October 8, 2006 Church of the Covenant Robert J. Campbell, D. Min., D. D. Printer-Friendly Version
River Dance
Psalm 137
Revelation 22:1-5
"I've known rivers, rivers as ancient as the world
and older than the flow of human blood in human veins.
My soul grows deep like the rivers.
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut by the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi
when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans,
and I've seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.
I've known rivers, ancient rivers.
My soul has grown deep like rivers." (1)
The great African American poet Langston Hughes tells his people, once enslaved, that their history is long, stretching from homelands far away. Their history can lift them above the horrible passage into slavery where they would stand in the prison, knee deep in water for days, waiting for the auction block in Bieha, Brazil or Savanna, Georgia, or wherever the slave ship deposited its cargo, not considered human. Hughes tells of a legacy not of enslavement but of connectedness through a spiritual DNA from time before time to the present. (2)
I know something about rivers having grown up on the banks of the Ohio. As a youngster I would spend endless hours watching boats glide around the bend and wonder where they were bound. I remember my grandmother and her African friend telling of the Underground Railroad and how it wound its way to the banks of that river on the journey to freedom. I recall the songs like "Follow the Drinking Gourd." I have a dream of one day going down the Ohio's length. It is part of my DNA. There is a mystery to rivers, ever changing yet ever the same, a connectedness.
People in distress need to be reminded of their connectedness. People who have nothing left need to find hope in their past so that they can live for the future. Like the Hebrew people in captivity in Babylon, were ordered to sing of their faith. But how could they, for they were imprisoned? The poet laments the loss of all they knew, their homes, their traditions, their places of worship. The Psalm makes for beautiful music of faith, "By the waters of Babylon I lay down," yet, my astute colleague pointed out; "You're not just going to let the dashing of babies hang there are you?" What do we do with that?
The Hebrew people were broken, filled with vengeance, as any of us would be. But there is no evidence of violence, no acted out dashing of infants. The Psalm is cathartic and more, it is liturgical, a holy offering of pain in search of justice, placed before an all-seeing God. It is a speech practice that offers the opportunity for brutality to be transformed into an act of faith birthing something positive out of world shattering loss. (3)
We, even in all of our prosperity, know something about world shattering loss, do we not? Yet, how easy is it to dash the heads of those we fear! How familiar the words must sound to those residing in our government's housing at Quantanomo prison, those mothers longing for food in the sub-Sahara, those dying of AIDS in Botswana. How familiar the words must sound to all those who are the objects of fear in this land of "Trade Center" sorrow and political posturing that uses God's Word as ammunition to justify bigotry.
In 2002, a millennium challenge was laid down, $5 billion annually for development aid, but three years later only 1% had been distributed. Washington announced that more than forty-one thousand AIDS' victims in Botswana had received treatments from us. Officials in that country were furious at the over statement, because zero aid had actually come from the United States. $90 million was promised to treat Malaria yet 95% of the money went to consultants. U.S. support for sub-Saharan Africa was to be $3 billion by 2003 of which only 18 cents of our promise was made available for each starving person. When Christians say the Lord's Prayer, we ask that God's kingdom might come and we commit ourselves to help make that happen. Yet, unlike the Hebrews by the River of Babylon, we often settle for catharsis through words forgetting the necessary work of faith.
As Latin America theologian Jon Sobrino put it, "For some reason it is possible for Christians to ignore or even contradict fundamental principles preached and acted upon by Jesus of Nazareth. They reduce to sublime abstraction Christ's truth. Christian liturgy only helps them to move into an opionic trance." (4)
John tells of a river he saw while imprisoned on Patmos. His followers were captives of the world's super power of their time. He too reminded his people that they were part of something larger, something connected by the same DNA to those Hebrews in exile long ago. His words remind us that we too are connected and that current realities are not the definitive Word of God. The faith song is the same from the beginning of time; there is a larger, cosmic, vision, so don't be seduced by the empire.
The whole purpose of the Book of Revelation, written during a time of hopelessness, was to serve as a critique on the way things were, the empty claims of those in power. It points to how life should be. John writes of the collusion of systems, economic, military, and religion, waging war against those who will not bow down. John reminds his churches and Christians of our time that we have only one allegiance.
Brian Blount suggests, "Revelation is about a transformative activism that is willing to sacrifice everything in an effort to make the world over." (5) As people connected by the river of faith to John and all the way back to our ancestors in Babylon, that means we are called to wrestle not against flesh and blood but against principalities and powers, against rulers of darkness and deception in high places. (Ephesians)
But like the Hebrews of old, John is about affirmation as well as confrontation. He offers a means for transformation not only in prayer but also with action. John sees a river that is uncontaminated by the excess and waste of the way we live, a river that purifies the debris left from catastrophic terror, water that is healing for those suffering. And then he sees a great tree whose roots run deep into the fertile mud at the bottom of that river. He sees the tree of life filled with leaves of hope.
In this time of leaf raking we witness the end of a cycle; yet, we know that pushing those very leaves off the trees are new buds preparing themselves for a new season. The cycle moves on nourished by roots that are deep, fed by the river of time and nurtured by hope. Those leaves John sees are not happenstance; they are the result of faith acted upon.
I was reminded of that just the other night. We come to lectures on Darfur but what can we do? We hang AIDS' quilts, but what can we do? We hear about the plight of earthquake victims in Pakistan and make a small effort as part of our mission dollars. We ring our great bell for the poor of Ohio, but so what? Liturgical thoughts and prayers offered up, cathartic perhaps, but what else can we do?
Then the other night I saw a leaf on of all places the evening news. Sub-Sahara Africa has over 3 million children without mothers because of AIDS. An orphanage in South Africa has discovered that breast milk has a miraculous power to nourish their infant victims back to health. A woman in Missouri learned of the struggle and now, because of her efforts, gallons of frozen mother's milk offers life to infants the world would leave to die upon the rocks of neglect. A leaf on the tree.
A team of New York City medics, persons who had first-hand experience with the terror of 9/11, decided to go to Al-Qaida infested Pakistan after the earthquake. They were the only caregivers in the dangerous mountain villages. That team has since raised over $100 million dollars for relief and personally touched the lives of well over 10,000 Pakistanis. A leaf on the tree of life.
Two women whose husbands were killed on September 11th saw the misery of women in Afghanistan whose husbands had been killed. They began a program to help those women and in the process they were healing themselves "by the waters of Babylon" and at the same time nurturing a fledgling leaf on the tree of life.
A new home for a family is dedicated by Habitat. 72 children are being taught in our tutoring program each Saturday by volunteers. Persons give of their busy calendars to become Stephen Ministers caring for others who momentarily struggle. Local action group's darfur.com are working for policy change. One elderly woman recently told me, "I can't do much anymore so I write letters. I've now written over 200 of them to politicians trying to get them to understand that we have to change some of our policies if we want the world to respect us ever again. I suspect they think I'm a nut, but at least I'm doing something. I'll see God soon and I hope the Lord will be pleased with my correspondence." All leaves on that tree, fed by faith. A river that stretches all the way back to the Psalms where vengeance was turned to hope and healing became the fruit of life.
We gather for worship, we confront and comfort our grief, we hear the cries of God's children dashed upon the rocks of catastrophe, and we have a choice right here in this liturgical setting, the chance to live our faith through our mission. As my old friend, Robert McAfee Brown, used to say, "All of us are oppressed. We only exchange one oppression for another, one bondage for another. The day that we will be free is the day we see our common struggles and our common hope, and together attack the evil that holds us."
We've known rivers, ancient rivers. They can nourish our souls. God was transforming this world long before time began. God is in the midst of suffering and stands four squares against oppression. God uses persons like you and me as healing leaves from the tree of life, but each of us must be willing to be used, always remembering that the strength of the leaf does not belong to us, it receives its nourishment from the roots of that tree that is watered by the river that flows under the throne of God. So when you grow weary or when you're filled with anger and vengeance, offer those feelings up and then turn them to action, then you too will know your connection to that which is greater than what we see and hear.
- Langston Hughes, The Negro Speaks of Rivers
- Rev. Robina Marie Winbush, 2006 World Council of Churches, Porto Alegre, Brazil, February 23, 2006
- Walter Brueggemann, Deep Memory, Exuberant Hope, page 60
- Jon Sobrino, Christology at the Crossroads
- Brian Blount, Can I Get a Witness? Reading Revelation through African American Culture
- Credit should be given to Rev. Robina Marie Winbush for her closing sermon to the World Council of Churches.
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