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We must learn what we are to know of love from immersion in the struggle for justice.

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justice

Not Waiting for Love

Yvonne C. Zimmerman, Methodist Theological School in Ohio

This year I’ve used the short essay “I Cannot Speak of Love to You Today” by Regina Shands Stoltzfus in my Introduction to Christian Ethics class when I teach the unit on virtue ethics, pairing it with Ada Maria Isasi-Diaz’s “Solidarity: Love of Neighbor in the 1980s” on which Kathy Lilla Cox has already so wonderfully written for this blog and Ilsup Ahn’s “Virtue Ethics” in Asian American Christian Ethics: Voices, Methods, Issues. “I Cannot Speak” responds to the shooting death of 32-year old Philando Castile by Minneapolis police on July 6, 2016. Believing that Castile and the passenger in his car, girlfriend Diamond Reynolds, “just look like people that were involved in a robbery,” the officer pulled over Castile under the pretext of driving a vehicle with a broken tail light. When stopped, Castile disclosed to the officer that he had a gun permit and was carrying a weapon. He was reaching for his ID when the officer shot him—seven times, to be exact.

Today in America not only can a burned out tail light “be a death sentence for a black man” like Shands Stoltzfus’s 20-year old son, so too can failure (real or alleged) to signal a lane change be fatal for a black woman. It is from the standpoint of this terrorizing reality that Shands Stoltzfus challenges the popular and widely held idea that the key to eradicating racism is a process of developing interracial relationships that cultivate in white people love for black and brown-skinned people. The central point of her critique is that “the systemic nature of oppression means that oppression functions despite the good will, intentions and yes, love, of many, many people.”

Love is frequently identified as the pinnacle of Christian theological virtue, complete in itself while also encapsulating the best and most important parts of all the other virtues. Consequently, speaking honestly about love’s strengths and weaknesses isn’t popular. Of all the virtues one can practice and the values one can hold, love seems to stand above critique. But the truth is that human beings are notoriously fickle in loving. We are selective, partial, and inconsistent rather than generous, indiscriminate, and extravagant. Moreover, while it is possible to grow in love, such growth takes concerted effort and time. Herein lies the heart of the issue: “if my son gets stopped for a traffic violation, I can’t hope that the officer who stops him loves someone who looks like him,” Shands Stoltzfus writes. This is honest talk about the actual, documented performance history of the virtue of love in the struggle for racial justice as applied to black and brown people’s lives. In a word, it’s dismal.

Love has a ghosting problem. In situations where it is needed the most, love tends to arrive late. Repeatedly, it has failed to show up at all.

Ghosted by love (at least) one too many times, Shands Stoltzfus proposes that the struggle against racist oppression can be advanced in a more reliable manner by the value of justice. Justice is premised on a recognition of others’ “humanity and…right to exist,” quite apart from any particular feelings. She explains the pragmatic value of the virtue of justice in the context of America’s volatile and violent racialized climate in which people of color fundamentally are not safe like this: “Those of you who don’t yet love me or just don’t—you don’t have to. But you can still co-create a world with me that reeks of justice instead of despair.” In other words, love does not need to show up for justice to pertain.

Of course, the biblical command to love is more profound than the way it’s been sentimentalized in dominant U.S.-American culture to mean warm feelings expressed through kindness to others—Shands Stoltzfus acknowledges this. However, justice is also a biblical command. Moreover, unlike love, justice has not been subject to such intense and thorough sentimentalization. Framing the struggle against racist oppression as a process of justice makes an end run around the repeatedly demonstrated tendency of love-based models of social change to capitulate to racist oppression whenever the feelings associated with love show up late on the scene. Justice issues a non-sentimentalized moral mandate to participate in the work, starting with the directive, “Learn our racialized history.”

The value I find in this essay for teaching virtue ethics is, first, the frank acknowledgement that love is neither the only, nor only important, Christian virtue; and, second, the clarity that the goals of the struggle against racist oppression—recognition, respect as equal citizens, basic safety, the opportunity to live with dignity—don’t actually require love. It is not necessary to wait for a dramatic infusion of love to engage meaningfully in this work that defines the present time.


Yvonne C. Zimmerman is author of Other Dreams of Freedom: Religion, Sex, and Human Trafficking.

Returning to the Classics in Difficult Times

Jennifer Harvey, Drake University

I spend less time in the classroom these days than I do working with students of color. As the Faculty Director of the Crew Scholars Program most of my hours in a given week are devoted to supporting community-building among a relatively small group of young people, and in countless one-on-one dialogues with these students.

Professionally, then, I’ve experienced the current political climate through this context: immersed in the devastating implications of this election for students who are already underrepresented on a predominantly white college campus. My campus has seen the same increase in public expressions of hate as have many other campus communities across the nation.

That context has been incredibly clarifying. For the stakes and impact of these times are manifest in the lives of students with whom I am and have been on a long and intense journey.

So, how to teach since November 8th is not an abstract pedagogical question. I realized as I sat to write this reflection that I spend far less time worrying about how to “get through” to my relatively class-privileged white students than I used to. And, my focus has become even clearer since the election. Students of color, Muslim students, immigrant students, queer students are my priority. It’s that simple, that easy, that difficult.

To that end, I have found solace in teaching “the classics.” The work of James Cone has been a particular spiritual and emotional go to. I’ve taught Cone’s work many times over the years—but here’s what I love about his work right now (especially about: Black Theology and Black Power).

First, Cone’s work is a reminder. As horrifying as things are right now and as violent as the climate has become, the reality is that the horror and violence is not new. Perhaps it has been unveiled and nationally sanctioned (in an election) in a new-ish way.

Perhaps.

But, it just isn’t fundamentally new.

Why is this a comfort? I’m not sure I can put it into words. Please know it has nothing to do with downplaying the severity of political realities right now. But it does have to do with the acknowledgment and even insistence that, in fact, these times are not unprecedented.

It’s obviously critical to acknowledge this so we don’t render invisible the lived experience of many communities for whom this violence was already day-to-day life. But it’s also to recognize that we have all been living in this kind of violence for a long time. That doesn’t mean anything about the future is guaranteed—I am as frightened as anyone. But it does mean the wisdom of so many who have given us the gifts of their witness, lives, writing, poetry, and activism are there, are here, for us to draw on. That is a comfort.

Second, I love Cone’s ability to make almost any white student squirm. I always find that Cone’s prophetic words create an environment where I can say to my white students, “Can you notice what you are feeling? Can you see how we are spending so much energy trying to figure out if his vision of justice and salvation include you? Do you feel how stressed your body is?” When they nod, I point out that they are (like me) reading something that wasn’t written for them, nor to address their questions or fix their worries. I point out that they are having an experience that for many students of color at Drake is a daily one—encounters with books and teachers not written and not teaching for and to them, nor to address their questions or fix their worries.

I tell my white students what a rare gift this is in higher education. And it’s especially a gift right now.

And at the same time, Cone flips the script of so much of higher education’s “normal” experience, that his work creates a radically new point of departure for students of color. Whether they agree with Cone’s analysis or not, the lived experience of being made the touchstone and the center is a sacred and powerful gift he gives to them.

In these times, when violence is literally knocking on the door of students in my classes who are DACAmented or undocumented, of Black students, of Muslim students, Cone’s word of righteous prophetic outrage is a gift we all need. His refusal to “make it better” or pretend the United States of America is anything other than what it has always been is spiritual fuel.

And, I find myself needing this fuel. I am taking great comfort in it as I seek to sustain my ability to be present for and with my students, and to continue to move forward when I have no sense of what the future holds.


Jennifer Harvey is Professor of Religion at Drake University. She is the author of Dear White Christians: For Those Still Longing for Racial Reconciliation and Whiteness and Morality: Pursuing Racial Justice Through Reparations and Sovereignty. See also Harvey’s March 14, 2017 op-ed in the New York Times, “Are We Raising Racists?”

 

Finding Hope in the Dark

Christine E. McCarthy, Fordham University

Today, Rebecca Solnit’s Hope in the Dark: Untold Histories, Wild Possibilities is an apt and necessary meditation on time, activism, and cultivating a spiritual orientation of hope and possibility. It is no wonder that Solnit released the 2016 revised third edition of her 2004 text as a free e-book the day following the historic 2016 U.S. presidential election. Not even two months into the current administration—one in which no shortage of people remark that a question not infrequently posed to oneself upon waking is ,“What fresh hell awaits us today?”—Solnit’s meditations help to anchor her particular audience of activists in the historical space and energy of creation.

Solnit excels at narrating an alternative history in which the work of creation, of resistance and hope, is the necessary praxis of humanity in the face of defeatism. I admit that such a narrative is one I (desperately) need as much as an educator as a person making sense of these interesting and challenging moments of history. My undergraduate students at Fordham reflect a diversity of political, ethnic, and religious perspectives that collectively seem to want new ways of looking for paths forward, regardless of how they voted or what policies they voice preference for. In line with my course objectives, I stress that one of the primary foci of the course lies in the individual students’ construction of her or his own theological (and ethical) voice. In many ways and on many topics, Solnit’s voice can act as one of their clearest, most provocative, and most prophetic interlocutors, speaking to causes and concerns they share in today. In a slim volume of twenty-five brief essays, it is easy to work parts or all of the text into any undergraduate introductory or ethics course, particularly on the themes of history, activism, and hope.

Solnit retrieves lost histories. By looking to “The Angel of Alternate History,” she argues that we remind ourselves that our present circumstances could always be (could always have been) worse. In reading the presented narrative of the new hopeful, creative millennium, marked by Solnit’s own personal history in the moments of the fall of Berlin Wall on November 9, 1989, the rise of the Zapatistas on New Year’s Day 1994, the November 1999 Seattle WTO protests, 9/11/2001, and the massive protests against the Iraq War on February 15, 2003, it cannot but sting in the present to consider how greatly the tides seem to have turned in the last four months. Yet, Solnit presents, it is in the darkness of this uncertainty that a hopeful future can arise.

In “Changing the Imagination of Change,” Solnit reminds her audience that activism does not seek a final, fixed status quo of peace and justice. Rather, drawing on the analogy of successes within environmental activism, there is never a final success, never a feeling of being settled at home after certain victories, never anything that really be saved:

Saving suggests a laying up where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt; it imagines an extraction from the dangerous, unstable, ever-changing process called life on earth. But life is never so tidy and final.

The only real home, she suggests, is activism itself. In “Getting the Hell out of Paradise,” she writes,

Activism … is not only a toolbox to change things, but a home in which to take of residence and live according to your beliefs, even if it’s a temporary and local place, this paradise of participating, this vale where souls get made.

In “After Ideology, Or Alterations in Time,” Solnit writes,

the goal [of revolution] is not so much to go on and create the world as to live in that time of creation…. The revolutionary days I have been outlining are days in which hope is no longer fixed on the future: it becomes an electrifying force in the present.

Knit together, Solnit’s insights flesh out in new ways the “inner life to politics” that runs parallel to and draws out so much of the content of what one wants any student of theological ethics to understand. Her work is an apt companion to liberative systematic or moral theology. Reading with Solnit, one can comprehend more readily Ignacio Ellacuría’s noetic, ethical, and praxical method for comprehending the real or Elizabeth Johnson’s call to speak of the divine in language that facilitates the “praxis of hope and resistance,” ways seen “only through a mirror dimly,” spoken “with broken words.” In the face of so much of what Solnit would describe as “easy despair,” it would be all too lazy to see Solnit’s work as a mere digestif for our present crises. The gift of Solnit’s work is the transformation of our present anxiety into excitement for and participation in creating a hopeful future. At least it has done as much for me.


Christine E. McCarthy is a teaching associate and doctoral candidate in systematics and ethics at Fordham University’s Department of Theology. Her academic interests live at the intersection of Catholic social thought, health, peacebuilding, and gender. Her dissertation is entitled, “The End of Family Planning?: Renewing the Church’s Authoritative Teaching Practice Through a Catholic Social Ethic of Care.”

 

Art as Essential to an Ethic of Love Supreme

Benae Beamon, Boston University

Wading through the complexity of my emotions after the 2016 election, I found myself in need of a resource that would not simply refute the tragedy and pain or forsake the possibilities of joy and justice but own the value and reality of both. The womanist and mujerista traditions believe in the expansiveness of the ethical canon with the lived experiences of women of color acting as ethical lessons, and even Marcella Althaus-Reid took ethical and theological example from women lemon vendors in Buenos Aires. There are profound cultural resources that offer ethical insight, empowering and teaching individuals about ethical possibilities and how to ignite one’s own ethical imagination.

Favianna Rodriguez, an artist and activist, talks about the unique capacity of art. Rodriguez notes that art is distinctive in its ability to deliver “potent, powerful, and empathetic content.” Art exposes the true capacity and depth of human beings as well as the heights of our moral imagination. Rodriguez refers to art as cultural strategy, an agenda that is intrinsically political but speaks to something beyond the political in the individual. She touches, here, on art as cathartic because it reflects sheer humanity, in both its seemingly impetuous hopes and its perilous ills.

I’m interested in the indefatigable ability of art to speak to all of these realities simultaneously without disposing of the ethical certainty that the universe bends towards justice. Beyond that, I am moved and inspired by this capacity as it speaks to the resilience of the human spirit. The blues sits in pain unapologetically; poetry maintains that even complexity has a rhythm; and jazz speaks to the spontaneous capacity of the individual to create joy without abandoning even the most troubled baseline.

After the election of Donald Trump, and the inhumane and/or nonsensical executive orders and press conferences that followed, I was determined to acknowledge how lucky I am to live in the presence of beautiful, brown bodies that lift one another that thrive, survive, and love in community. As a black, queer, woman born from the South, I contemplated all of the ways in which I carry my ancestors and their strength with me and take solace in the voices and arms of people that I love. I, also, heard the universe’s admonition of Trump and his white, cisheteropatriarchal, neoliberal capitalist excuses for prejudice and propagation of evil as Nina Simone sang “so you’re living high and mighty/rich off the fat of the land/just don’t dispose of your natural soul/ ‘cause you know darn well/that you’ll go to Hell.” While I do not necessarily want to encourage the dichotomous and binarist notions of Heaven and Hell, I connect deeply to Simone’s call never to abandon one’s humanity as a connection to one’s sense of justice, morality, and truth. Simone nearly makes one’s humanity sound unimpeachable while reflecting back the tragedy in its loss; she reminds me to trust myself and my internal moral compass as innately bent towards justice and right. coverMeanwhile, Rapsody laments “all my people growing tired/mamas fighting with they babies/they the ones to start the revolution, shit crazy/the media portray me with lies/wanna justify how my Black folk die/they don’t wanna hear our cries.” Rapsody registers current horrors, unjust and undue death and violence, without losing sight of the revolutionary love that combats it.

Jazz musicians Max Roach and John Coltrane fill me with joy through some of their most powerful, sociocultural exchanges, We Insist! and A Love Supreme, respectively. Both of these albums were released during and intentional responses to Apartheid and injustice in the Civil Rights Movement. Roach’s track “All Africa” asserts that “the beat has a rich and magnificent history/full of adventure, excitement, and mystery/some of it bitter, and some of it sweet/but all of it part of the beat.” Roach embraces the complication of human emotion and holds firm to the power and pertinence of historical memory. Roach and Coltrane create consistency and a semblance of order but don’t let it outweigh the power and freedom of chaos and spontaneity. The music of Roach and Coltrane provides lessons on elegance, balance, and the ethical value of simplicity. Coltrane plays impassioned flourishes, creates space for every individual voice, never loses that of the collective, and maintains direction; he does all of this and leaves the listener with one phrase “a love supreme,” his guiding principle.20170217_163620

The voices and artistic expression of Simone, Rapsody, Roach, Coltrane, and more teach me about the ethical capacity of the individual and the ways in which it proves inseparable from emotion. Injustice, hierarchy, and hegemony produce anger, frustration, veracity, hope, joy, and more, and inspire my understanding of the expansiveness of ethical possibilities and examples. More importantly, these artists teach me about ethical possibilities by envisioning more welcoming and open moral possibilities with their music. It is this pushing of the moral imagination, which those oppressed and burdened by hegemonic leanings do everyday, that I find most uplifting about art: its uncovering of the potential for a love supreme.


Benae Beamon is a PhD candidate in the Graduate Division of Religious Studies in the Religion and Society track at Boston University. She focuses on black queer ethics, folding the study of black churches and philosophical hermeneutics into sexual ethics discourse, and the title of her dissertation is Black Religious Ethics and Black Transwomen’s Bodies.

Light for a New Day

Erin Lothes, College of St. Elizabeth, NJ

I’m a faith-based environmentalist. This is a hard place to stand these days. Lately my theme song has been “And She Was,” by The Talking Heads. “Missing enough to feel all right” keeps running through my head as I try be conscious enough to know how bad the news is, and missing enough to feel all right.

Then a new media shock hits, and my anger and stress rebuild. Consciousness seems to be a battle between reacting to the series of shocks (outrageous government appointments, dismantled legislation, and vanishing webpages) and submitting to numbness under this onslaught of insults to reasonable and prudential care for the earth, her people, and living communities. And yet, submerged under this numbing tide, hiding from the anger, I find that it is the heartfelt witness of those already suffering the desecration of climate change that makes me cry in a way that absolves me from anger and draws me into decision. It is the resolve of those relentlessly forging new lifeways that makes me take heart.

Recently, I re-read a series of energy ethics essays I had the privilege to edit. The series, called Light For a New Day, was convened by GreenFaith and myself, and published for presentation at the November UNFCCC climate treaty conference in Marrakech, COP 22. Its fifteen authors represent the world’s major faith traditions and geographic regions, and they address diverse and particular energy issues. All of the essays powerfully illustrate the nexus of climate, policy, suffering, and ethics, providing a spiritual and religious lens upon the crisis and its solutions.

Here’s an editor’s guide to this symposium of solidarity, which I think sets forth equal opportunities for encounter, outrage, inspiration, hopefulness, research, and most of all, new spiritual and moral paradigms for framing our outlook on energy.

The concrete details about local struggles, like the explosive conflicts in the oil fields of Nigeria recounted by Fr. Edward Osang Obi, are excellent for classroom use as well as impetus for our further research. Rabbi Yonatan Neril and Daniel Weber share Sabbath wisdom that teaches humanity to moderate its mastery of the world, and urge Jewish communities to advocate for wise energy policies. Pankaj Jain reveals the massive levels of hidden emissions from the meat industry and calls for a mandate for transparent, governmental-level documentation of all emissions. Which energy policies are needed, in which concrete form, for which community? An excellent question for classes, parishes, seminaries, and community groups.

When the unreality that the titan of economic investment in fossil fuel extraction was confirmed as the captain of the ship of state hits me in the gut again, returning me to a now-familiar breathlessness, I recall the advice, “don’t mourn; organize.” Here are passionate and intelligent calls for divestment from Buddhist philosopher David Loy and South African Anglican activist Ncumisa Ukeweva Magadla. A profound exploration of Islamic scholarship and environmental leadership by Imam Saffet Catovic is worth careful attention. This study articulates the moral resolve and intellectual foundations that led to the statement of divestment by the Islamic Society of North America.

Three of the essays that move me the most are direct witnesses to the losses that their people are experiencing. Beata Tsosie-Pena implores all to recover the reverence for mother earth and preserves the earth and the waters that give life. Pausa Kaio Thompson witnesses to the pleas of a sinking Oceania, sharing the prayers of “Sa-Moana” theology for a worldwide response of faith and conversion to the way of living that will sustain our earth. And Henrik Grape speaks for the Arctic peoples, sharing their appeal to halt the melting of the Arctic, to draw on our transcendent sources for inspiration and change.

Creative theological interpretations from diverse traditions are here. Buddhist David R. Loy also awakens our consciousness to the reality of social dukkha: suffering that is caused by institutional structures. Hindu writer Mat McDermot conceives asteya, theft, as actions that rob others of the ecological conditions for wellbeing. Luis Aránguiz Kahn advances Latin American Pentecostal eco-theology, calling for “ecological political holiness” that invites Pentecostals to acknowledge their power in the Spirit and power in society to protest environmental exploitation. Teresia Hinga articulates the impact of energy on food and water access in Africa, calling for an Afro-theo-ethics and a social ministry of the granary. Rev. Claudio de Oliveira Ribeiro’s pastoral reflections on ecological spirituality connect powerfully with a critique of societies like his native Brazil, marked by individualism, exclusion, and conflict.

Through this collection, I experience an amazing linking of arms with activists, theologians, and religious thinkers of all traditions, an ongoing memory of the power of being in Marrakech with so many passionate leaders resolved to frame implementation mechanisms for a hard-fought global treaty. I’m encouraged by the clarity of their witness, a united front of resistance thrown up against the mendacity of climate change denial and its ecocidal policies.

Newly inspired, I investigated my TIAA CREF retirement fund and found that since I last checked, a fossil free fund was created. Light in the darkness! Perhaps if we cannot always sing as we go, as Pope Francis urges, at least we can choke on our tears and set our teeth and resolve to imitate those who are building new ways forward. We can look at the energy cooperatives in Mexico built on fair trade principles that insist on ownership rights for the indigenous whose land hosts the wind farms, as described by entrepreneur Paulette Laurent Caire; the Japanese temples run on renewable energy, as described by Rev. Hidehito Okochi; the protest movements for divestment; the resistance of indigenous leaders everywhere: we can join them. We can draw inspiration, solidarity, and grit from their work. Their reflections cast a bit of light ahead through the wilderness we are still, still fighting through on the way to a renewed future.


Erin Lothes is an Earth Institute Fellow at Columbia University, in addition to being an assistant professor of Theology at the College of St. Elizabeth, NJ. She is the recent author of Inspired Sustainability: Planting Seeds for Action (Orbis, 2016).

On Remembering and Surviving

Thelathia “Nikki” Young, Bucknell University

Every single breath we take is a miracle

We were not meant to survive

We were meant to die, to be buried, to be trampled underfoot

Every heartbeat is a miracle

We were not meant to survive

We were meant to disappear, to wither into nothing in the soil

Every brain wave is a miracle

We were not meant to survive

We were meant to see only devastation, to bind ourselves with the shackles of someone else’s vision

Every muscle response is a miracle

We were meant to evaporate from history, to never have existed in the first place

We were not meant to survive.

But we did.


That we – people who are marginalized in America – have the audacity and the unction to continue in existence makes people question reality. Constant efforts to snuff out our lives with acute and massive violence, to squelch our spirits with demoralizing policies and laws, to render us hypervisible invisible entities, to dilute our cosmological imaginings with watered down notions of divinity… all this effort means that our survival makes no sense. And yet, even as some among us die, we must remind one another that we are surviving.

When I walked into my Race and Sexuality class on November 9, my students looked downtrodden and demoralized. For some of them, the election was the first realization that we do, in fact, live in a national context where racism, sexism, classism, heterosexism, and xenophobia are substantiated by violence and threats of further violence. For others in the class, nothing new happened on election night; the country simply confirmed and punctuated its own history of social and political oppression. In both cases, students struggled to articulate their feelings and floundered in the face of the country’s undeniable callous disregard for (social) justice.

I wanted a way to remind them of our collective survival. I needed a way to re-teach them about the power in our resilience, so I reminded them that my people – black people – have been living miraculous lives for a long time. That is, we have persisted in our existence, despite social, political, religious, and economic efforts to eviscerate us. I reminded them that we are science fiction, that our ancestors imagined us into being.

Our job, I suggested, is to remember, analyze, and take note of truths that can be erased, of experiences that can be dismissed, of subjectivities that can be denied, of lives that can be ignored. We have to remember. And in remembering, in recognizing, we have to face the tough complexity that emerges.

After explaining this process of remembering to the students, I led a discussion of Audre Lorde’s “A Litany for Survival.” Students read the poem aloud and reflected on what it would mean for them to break their own silence, lift their own voices of protest and/or rage, in response to social and political realities that they would not longer accept or ignore. We also engaged a slightly altered version of the activity below, which I used during a workshop at a DignityUSA conference.

Out of our Own Mouths – Exercise for Remembering

  1. Have workshop participants do a 2-minute free-write. Ask them to jot down a memory of a time when homophobia/transphobia/heterosexism in the church had informed or shaped their relationship with religion and with their own sexual and gender identities.  (Note: this could also be used for other social identity markers, and it does not have to be connected to religion.)
  1. Then pair participants, preferably with someone they do not know or with whom they are not extremely close. Make one a listener and the other a teller (after having explained the value/virtue in the roles of listening and telling).
  1. Invite the teller to share their story for 2 minutes. Invite the listener to listen actively but silently. Note: it is not a conversation; rather, it is a compassionate communication.
  1. Now, ask them to switch roles for the next 2 minutes.
  1. Now ask each person to share (2 min. each) how this experience affected their sense of self, how it actually impacted their notion of them selves as a sexualized being.
  1. After a moment of break – allow folks to breathe! – ask the first listener to think about how they SURVIVED that experience. That is, what allowed them to get to where they are today? Note: this still works if the experience was not physically traumatic. Get the participants to think about their own capacity for resistance/resilience. (Consider providing an example.) Allow the listener to speak for 2 minutes. Then, invite them two switch roles.
  1. Ask for volunteers to share experiences, retelling the stories from the perspective of their survival/resistance/resilience.
  1. Debrief:
  • What did you notice in one another’s stories? What stood out to you about the stories?
  • How did it feel to share this experience? How did it feel to listen to someone else talk about this?
  • In what way did this exchange impact your own sense of sexuality, etc.?
  • What did the example of resilience/resistance teach you about your own capacity?
  • Why is it important to reframe this story?

Nikki Young teaches undergraduate students about intersectionality, queerness, race, and social justice. Her research focuses on black queer values, particularly in relation to constructions of kinship networks and constructions of liberation. Black Queer Ethics, Family, and Philosophical Imagination (Palgrave Macmillan, 2016) is her first book. She is currently writing a new book, Home Free: A Transnational Ethics of Black Queer Liberation.

Solidarity as a Foundation for Social Change

Rebecca Todd Peters, Elon University

As a feminist scholar-activist, I find that the rhythms of my life are an intersection of teaching, loving, lecturing, friending, struggling, parenting, preaching, and (as an introvert) sometimes hiding! None of these activities are discreet and separate tasks – I am not a mother at home, a teacher at my university and a minister when I’m at church. I am always all of these identities simultaneously – personally and professionally.

Sometimes, however, one or another of my responsibilities takes precedence in my life. In the days and weeks since the election, I have found my time increasingly filled with activities bent on helping to understand, educate, and mobilize in opposition to the threats to human dignity, personal safety, and democratic rule that are embodied in the person of Donald Trump and in the increasingly autocratic and authoritarian administration he is assembling. My own work on solidarity and justice has proved enormously helpful for me in this moment and I hope that it might be of use to others as well. While my book, Solidarity Ethics: Transformation in a Globalized World, was written for first-world Christians seeking ways to live with integrity in the midst of a global economic order set up to privilege and enrich countries in the global North at the expense of countries in the global South – it offers much potential for our current situation.

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I will highlight four ways the logic and argument of the book can be useful in classroom, in churches, and in broader facets of community organizing to help students and broader publics address the threats that currently face our country and the world. First, since the book is written for first-world Christians, it is approachable and accessible. While the ethical claims are rooted in Christian tradition, it is not an exclusivist position and is written to invite broader conversation. This makes it useful both in the classroom as well as with churches and community groups. More importantly, the approach to social change laid out in the book emphasizes the necessity of both working for change as individuals in our personal lives AND in recognizing the structural nature of social problems and urging readers to find ways to engage in larger avenues of structural change that offer the chance of more effective long-term transformation. In short, I argue that personal change is necessary but insufficient for large-scale social change and that people must join together in collective actions that can bring about the kind of social change that will lead us toward justice.

Second, one of the goals of the book is to help readers recognize that the task of solidarity is not merely symbolic but that it requires work, investment, and commitment. One way of demonstrating the rigorous expectations of solidarity is to present a continuum of moral agency that ranges from sympathy to responsibility to mutuality – with the claim that authentic solidarity can only be forged from a position of mutuality. By encouraging readers to think about whether their actions are rooted in sympathy, responsibility, or mutuality – chapter two pushes readers to think more deeply and critically about how they are positioned vis-a-vis the work of charity, justice, service, mission (whatever they call it) that they do. Challenging readers to ask what mutuality requires can be a helpful tool for self-examination.

Third, critical self-examination is an important aspect of Solidarity Ethics and while it begins with the task of working to create relationships of mutuality across lines of difference, I also argue that people must examine and attend to the meaning of their various forms of privilege before they can expect to be able to create relationships of mutuality – much less relationships of solidarity. Chapter four helps guide discussions about privilege and how privilege functions in ways that allow readers to engage in critical self-examination in productive ways that promote structural analysis rather than devolving into guilt and shame.

Fourth, while solidarity is a broad and familiar concept in the public sphere, the idea of solidarity has also been coopted in ways that downplay the challenge of what true solidarity requires as well as the potential it offers for promoting deep democratic engagement rooted in Christian values of community, cooperation, hospitality, and the common good. By offering four concrete steps – metanoia, honoring difference, accountability, and action – that solidarity requires (chapter three), the book outlines criteria for helping to think about solidarity. These criteria can help individuals and communities think about how to shape social action that is socially responsible and deeply informed by the principle of social justice.

This book is not an action guide that tells people what to do but rather a theoretical framework that helps privileged readers think about how to root the tasks of social justice and social change in a radical mutuality that rejects social hierarchies (racism, classism, sexism, heterosexism, ableism, etc.) and the prejudices and sins that accompany them.

I wrote this book because I needed a book to use with students and church people who asked me what they could/ought do after I had helped to open their eyes to the problems of social injustice and inequality in the world. I have taught it with undergrads, seminary students, and in many local churches. I hope that others will also find it useful in helping guide discussions about how we ought to respond to the world in which we live.


Rebecca Todd Peters is a feminist social ethicist and Professor of Religious Studies at Elon University in North Carolina. Her latest book is Solidarity Ethics: Transformation in a Globalized World, and she is completing a book on abortion and reproductive justice that will be published next January with Beacon Press.

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