Two days ago I was in Soweto, a township of two million people located just outside of Johannesburg.
For decades Soweto was seen as the epicenter of anguish during the years of Apartheid, from 1948 to 1994. Thousands of people were forcefully removed from rural locations into the township so the government could exercise containment and control. A pass system was instituted that restricted the residents movement; if a pass wasn’t immediately produced at the request of white authorities, offenders would be thrown in jail — or worse. The struggle reached a crescendo in mid-June, 1976, when the government required middle school and high school students to study in Afrikaans, a language that was not only foreign but was also received as yet another demonstration of white dominance. Students met in Regina Mundi Catholic Church in the center of the township to offer support and determine next steps. The size of the gathering, along with the noise — including music — threatened the police who were assembled outside, and they opened fire. The church guide pointed to the bullet holes that have been preserved on the ceiling, as a visual reminder of the desecration of sacred space. The kids got out, and joined the swarms of other demonstrators who were marching through the streets. Rocks were thrown, teargas was released, cars were burned — and hundreds of people died, most of them black residents, except for four white policemen . For decades and for much of the world Soweto was regarded by some as ground zero for the struggle for human rights; for still others it was seen as an example of a rebellion that had gotten out of control, and needed to be tamped down.
A week ago Tuesday, in another church, the National Cathedral, my good friend and colleague Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde of the Episcopal Diocese of Washington preached a sermon at an interfaith service that was attended by many dignitaries, including the newly inaugurated President Trump. At the end of her remarks, she invited the President to consider including compassion and mercy as he proceeded to deal with the important and divisive issue of immigration. Millions of people, myself included, considered Bishop Budde’s words to be a gracious invitation to consider compassion and mercy, which were biblically recorded challenges that Jesus made. Millions of others have regarded Bishop Budde’s comments, not as an invitation, but as an attack on President Trump. One member of Congress said that she should be deported. A draft resolution is being put before the House of Representatives claiming that Bishop Budde’s sermon was an act of political activism ,and that she be “condemned for distortion.” The text of the resolution just as easily could have said that the sacred space was desecrated by ill-timed and ill-formed words.
What is particularly troubling for me about all the negative fallout from the Bishop Budde’s sermon is that that we increasingly live in a world in which spiritual and biblical reflection is first received — and often only received — as a political statement. Exploration, reflection and listening are sacrificed to the need for scoring points. Comments devolve into a contest between winners and losers. Who is right and who is wrong. And whose religious interpretation is true and whose religious interpretation is false.
As I see it, President Trump frames the immigration issue in terms of management and punishment. And from what we have learned so far, is that he has two guiding objectives: to tamp down people whose perspective on the issue is different from his, and to proceed with speed to deport everyone who happens to be here illegally, all in the interest of proclaimed public safety. Bishop Budde has asked him — and all of us, to consider bringing compassion and mercy into the mix, all in the interest of proclaimed public safety, which for decades has been snarled in political and cultural gridlock. A possible way forward is to engage people on different sides of the issue to discuss their understanding of what it means to be compassionate and merciful.
Prophets are people who challenge people to see the vexing issues of the day — immigration abortion, the role of guns, the dream of America, along with many others, in different ways. Prophets are invariably met with resistance, if not hostility, because most people don’t want their spiritual, emotional or political boundaries to be edited or expanded. It can feel much safer to keep our perspectives locked in — which eventually leads to protracted impasse and toxic polarization. I see and experience this on both sides of the immigration issue.
The standoff in Soweto, which culminated in the June 16-17, 1976 violence, continued for nearly twenty years, until Apartheid was formally abolished in 1994. Nelson Mandela and Archbishop Desmond Tutu, each of whom lived in Soweto for a period of time, were prophets who challenged the leaders of South Africa and people of the world, to look at one another differently. They each brought compassion and mercy to their commitment, which was marked by discipline and purpose. They built relationships. They honored difference, and at the same time stood their ground. They didn’t quit, even in the face of the many racist barriers which had long ago been erected. They were the prophets — along with many others not as well known, who helped usher democracy into South Africa in 1994. It is still new. It is still fragile. But everyone I have talked to in that country has said that the journey has been worth it.
All of us have the prophetic capacity to see the world, one another, and ourselves ,differently. The world needs our participation in this sacred process. We can start with ourselves.
