Walk for Justice

We stand this evening in a place of remembrance dedicated to the millions of lives lost in a faraway time and place. We are firm in our resolve to never forget. None of us have first-hand knowledge of the horror of the Shoah. We wonder how good people could let such a thing happen. We wonder who would turn a blind eye to such injustice. Surely, we would have spoken out. To our shame, our church did not stand united against the Holocaust as it unfolded in the 1930s and 40s. Some individuals did speak up, but we did not do so collectively.

When we allow one innocent man to be executed by the state or whole groups of people to suffer relentless violence at the hands of criminals or police or armies or governments and do not hold them accountable, we turn our own blind eyes to injustice and condemn innocent people to death. We condemn Jesus to death.

The placard there reminds us of Martin Niemöller, a pastor imprisoned for 7 years in a Nazi concentration camp, who came to understand our collective culpability in condemning others — and ourselves — to death. Were he to write to us today, perhaps he would say it this way:

The cross is the symbol of Christianity and is front and center in our minds this Good Friday. We follow in our hearts Jesus as he carries his cross. What does it mean to carry a cross? Most who took up their cross in Jesus's day despaired of all hope since it was the day of their execution. But our Lord carried his cross with purpose and with hope — hope for life beyond death, hope that his death would save those he loved.

What does it mean to carry our cross? Perhaps it has more to do with denying ourselves — not in penitence or self-abasement — but in looking after the welfare of others before our own. Not to be driven by self-interest alone but to think of the good for everyone in our community. So much of our culture values competition and the elevation of individual success at all costs. Maybe carrying our cross is to be counter-cultural.

Perhaps it means paying our fair share of taxes and voting for property taxes to support schools, libraries, and community improvements. Maybe it means living simpler lives so that we may give to worthy causes. Perhaps our cross is to reach out to those in need when we least feel like it or using our particular privilege to speak against injustice for others.

Imagine this playground on a weekday morning. Children running and shouting, letting off steam before going back inside for more pre-school learning. Children fall when they play — it's how we learn to pick ourselves up and keep on going. Scraped elbows and bruised knees are the signs of an active childhood. Nevertheless, we do all we can to protect our own children at play. A net of safety surrounds them. We wouldn't allow Emmanuel or anyone else to care for children in an unsafe environment. Or would we?

We allow children to stumble every day in our community. They are knocked to the ground by social inequity.

When we allow this to continue in our community, children fall. Many don't get back up.

Who rides buses in Alexandria and Pineville? Typically, riders are not using our public transportation because it is convenient or to avoid parking problems or to help reduce their carbon footprint. They ride because they have to get to work, to pay bills, and to go shopping. They don't have their own reliable transportation. If Jesus' mother were our neighbor, she might very well be sitting at this bus stop.

Jesus' family were not well to do. Tradition has it that Mary became a widow with at least five small children to care for. In our time, she would likely have been one of the "working poor" riding the bus to get around. Mary might have stocked at Walmart, waitressed at Texas Roadhouse, washed sheets at the Holiday Inn, or if she were lucky, transported patients at Rapides Regional.

Help often comes from the most unexpected places and people. As Jesus made his journey toward Calvary, he began to struggle with the weight of the cross. And a man from the crowd, Simon of Cyrene — who was singled out for being a foreigner — was pressed into service to bear the burden for another. Simon was always the other in Judea.

Perhaps he adopted a Jewish name because, like so many immigrants, he tired of people mispronouncing his birth name. Perhaps he worried about his sons Alexander and Rufus and their future in their new home. By giving them Greek and Roman names, perhaps he hoped to give them an advantage. Would it help them on a pathway to citizenship? Perhaps he dreamed of a better life and took on jobs that immigrants do today — harvesting crops, cooking meals, cleaning houses, caring for children and seniors — always helping others.

Simon carried the cross when Jesus could not. As Simon relieved Jesus momentarily of the cross' burden, imagine Jesus looking out at the crowd — many who had just days before waved palms and shouted Hallelujah. None of them stepped forward. On this day, they walk as a mob shouting "Crucify him." Jesus walks on, Simon shoulders the cross. A stranger helping the Son of God.

And here we are tonight in our own space and time, standing outside of a local gathering place. Look inside and you'll see people studying, laughing, playing games, drinking coffee, and being a community. Look for the helpers — do you see them? Do they see you?

We only know Veronica because of this tradition in the Stations of the Cross. Veronica saw Jesus for who he was, not for who everyone else said he was — someone who didn't belong, someone who deserved their suffering even when it meant death. Her simple act of kindness that day when she wiped the face of Jesus blessed her and generations that followed her with an image of our Lord's face imprinted on the cloth she used. It forever reminds us of the humanity of Jesus' life and the power of simple kindness.

We are left to contemplate the image of God imprinted in the face of every human being, no matter how much we may despise them and think them worthy of their suffering.

The artists who left these images tagged only with their initials or first name remind us of the beauty of God's creation and the humanity of us all. Each element of the graffiti reveals something about the unknown artist, if we see with Veronica's eyes — if we see beyond the peeling plywood and the crumbling brick, and contemplate the beauty in all people.

Steps cause many people to stumble and even to fall to the ground by accident or by physical limitations. These steep steps represent inaccessibility for not only people who use wheelchairs, but senior citizens, young children, delivery people, and hotel guests with luggage in tow.

Over 30 years ago, the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990 ensured not only that new public structures would be accessible to all people regardless of their mobility abilities, but that government services and communications would be available for anyone with mobility, hearing, or vision issues. Most importantly, the act provided an equal chance at meaningful work for everyone.

In bringing equity to those with disabilities, the ADA made life better for all of us. We are enriched by the diversity of experiences brought into community life by extending access to people of all abilities. Architects and designers now think about universal design concepts that are not only functional for all users but attractive as well.

Even as the ADA has succeeded in many areas of life, there are still areas that need to improve accessibility for all — health care, housing, transportation, and employment still present hurdles for people of different physical and mental abilities. We must continue to pursue equity and be encouraged by the progress we've made.

A major injustice is the unequal pay that women routinely receive for doing the same work as men.

We stand at the intersection of Murray and 2nd Streets. All things come together as the path takes a turn. Here we begin the climb to Calvary's summit. It's uphill all the way to the end. As Christ stumbles the third and final time, his path seems insurmountable — and yet when he falls again, he rises again. Christ proved that in the end there is a new beginning.

But for many, when they stumble they seem unable to recover and continue on. People who experience injustice often find themselves in two or more social groups categorized by race, economic means, gender, health status, sexual orientation, or nationality. This is intersectionality. White women face discrimination in the workplace differently than women of color. Gay Black men encounter different hurdles to health care than gay white men. Intersectionality does not simply add more discrimination with each overlapping social category — each intersectional group experiences discrimination in unique ways. Inequities are amplified in surprising ways.

For many it means living with hidden illnesses where each day is a battle to keep the demons of pain, addiction, mental illness, and social isolation at bay. These often find themselves driven down to their knees, believing themselves unworthy, unreachable, terminal. Yet we can find hope to rise again, because Christ proved that in the end there is a new beginning.

We have all heard that the clothes make the person. And looking in these store windows we see uniforms and clothes that clue us into who the person wearing them is. A police person, a student, a firefighter, a first responder. Clothes define us — they tell our story so we don't have to use words.

Nightly you will find homeless people sleeping on the benches in front of these windows. Their clothes define them too. For they have lost everything but the clothes they wear. Their clothes tell the story of a people who live on the margins, a people who survive off of what other people cast aside — much like they are often cast aside as not important.

Jesus' life and death marks the center of time as we know it, the beginning of the Common Era. So we stand before this clock to remind us of our modern time that began in Jesus' lifetime. The clock reminds us that the time is now for us to care — to shake away the dullness from our minds and awake to the violence that was so long ago and that is so near to us today.

Crucifixion was a bloody business. At the heart of it was metal piercing and tearing flesh beyond repair. It is personal and horrific and the Romans practiced it on a mind-numbingly massive scale — hundreds, even thousands at a time. Too many to know individual names. How many names of the crucified can history recall? Only a handful — Jesus, Peter, Andrew, perhaps Dysmas and Gestas as tradition names the two thieves crucified with Jesus.

Our instinct is to forget, to turn away. When we do, our minds become dull to the violence. We begin to care less. Over the last 20 years, we have become numb to death, hearing about one mass shooting after another and responding with "thoughts and prayers" — always assuming that "it can't happen here." But no one is exempt. Here in our own city, we hear of murders almost daily and still believe that only happens to "them." All the while believing that these horrific acts will not touch our lives directly — until they do.

This Veterans Memorial reminds us of those whose lives ended in service of their country. Their sacrifice is beyond measure. Their numbers are staggering: over 400,000 in World War II, nearly 95,000 in Korea and Vietnam, and more than 7,000 have died fighting terrorism in Iraq and Afghanistan.

For too many veterans, that hope was fleeting. Japanese and German Americans fought against evil in the South Pacific and in Europe while loved ones at home were despised, rejected, and imprisoned. African Americans fought for their country in Southeast Asia while loved ones at home were segregated, spat upon, beaten, and killed. Muslim Americans fought against terror in the Middle East while their loved ones at home endured curses, discrimination, violence, and seeing their most sacred book burned in public.

And yet God's love is even greater than theirs.

Seeking justice in our broken world can seem like a losing battle. Sometimes, we fail — we awake too late. The unthinkable has occurred. Sometimes the only thing we can do is bury the body. And that too is important — to afford victims of injustice the dignity that was denied them even in their death. We can call them by their chosen name and bury them with the honor every human deserves. Sometimes, mourning brings light to injustice in this world.

Joseph of Arimathea understood this. He was a man of means who used his privilege to do what Jesus' followers could not.

What he did took courage. It was a risk, but it was the right thing to do. He could have been branded a sympathizer or a traitor. He could have lost his position of privilege.

Joseph could have worked in an office of any one of these buildings looking down on us here. Joseph could have been any one of us standing here.