The church that loved and accepted me looked messy, children riding in on bikes, questions called out during the sermon, people wandering in and out for a smoke, or maybe even a hit. If you left your handbag unattended it might get stolen, if your teenager asked someone for a cigarette they may get given it. There was no building, just the renting of a small community hall. The church looked dangerous but it saved lives.
Nellie Andreeva of Deadline wrote that the recent surge of “ethnic casting” on TV might not be fair to white actors. What?
We write more and more of the story each day. We might not have had control over the things that happened in our past, and we might not be able to write someone else’s contributions (or edits) to our story, but we can write into the story of our life the things that we hope for and dream about.
How does one best care for marginalized people, those who have been isolated from community, stigmatized by society, and even neglected or wounded by the Church?
The bass thumping in my chest and the music waves whizzing by my ears I listened to Andre 3000 and Big Boi perform “Bombs over Baghdad” enlivened me. I was surrounded by thousands in Centennial Olympic Park, the heart of downtown Atlanta, my hometown, the city which tugs and pulls at my emotional strings. It’s the same city where I internalized the shame of being different and disassociated, tried to pretend that I wasn’t just American because of my name, the marker, one of the few tangible ties to my culture and heritage followed me everywhere I went.
For the most part I have stopped “praying”, especially in the sense of seeking answers or help from an outside source. But sometimes things so ghastly and shocking occur, that hammer you with your own impotence and smallness, that its hard to know where else to turn.