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I view churches like mustard seeds – looking to all the world like something too small to matter but with room enough for so many in their shade.
The wisdom of distance doesn’t erase people’s desire for nearness. And touch. And comfort. A small bit of flame to keep warm. A hand to hold.
In all our clashing, we must be mindful to know what we might forfeit with wanton hostility. Winning our claims at the cost of losing democracy is a loss for everyone.
Could a mustard seed actually grow into a tree? Of all Jesus’ parables, this one does not seem so hard. The tree has room for all the birds in the nest.
We whites can redesign our invisible backpacks: take out the passports for vacations away from justice, remove the opportunity hoarding and the guilt that holds us back from courage.
When will those of us who are white stop demanding tunes of acquiescence from those who experience exile and injustice?
I am encouraged by my daughter’s instinct to test everything she reads, hears, and experiences, because it seems to be leading her to find deeper meaning.
Psalm 42 encourages praising God even when enemies taunt, making praise a form of protest and protest a form of praise.
I wonder what would happen if we believed we are fearfully and wonderfully made. That despite what the world says about us or what we believe about ourselves, our creation is wonderful.
When the blood is flowing in the streets, when the grapes of wrath have filled and split open like so many mothers’ broken hearts, what then is the approved protocol?