matter website, includes these ideas;
“#BlackLivesMatter doesn’t mean your life isn’t important–it means that Black lives, which are seen as without value within White supremacy, are important to your liberation. Given the disproportionate impact state violence has on Black lives, we understand that when Black people in this country get free, the benefits will be wide reaching and transformative for society as a whole. … We’re not saying Black lives are more important than other lives, or that other lives are not criminalized and oppressed in various ways. We remain in active solidarity with all oppressed people who are fighting for their liberation and we know that our destinies are intertwined.” [
A partial response to “all lives matter,” from the editorial board of The New York Times, (September 4, 2015) includes these ideas,
“The ‘Black Lives Matter’ movement focuses on the fact that black citizens have long been far more likely than whites to die at the hands of the police, and is of a piece with this history. Demonstrators who chant the phrase are making the same declaration that voting rights and civil rights activists made a half-century ago. They are not asserting that black lives are more important than white lives. They are underlining an indisputable fact – that the lives of black citizens in this country have historically not mattered, and have been discounted and devalued. People who are unacquainted with this history are understandably uncomfortable with the language of the movement.” [
A partial response to “Black Lives Matter” is the fact that several Unitarian Universalist congregations that have erected signs or banners that declare “Black Lives Matter,” have reported that the banners were vandalized, often by the removal of the word “black.” To me, that act of vandalism is a loud and clear statement of the very truth that underlies the movement. Think about it.
In June, 2015, delegates at the Unitarian Universalist General Assembly adopted a statement calling on member congregations and individual Unitarian Universalists to support the Black Lives matter movement. The resolution ultimately passed with near unanimity, but debate over the resolution was contentious, painful, and divisive. Months later, the UUA Board of Trustees posted a statement to their Facebook page that said, “The Board regrets that the process in place, the limited time, and the racism we’re still working to root out enflamed debate and brought out the worst in many of us.People were hurt. Lines were drawn in the sand. Old wounds were opened. We know this work is full of heartbreak. And we must find the will and the way to do a better job.”
[sing…] “What have we done? What have we done?”
In Raleigh last Saturday, at the NAACP’s HKonJ march, I heard a young black speaker begin his remarks with three heart-stopping, heart-breaking sentences. “There is a war on black people in America. We have one simple request. We want to live.”
[sing…] What will we do? What will we do?”
This Unitarian Coastal Fellowship is a Welcoming Congregation, an intentionally diverse community welcoming of, and enriched by, people of varying cultures, economic and ethnic backgrounds; by people of varying sexual orientations, gender identities, and family compositions; by people of all races, ages and beliefs. What have we done? What will we do?
The UUA resolution urges us to learn the truth about race in America. To work for justice in law enforcement and the prison system. To collaborate with local and national organizations fighting for racial justice. To understand that the very privilege that can insulate us from injustice can also lend to our voices, our actions, our advocacy additional weight, and power, and influence on the side of justice and love. To stand together with all oppressed people who are fighting for their liberation and to know that our destinies are intertwined. To stand together, even when it hurts. Even because it hurts. And to know, for ourselves and for those who stand with us, for those with whom we stand, that it is always easier to stand with when you are not standing alone.
Take a moment, in silence, to reflect on all you have heard this morning, spoken and unspoken.
The bell will lead us into silence, and music will lead us out.
Bell
Silence