Rev. Joseph Boyd
Wednesday was a big day for our country. At Union Seminary in New York City, many were celebrating with one of their alums Rev. Dr. Raphael Warnock, who was voted in as the first black senator from Georgia. He is senior minister of Ebenezer Baptist Church, the church that Dr. Martin Luther King Jr served, and has carried forth the legacy of nonviolence. Many were also forced to take notice due to black and brown voters that Jon Osoff from the Democratic Party was also elected.

It continues to amaze and humble me to see black and brown voters actively participating in a system that has consistently tried and failed to dehumanize them. We also saw on Wednesday the storming of the capitol building by an angry white mob who forced their way with seemingly little resistance, and did what they could do to desecrate and destroy it. Though dramatic, this too also failed, and many mostly black and brown workers at the capitol cleaned up the capitol afterward with respect and dignity.

On Wednesday evening we had a gathering of congregants to process this moment in our country’s history. Many like myself were shocked and horrified. Many also like myself were seeking to ground this moment in the values of this church: democracy, justice, and a celebration of diversity. In the days since then, many organizations have released some kind of statement denouncing the act as white terrorism, calling for the impeachment of our current president, and again highlighting the disparity of police force based on race. I heard one tweet that succinctly put it well from Davontae Harris: “We’re not asking you to shoot them like you shoot us, we’re asking you to NOT shoot us like you don’t shoot them…” Sadly, though, there were deaths that occurred. Last I checked at least 4 people were killed and 1 officer, and harm was done, and the reverberations of this harm are felt throughout this entire country. Many of us still feel it.

Members of the Standing Rock Sioux issued a statement remarking on remembering the protest at Standing Rock where they held up signs reading: “We are Unarmed,” and then were still treated with force, resulting in injury and death, many more than what occurred at the capitol this Wednesday. I have read statements released that have responded to the outcry that “This is not what our country does,” with saying that we must come to terms that this is what our country does and has done for far too long: acts of violence and harm for those who are seeking civil rights, and leniency toward those who show up armed and white, ready to cause destruction.

Ivan Klima, the Czech author, once said that is easier to destroy than to create. I think this depends on how you define the word easy. I don’t think it’s easy to live with the aftermath of destruction, to rage against it, to process it, live with it, and then seek to integrate it into your life. I don’t think this is easy. I don’t think it’s easy to see so many of our citizens regardless of party affiliation visibly shaken and upset. But on the other hand, this is a sign of hope. It is a hopeful sign that so many have denounced this act as not who we want to be, even though this act represents 400 years of such acts. It is not an aberration, but it is not who we want to be any longer. Finding that tipping point, whatever it is, is really significant.

I think it is actually easier to create than destroy. Because to create is to be human, and thus to create is to remember who we are. It is easier in some ways to be human, to be who we are, than it is to get caught up in a frenzy of destruction, the destruction that leads to and results from being hurt and filled with hatred. Even our response to hatred can be more hatred if we don’t take the time to remember who we are, by creating rather than destroying.

Often I think we can mistake creation for being a difficult thing, because we are assuming we are creating something that is not here yet. We may think we’re starting from scratch, and so thus to create is to go against the grain of our circumstances, against the grain of what we see on TV and read on the news.

But thanks to Camus, I see it differently. Camus fought against injustice his entire adult life. He was born in France, and became part of the Underground Resistance when the Nazis occupied where he lived. When France was again ruled by its own government, he was horrified to see how brutal the government was treating Algerians; in much the way we are horrified to see the acts of our government today. Tipasa was a childhood spot where Camus had fond memories of enjoying the summertime as a carefree youth. When he returned as an adult the entire area was wrapped in fencing by the French government and was inaccessible. This moment triggered all the things he had witnessed over the last 20 years of his life: brutality and cruelty by the French government, hatred, and rampant injustice. He found that he was personally getting very tired of fighting injustice, and his work was feeling very dry and bitter. He could feel hatred beginning to grow in his heart. And when he saw the fencing around Tipasa, he felt that the joy and play he once felt as a youth was gone forever, and he left in despair. I know many are feeling like that at this moment. It can feel at times that like the pain and injustice of the world is too much, and that the cards are stacked against us no matter how much we resist. But that wasn’t the last time he visited Tipasa.

He visited again a few years after that, and then had a startling revelation. The fence was still there as he remembered. He still couldn’t access what we once loved, but this time he did something different. Instead of just focusing on the fences which made him feel despair, he happened to glance up, and he saw the sky. And when he looked at the sky, he came to an immediate and startling revelation: his childhood summertime was right there in that moment, right where he was. Everything that he loved, and everyone he loved and who loved him was right there in that moment with him, no matter what. And that was when he wrote that now famous line that “in the depth of Winter, I finally learned that within me, there lay, an invincible summer.” The context for this line is the depth of Winter was seeing the fencing of his childhood playground, and the decades of brutality by Nazis and then the French government on the Algerian people. The invincible summer was everything that he loved, and everyone who loved him, all right there, in the depth of Winter, with him always.

Much like the Buddha who looked up and saw the morning star, Camus was able to find the true source of his life: what he loved, and who he loved, there for him at all times, in this moment. Camus took that experience and went back to doing what he was doing: acting in solidarity with the Algerians in France, and in the midst of continuing brutality and disappointment, he kept alive his awareness of an invincible summer, a childhood joy that was not in the past, but a living present. He wrote that his work for justice then could be nourished by what he loved and who he loved throughout his entire life. It would never leave him, and this made his acts of resistance part of his joy, part of his love. It saved him from bitterness.

I don’t know if John Lennon met or ever read Camus. But interestingly he had a similar experience. After both his mother and father died, young Lennon became familiar with a Salvation Army children’s home in Liverpool, and in the back they had this place that fascinated John his entire life: a small garden called Strawberry Fields.  As an adult, as a member of the Beatles, he wrote “Strawberry Fields Forever,” a way of remembering what gave him joy as a boy and continued to give him joy forever, even though as an adult that joy became muddled with all kinds of experiences.

The great writer Toni Morrison said of her vocation that “all writing is remembering, and when we remember, we create.” I would say that is all any of us do in a life well lived. We remember. We remember who we are. And this act of remembering is not recapturing a moment from the past; it is an act of creation. We are creating our present.

So who are we? It is tempting to look back at 400 years of brutality, and conclude that we are all brutes, hopelessly lost, and utterly unredeemable. But I don’t find that’s too creative. Maybe that’s too easy, and yet it creates a hard and bitter life. I’m reminded who I am each and every Sunday I stand in this pulpit with you. I’m reminded that I’m part of a community that seeks the truth in love, and seeks to serve with kindness and integrity.  I’m part of a community that knows how to laugh and have fun. Humor is super important, and you all teach me that. I’ve learned that not knowing what to do or how to respond can be a virtue: it makes us better listeners, and helps us to respond more skillfully. I’ve learned that compassion is real, and that no matter how bad my situation is, there is someone here who will be there to support me as I go through it.

I’ve learned that it’s a great pleasure to be myself. And myself is not just someone from the past, but myself is someone I create intentionally with all of you. I’ve learned that it is possible to be aware of and engage in difficulty without growing bitter and despairing. I’ve learned during this pandemic that I really like breathing, and I never really noticed it much before. I like being alive, and I like the life that I’m in. I like Youngstown, and I really like this church. I like who I’m becoming thanks to being with all of you. More and more I feel like I’m coming in touch with my center, my own invincible summer. Invincible means nothing can harm it or stop it, not even death.  Perhaps this is what we leave ultimately whenever we pass on – we pass on what and who we love. And the next generation gets to embody that in their own way, by remembering that which is invincible. I feel I have inherited through reading Camus’ words a love for the Algerians, the marginal and harmed within my own country, in my own time and place. I’ve learned that joy and love can inform my life, rather than just react to horror with despair and bitterness. I’ve learned that service can be an act of love, rather than mere duty or responsibility. It helps me remember who I am.

So who are you? Next week we’ll be given the opportunity to vote after service during the annual meeting on a new incoming president and a principle to dismantle racism and other oppressions in ourselves and our institutions. It couldn’t be more apt timing. I hope you will join us for that. Each of our actions, rightfully understood, is an act of imagination. When we respond to violence with a commitment to community, when we respond to bias and prejudice with a commitment to greater equity, we are given the opportunity to remember who we are. Not who we’ve been, who we want to become.  We are so fortunate, you and I, to be alive during this precious and vulnerable time. Our life is precious and vulnerable, and this time is so precious and vulnerable on all fronts. We are given the opportunity to practice really caring for each other, not just in words, but in our actions, in how we choose to live our daily life. It is a precious and rare opportunity. We’ve been given the gift on this day to respond to hatred and fear with their antidotes: understanding and committed actions of peace and true community. In my understanding, that is who we really are, who we really could be. We are given the opportunity on this day to hear from many voices about how we might discover the joy of our humanity in the midst of horror. We are given the opportunity to come in contact with an invincible summer in the depth of Winter. My prayer is this: let’s not waste this opportunity.