walking in forgiveness | Lupus?! A wha dat?!

Persistent widow prayers

¹³Is anyone among you in trouble? Let them pray. Is anyone happy? Let them sing songs of praise. ¹⁴Is anyone among you sick? Let them call the elders of the church to pray over them and anoint them with oil in the name of the Lord. ¹⁵And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well; the Lord will raise them up. If they have sinned, they will be forgiven. ¹⁶Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective.

¹⁷Elijah was a human being, even as we are. He prayed earnestly that it would not rain, and it did not rain on the land for three and a half years. ¹⁸Again he prayed, and the heavens gave rain, and the earth produced its crops.

¹⁹My brothers and sisters, if one of you should wander from the truth and someone should bring that person back, ²⁰remember this: Whoever turns a sinner from the error of their way will save them from death and cover over a multitude of sins. (James 5:13-20)

In 2015, as I rode the G train, I would listen to “Pray For Me” by Kirk Franklin. The message of the song resonated with me. I was a new father, living in a new apartment, and starting a new job. I needed all the prayer I could get.

I loved how the song opened with vulnerability on Kirk’s part. His voice made me think of a wounded healer, someone who has been beaten down but remains hopeful.

Those feelings have been fixed for me in this season. Walking with a limp but trying to lead, be an example, be loving.

I’ve found myself despondent at times. Too often, reminding myself that I am not sick. Even though I am at risk, I am well.

Reminding myself of this, encouraging myself really, has become a ritual. Deepening my praise by showing gratitude for daily bread in the midst of global crisis.

I am grateful for the privilege of sojourning through quarantine with family. I am grateful for my job, my students, friends, extended family, and a community that still gathers–electronically–to worship.

I feel blessed in the midst of this storm. It’s a familiar place. So many days in the hospital, through both severe flares, were filled with laughter in spite of the physical pain and dire circumstance. But I know everyone is not there. I know many people are too smothered by despair to find anything to smile about.

I’ve been sitting on this writing since Holy Week. Since Lupus, I’ve been drawn to the solemn holidays that force you to consider mortality. Ash Wednesday and its reminder of how dusty we are. Good Friday.

I wanted to share this on Good Friday because Jesus’ cry of “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” felt more appropriate than ever. These words really ring in the hollowness of isolation. Jesus quotes the psalmist in psalm 22 and opens the door for all who feel rejected and alone. I believe that New York is the worst place in the world for loneliness. Perhaps one could render loneliness into solitude if they were, say, a rancher in Wyoming. But to be in a place so dense with population and to feel alone, is a uniquely cruel torment.

It’s a call for us to innovate our love. Who is our neighbor and how can we be neighborly while socially distant?

To love from a distance has become a critical form of hospitality in this time. We have to smile from a screen or behind a mask. This is difficult but I pray that you find new mercies everyday. I hope you discover new ways to love your neighbor. A radical love that pierces distances and binds us together. Let’s pray for one another. Let’s pray for people we don’t even like. Let’s confess our inadequacies. Confess our need.

Pray for me.

I’ll pray for you.

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February 25, 2018

Gardening

Dutty tuff doh, don’t it?

Miracles mi Lawd, miracles

Memba when we never expect a rice grain

Now we plate abundant and water a flow

Wha? Unnu think when you pray the prayer of Jabez

Poopa Jesus only have material things in fi him closet?

Repair better than reparations

Forgive without a man say sorry

But when him sorry?

Bitter tears tun sweet

Impossible, invincible things a gwan

Like falling in love with the wutless

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February 3, 2018

Supermarket Verses

Was it you?

That used to scold me

when I’d put items back

in the supermarket

out of place?

Can you believe how she looks now?

I bet she won’t stop working out

until she gets definition

on her abs again.

I heard she wants to lose ten pounds.

That’s too much pressure.

Just live.

Our cashier isn’t interested in the exchange of pleasantries.

Her loss.

But I get it.

Full day of work, last shift. It sucks.

Don’t know how much I’d smile.

From the looks of my grocery bagging skills, don’t know how much use I’d be either.

You always make me bag!

I never understood that.

The times when you are paying I get it but I had money in my pocket this time!

We’re standing in the wrong places.

I must be lousy.

The cashier bags these items with ease.

I manage to get three bags worth of groceries into the cart.

She seems so unencumbered by the categories.

Flawless. She knows to put kindred items into the bags. Record time.

She doesn’t smile but she packs these groceries with love.

Reminds me of Ms. June from the cafeteria in Davidson.

Made the best sandwiches on earth!

Three hundred kids in line, each one leaving with a piece of her love.

If you looked close, you could see her painting with mayonnaise and mustard smiles.

God I’m hungry.

This morning I tarried over dishes.

Mind isn’t clear if my kitchen isn’t.

And it made no sense to cook a good meal in a dirty kitchen.

I can’t fathom taking on the enterprise of straightening up when I felt so weak.

Two pieces of toast should suffice.

I’ll take them with a grapefruit juice so I can keep my constitution.

Downed medicine, to these dishes.

Remember how meticulous Prednisone made me?

I felt so focused when I came home from the hospital.

Everyday was a challenge.

A milestone.

An opportunity for victory.

I thought I died everyday.

Standing in front of the microwave, clutching my chest

Determined to set the time so at least when you found me

You would know when it was.

Shaking in the hospital bed, calling for the nurse.

It all felt over didn’t it?

Slipping away seconds before I belched something serious.

Both times.

So embarrassing.

But I learned that most things you think are gonna kill you

Are usually just gas.

I know you hate washing dishes.

Who could blame you?

Felt like every time we talked you were washing.

Were you the only one who had to do chores?

I hate your mom for that.

You seem like Cinderella to me.

There’s a method to my madness for sure.

I like to take utensils put them in a bowl.

With oatmeal crusted on the side, it’s ripe for soaking.

The cups are rinsed so the contents don’t spread in the dishwasher.

Nothing more disheartening–in the realm of kitchen cleaning–then having to rewash dishes.

Waste of work, wasted motion.

Lost time we can never reclaim.

It’s always a mountainous task.

The mountain becomes a hill

The hill becomes a drying rack

The rivers in the dishwasher roar

My work here is done.

I’m a fan of two sleeps

Yeah, I know, I make fun of how you sleep so much but it’s how i was raised.

i slept in a lot, don’t get me wrong,

but being in my bed past 8 made my grandma assume my sickness

dyam lazy, a sin less desirous than ailment

You remember how mad I was?

The whole day felt cranky.

Just left your parents house,

just left our lives in Charlotte

We were on our way

We must know 13 like the back of our hands now

traipsing from Maryland to the Turnpike

The heaviness of it all

Maybe I’m writing heaviness into my memories

I do remember getting mad

I told you to park in the driveway but you wouldn’t listen

You wanting to park on the street made no sense to me

this rage that i knew had to be displaced

an accumulation perhaps of debt for sins passed.

moments of insubordination, disobedience.

something wholly emasculating about not being listened to

Reminding me that I did not know what the hell I was talking about

Driving has never been my strong suit

Don’t know why I didn’t learn when most teenagers did

Young for my class, schooled in a different state than I lived

A hurricane of factors convincing me I didn’t need it

I tried it. Didn’t hate it but it didn’t make me come alive.

Only in my dreams that turned nightmarish.

Conscious of my feet

needing the break but growing heavy on the gas pedal

Reaching for the break with my left foot ensued panic

I panic with parking decks

Remember our trips from the seminary to the apartment?

Grew comfortable with the 3 mile trek

Til that brother came careening out of the parking deck

All I saw was doom impending but it wasn’t that bad

Save his lady yelling at me

Why sisters do that anyway?

Don’t they know words cut?

I mean, he was cool

I was cool

You were cool

But she had to trip

for no reason

After that I hated driving again.

took a while for me to get over how it felt

when my cousin yelled at me for losing focus

I get so anxious about driving my hands turn blue

only way I calm myself is remembering I drive for you

I never felt anyway about you being better than me

Always made me feel like we were progressive

You drive, I cook, I might stay home with the kids!

Could not care less about how it looks

I can be more than a good man for you, I can be a good human

Certainly felt neither when you stopped at the curb

It was so simple to me

Pull into the driveway

Say hello to the family

Bring bags upstairs

Come back downstairs

Eat

Fellowship

Sleep

We got out of the car

I thought about how I was going to announce myself

To Grandma and you flew upstairs without a word to anyone

I turned

Ready to make a joke with Grandma but saw she was sleeping

Never knew how she slept soundly on hospital beds

Dialysis so taxing she had no choice but wonder if she truly got rest

My aunt told me that she just had dialysis earlier and was feeling awful

Does dialysis ever feel good?

I came upstairs to sleep

Pretty tired but not enough to forget being pissed

Naturally, I gave you the silent treatment

It’s never as refreshing as intended.

One thinks silence puts the offending party in their place

shows them the essential nature of your words

cripples them through the verbal war of attrition

but sleep was your defense

the heavens rocked with the ripple of your snores!

my teenage ghost petrified by the tree chopping

How can I savor silence while you sniff electronic music?

Well played my dear, well played.

When you wake, I air my grievances!

Feign innocence then assume all guilt

A tactic oft employed but I am always jarred

You had no idea, you are the worst.

Of course neither is true

I’m caught preserving self-esteem and a righteousness that isn’t worth it

I was called downstairs

My aunt’s voice was wrong

Grandma no longer breathed

I couldn’t pray

I stood convinced that her chest would raise

Never thought it’d be this way

Always feared I’d be hundreds of miles away

A phone call bearing the news

I still think of her and lose myself

It’s the triggers of rye bread

the reruns of Walker, Texas Ranger

So random the grief and the regret.

I remember when I knew I loved you

Felt it stirring for some time you know.

The slide from being cool and feeling healthy

We didn’t speak every week

Then I saw you everyday

Not able to imagine without you

Can I love without loss?

If I let on will you be taken away?

I’m a Job of sorts.

That day I made up my mind

To tell you how I felt was so beautiful.

We drove over to the next town

(Votin’ in the primaries)

One of those days where we matched by mistake.

Black shirts and khaki shorts

Made history and strolled.

Down the avenue was a dog and his man

I coolly stepped in front of you

Easing us off the sidewalk and onto the grass

Said peace to them both and stood in front til they passed

A big deal for me.

I am not far removed from german shepherds

Walking on blocks had to make sure none were loose

Recess interrupted by pitbulls and rottweilers

Made me run and find someone worth standing for.

I was someone once.

Full of potential.

Funny how potential is so much like credit.

Don’t know how good it is til it’s used up.

I used to fear peaking early.

But laying in that hospital bed

certain it was all over made me content.

If this was how it ends then I used my time well.

I loved.

My regret, my reminder of failure

is to know death means I’m leaving you.

I would never give you the life we hoped for.

You’d have the stench of widowhood.

Would you remarry and find the life we were looking for?

Would suitors handle you like produce

Discover this imperfection

Deem you less choice?

Did I ruin you?

It’s the triggers you know.

So random the grief, the regret.

Breeze

Nights like these I miss the breeze

You don’t know how I bleed for you

Swing from poplar trees for you

The silence so violent

The summer so arrogant

I sit and I long

I long for the breeze

Who knew leviathans brood by oceans?

The arms that nursed you curse me daily

Fountains of iniquity that raised you to fail me

Yet in spite of these frailties we thrive

with dancing shoes

with cold sweat

with short breath

falling hair

failing lungs

heart

beats

Oh cactus, you stubborn fool!

A desert for your kingdom

A lifetime with no reprieve

I too dream of home untarnished

Gentry dreams make me grieve

My home has no garden

No shelter from trees

But still I find comfort

when I’m blessed by breeze

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February 6, 2016

I’m hurt. I think I’ve always been.

It first hit me when I was singing on the choir. The Children of Hope were a main attraction every Sunday. We stood in our robes, the pride of our parents’ eyes. One Sunday another child asked me, “Where’s your Dad?” I knew he wasn’t there but never thought about why.

I first spoke to my father on the phone at the age of five. I remember the conversation was brief; he told me not to take orders from any woman. Years later, I learned that our conversation was followed by my grandmother telling him about himself, “Yuh wutless!” she cried. I hope it’s not hereditary.

Every birthday, in spite of my mother’s best, oscillated between bubbling sadness and a fight against solemnity. Happiness was slippery. Accomplishments were punctuated by the absence.

Middle school taught me the importance of appearances. I learned to say my parents were separated even though they never married. I fashioned my father as a farmer, man of the people, whose agrarian will and political mind would usher in a new era in the postcolonial world.

In eighth grade he sent me fifty dollars a few times. Each time I felt rich and allowed myself to have pride. We would speak on the phone frequently, conversations ending abruptly when the credit ran out. I finally met him in person that summer, spending the whole day together, laughing with both parents, feeling complete.

I would not see him again until the summer I turned sixteen. I met so many people, good friends of his, who were surprised he had a son. I left Jamaica and was sure that this was going to be our new normal. Phone calls were frequent but still ended abruptly. He visited the next summer when I graduated high school. I realized the depth of my grandmother’s love when she behaved herself and sat next to him at my graduation dinner.

College would be another silent period in our relationship. He was always on my mind. Every accomplishment, any moment of success, filled with the reminder that he was not there.

I would not see him until I got married and I have not seen him since. Life moments have brought us together. We had a good run of phone calls after I nearly died. He called a couple times after my son was born. I had a lot of hope that my own fatherhood would make us closer, give us something else to talk about. Admittedly, becoming a father has made me angry. A younger me made excuses for him but now his negligence is unbelievable. I look at my son and think, “How could anyone not do this?” How could anyone feel the weight of responsibility and not press in? The thoughts spill my rage.
I don’t like to think about this often, much less talk about it. I worry that no matter how right I am, my silence is unforgiving. So I pray. “Lord, I’m hurting. I think I’ve always been.”

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August 9, 2015

Forgiving Trump

Photo by Gage Skidmore/Huffington Post

Now I don’t normally want to talk about Trump because I consider his contributions nothing more than the dregs of our society. To call him a scoundrel is saddeningly as controversial as an announcement that water is still wet. To be honest I am enjoying his success in the political arena because it is an indictment on the country. White supremacy dies once Americans acknowledge our complicity. Systemic racism does not exist because of “them”, it exists because of “us.” (I mean, it’d be nice to just blame this all on white people–slow down respectability politics, I am not agreeing with you–but Ben Carson, Clarence Thomas and every other person of color who lets their self-hatred shine shows that white supremacy, ironically, is an equal opportunity employer.)

I first noticed this Trump video a few weeks ago and it made me pity him. In the video, Donald is asked if he has ever asked God for forgiveness and he is demonstrably uncomfortable. He speaks about how folks are often surprised to learn he is religious and then waxes poetically about his late pastor, name dropping his book, and reminisicing about how captivating said pastor’s sermons were.

The interviewer does not let him off the hook. The audience laughs at this show of authority and Trump eventually admits that he has never asked God for forgiveness. He assumes that his effort and desire to do better next time should suffice, or maybe even the elements of bread and wine at communion get the job done.

Trump’s answer is perfect to me. It encapsulates the errors of human pride in a wonderful way. Here we have a man who regularly displays misogyny, racism and an utter disregard for others.

(Two dope TV ideas: Iyanla needs to bring Trump and Rosie O’Donnell on “Fix My Life”. Like why is he so mad? Unlike other targets of his misogyny, his barbs come with the kind of intimacy birthed from a destroyed friendship. Why you so mad Donnie?!

2. I want this whole campaign to be an episode of Unsung with special guest narrator, Herman Cain.)

With Trump I see a man who reminds me of the judge in the parable of the persistent widow (One who “did not fear God nor regard man” Luke 18:1-8). Trump tries to use his privilege and sidestep the conversation entirely. But name dropping a pastor cannot save you. Trump then talks about his own efforts, “to do better next time”, but this only exposes his misdiagnosis. The offense we each commit against God is far more severe than a misunderstanding. Perhaps when I offend you, I can strive to learn from that mistake and do better next time. But sin’s stains run deep. And no matter how much we endeavor, no matter how much we hope to learn from our mistakes, it is a complete waste unless we ultimately encounter our futility. How we cannot clean our own hands. How desperately we are in need of a Saviour.

Trump proverbially enters the right building but is on the wrong floor when he speaks about communion. His description of communion turns it into a work of righteousness which sells the sacrament short. If communion is a mere work, the heavy lifting is done by us. After all, we are the ones who go to church. We are the ones who take the bread. We are the ones who take the wine. Yet communion is much more than that. It encapsulates what the Christian life is, participating in the life of Christ. The focus cannot and never should be on what we do (which if we are honest, is not much). One enters into the Christian life at the edge of one’s futility (“God, be merciful to me a sinner!” Luke 18:13) but one matures through worshiping God in Spirit and in truth (John 4:23). Trump, like all of us, must get dissatisfied with his own works. Lose the love he has for his own ability to make a way. This walk is not about showing God how well you are trying; we get nowhere until we humbly admit we can’t.

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August 12, 2014

Cleaning My Lens

The second sermon I delivered this summer while interning at All Souls Presbyterian Church.

Chris Burton

7.13.2014

All Souls Presbyterian Church

Cleaning My Lens (Romans 8:1-11)

There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. (Romans 8:1, ESV)

I’m a creature of habit. Once I get something I like I usually stick with it. I might have five favorite restaurants in town but that would mean I just get five different meals. I’ve been buying a clean version of the same sneaker for over a decade now. I’ve got other shoes that I like but always want a pair of crisp Nike Cortez in my rotation. My mom has been trying to get me to buy a new phone for a year now. It has a slight, very fine crack on the screen but it doesn’t bother me so I haven’t gotten it replaced. Even these glasses! I have had them for three years now, which is no good, but I like them and haven’t been straining my eyes too much so changing them has not been as much of a priority as it should be. Truth be told, I would not even have them if it weren’t for my time as a middle school basketball coach where one of my point guards obliterated an older pair during practice. They looked a lot like these and I’d probably still be peering over them to this day.

So yes, I confess, I get attached. I like what I like and I’m sure that I have developed a formidable resistance to change. This is not always good. Routines can afford us stability, and stability is socially acceptable but what do we do when said routine is a bit more constricting than mere stability? What do we do when we get stuck?

Our faults, our shortcomings, our sin, our shame. All these conspire within us, trapping us in a perverse cycle. We say things we wish we did not say, we do things that we know we ought not to do.

Last week we heard Rev. Keyes illustrate the inner turmoil using the apostles’ words. “For I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.” (Romans 7:15, ESV) Paul articulates the war that rages inside of us all. Knowing better and doing better aren’t always a packaged deal. Our actions can betray us. No matter how disciplined we are, and successful we have become, we are all susceptible to failure.

As much as I am moved by the poem Invictus, my relationship with Jesus Christ calls me to thoroughly disagree with the last stanza.

“It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul.”

I pray that I may never desire to be the master of my fate. I’ve tried it my way and have proven myself unqualified for the job. I have come to find no profit in being the captain of my soul.

Paul’s letter is good news for all us. You may not fashion yourself to be a creature of habit but the truth is, living life on our own terms is a recipe for failing habitually. Submitting ourselves to the lordship of Jesus Christ is an acknowledgment that we have no business being captain.

Let us look at Verses 3 and 4 once more:

For God has done what the law, weakened by the flesh, could not do. By sending his own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh and for sin,[c] he condemned sin in the flesh, in order that the righteous requirement of the law might be fulfilled in us, who walk not according to the flesh but according to the Spirit.

Recently I began asking God to equip me to demonstrate the fruits of the Spirit daily. Galatians 5:22-23 tell us that the fruits of the Spirit are love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law. (Galatians 5:22-23, ESV) It has been said that “The fruits of the Spirit, or effects of sanctification, which are begun in us, do not ingraft us into Christ, but declare that we are grafted into him.”

There is nothing you or I can do to earn God’s love. There is no hope for us in and of ourselves. Our hope is in Christ. The kindness that we demonstrate, the love that we have, any and all of the fruits of the Spirit are there as evidence of the work God is doing in us. In my preparation I encountered this quote from William Barclay that resonates, “Because of what Jesus did, there opens out to the Christian a life no longer dominated by the flesh but by the Spirit of God, which fills a man with a power not his own. The penalty of the past is removed and strength for his future is assured.” (Barclay, William. The Letter to the Romans (Revised Edition) Philadelphia: The Westminster Press, 1975 p.103)

Forgiving yourself because you have been forgiven. Step out of the shade of shame and walk in the Son’s light.

Bitterness can corrupt. I remember praying for God to give me forgiveness. I knew that I was at risk of phoniness, in danger of proclaiming a hollow gospel if I did not walk in forgiveness. I prayed for forgiveness so much that it became a part of my daily routine. From time to time I would imagine dry soil, almost like red clay and I’d see a tiller pulling up that soil, breaking its hardness. And I would see this image again and again. I didn’t correlate the two, my prayer and my vision until much later but I am confident that I am able to demonstrate forgiveness because of the good work that the Lord has done in me. Matthew Henry once noted that “By the Spirit the law of love is written upon the heart, and though the righteousness of the law is not fulfilled by us, yet, blessed be God, it is fulfilled in us.” I am free to walk in forgiveness because of the Spirit that dwells in me.

I believe that forgiveness is a central component of our faith. Through Christ we have been forgiven. How can we follow Him and not extend forgiveness toward others? I have no doubt that it is a process, a journey too arduous to complete on our own. But I am even more confident that it is one we can complete through yielding to the Spirit and forfeiting any claims to the captaincy of our lives.

We’ve heard the story from our Old Testament reading several times and it never stops amazing me to hear of Esau’s forgiveness.

Esau stands with Joseph, the prodigal son’s father and Our Father who chose to show solidarity instead of shame.

Living a life free from the burden of our failures isn’t done by might, nor by power, but by the Spirit of the Lord.

Let us seek the Father daily. Ask for the Spirit to till our hearts and nourish us so that we bear the fruit that is pleasing in God’s sight.

In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen.

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Lupus?! A wha dat?!

Category: walking in forgiveness

May 5, 2020

Persistent widow prayers

February 25, 2018

Gardening

February 3, 2018

Supermarket Verses

February 6, 2016

I’m hurt. I think I’ve always been.

August 9, 2015

Forgiving Trump

August 12, 2014

Cleaning My Lens

Category: walking in forgiveness

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