A Discarded "I"

What does one do with a discarded scarlet letter? Frame it? Burn it? Tuck it in a box of memories? Send it to your representative? Stick it in a Bible? It's nice to be able to take off our self-affixed labels; it's nice to have control over the names we are called. It certainly would be a nice power to give to others: “murderer” - gone; “sinner” - gone; “molester” - gone; “victim” - gone; “hypocrite” - gone; “Greek” - gone; “Jew” - gone. We are buried this day with Christ; buried in the tomb, buried in the waters. Cleansing waters – but if we stay too long, we drown. It is a dangerous thing, baptism; it is a dangerous thing, faith. Whatever you do, take care! - a discarded scarlet letter is a dangerous thing.

-Matt

Crucify Him

About this time every year on the far end of Holy Week the church ventures into the passion story. At my church a couple of readers take various parts, and the congregation serves as the crowed. Each year when we as a church yell, “Crucify him! Crucify Him!” I feel like we’re all finally admitting publicly to our ongoing complicity in Christ’s death, our daily betrayal of his teachings and his love for us.
As we the people of North Carolina prepare to kill Willie Brown Jr. we join our voices in chorus once again yelling, “Crucify him! Crucify him!”
Lord with all your love for us, please forgive us.

-Dan

Get Down

The death penalty teaches us something we should already know, but often don’t want to admit: we live in a country where people are expendable. We see it clearly when we throw away one of them through execution, but most of the people we’ve killed have been treated as expendable their entire lives. We kill the poor. We kill children who were in the foster care system, children on whom we spend very little resources for their growth, education, and well-being. We kill the mentally handicapped. We kill those who can’t afford lawyers. The people we kill are people we have been slowly killing throughout their entire lives.

But today in Maundy Thursday, the day when Jesus got down on his knees and washed the feet of the very ones who would betray him. If ever there were expendable members of a community, these betraying disciples were it. But Jesus teaches us that none are expendable. All deserve loving care. And if we are to be disciples in Jesus’ new community we must do as he did: get down on our knees and wash the feet of others. Long before people find themselves in a courtroom, we tell them through our love and service, “You are not expendable. You are a beloved child of God, and I am honored to get down on my knees for you.”

-Sarah

Justice and Mercy

Percentage of Americans who support the death penalty:
65%

Percentage of Christian Americans who support the death penalty:
74%

Why is this?

I’m wondering if it means that those of us who are Christians understand God’s justice better than we understand God’s mercy.

Remember brothers and sisters, in the words of the 14^th century priest
William Langland:

But all the wickedness of the world which man may do or think
is no more to the mercy of God
than a live coal dropped in the sea.

-Tim

My Hope

With all that’s been going on in Durham it's easy to be tempted to put hope in the structures we’ve set up to deal with “problems.” I am tempted to think that perhaps the results of a DNA test or Duke’s five committees will save us from this mess. Or perhaps a federal judge’s ruling that lethal injection is unconstitutional would save us from the idolatry of the death penalty. And maybe even our attempts to befriend the guys on the corner will decrease their desire to pull out their guns this summer. But this morning, as I have been reflecting on all this mess during Holy Week, a hymn is on my mind —“My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus’ blood and righteousness. I dare not trust the sweetest frame but wholly lean on Jesus’ name.” So even
if good things do come out of our efforts, it is only in Jesus’ “blood and righteousness” that we can place our hope. It is through his blood that we are all saved from these messes we’ve made. Praise God.

-Leah

Last Week

Here we are. At long last we have come to the final week of Lent. I’ve been feeling more and more excited recently about taking off my “I” for the last time in just a few more days. I suppose it’s a good thing that I’m eagerly anticipating Easter. And that I’ve been taking this all seriously enough to be worn out by it all. Heavy burdens, even if only represented by a few inches of red felt, should legitimately wear me out.

But I’ve also been a bit concerned that perhaps I am rushing to the finish line too quickly. Jesus’ last night in the garden, our friends? last nights in their cells, must be painfully slow. But what must God work in those final hours? Who can tell? And who can tell what God will work in these last days and nights and hours for us this week, as well? Will I be patient enough, quiet enough, to hear what God is saying even as this all draws to a close? Or will I be rushing too much to throw this “I,” these hours, these lives, away?

-Jesse

Two Fistfights

The spring weather just turned warm this week, and buds and flowers are blooming everywhere. This is the time of year when the sun comes out and we all feel the burst of new life and warmth and the optimism of hope. Our neighbors come out of their houses and mill about on porches and streets—it is a time of barbeques and friendly conversations. But sadly, warm weather usually means more street crime, and our spring reverie has been interrupted more than once this week by the crack of gunshots. In our opposition to the death penalty, we have often said that we oppose killing in all of its forms. As we attempt to stop the executions of those who have killed, we have also tried to stand with their victims, saying that we hope to be present to our neighbors in a way that prevents murder from happening in the first place. As I wear this “I” on my chest for one last week, I am reminded that the idolatry of the death penalty is part of an idolatrous worship of violence and death that takes place in our very streets and households. As I witness against the violence of the state, will I have anything to say to the teens in front of our house, who have had two fistfights even as I sat writing this paragraph?

More Spaces to Talk

I talked to a man this week who grew up beside death row--his father the warden, his home on the grounds of a maximum security prison. His grandfather, he told me, was a preacher. "I felt like their was a contradiction between what Dad did and what Grandpa preached, but we never talked about it."

They didn't even talk about it when protestors came and held signs outside their windows while they ate dinner.

But when he asked, "What's the 'I' for?" we talked about it. And I wished Dad and Grandpa could have been there. More than anything, I wished their were more spaces to talk.

Jonathan