Good evening and welcome. My name is Charles Stang. I'm the director
here at the Center for the Study of
World Religions. And on behalf of the
staff and the residents, it's my pleasure to welcome you
to the annual Greeley Lecture for Peace and Social Justice. And it's my great
honor this evening to introduce this year's Greeley
lecturer, the Reverend Dr. Kelly Brown Douglas, Dean of
the Episcopal Divinity School at Union Theological Seminary. Before I introduce
Professor Douglas, however, permit me to say a
few words about the Greeley Lecture and a new series here
at the center on race, religion, and nationalism. But before I do that,
might I ask you all to silence your cell phones. I'm going to confirm
that mine is the same. Invariably, one goes
off, so let's try to make it fewer than six. Thank you. And there should be
enough seats-- well, there's a few seats up here if
anyone's looking for a seat. And there's one over there too. Thank you. So the original gift
for the Greeley Lecture was made in the honor of the
Reverend Dana McLean Greeley, a 1931 graduate of
Harvard Divinity School and a prominent Unitarian
minister and leader. And the lecture series
named in his honor has brought many prominent
intellectuals and activists to campus over recent years. We're doing something slightly
new with the Greeley Lecture, however. We're dedicating the Greeley
Lecture to a specific theme. Upon taking the reins
of the center last July, I named five themes that will
give shape to the center's programming over the course
of the next four years, the four years are
my term as director. And most urgent of
those themes is one that we're calling race,
religion, and nationalism. Now, here's the working
description of that new series. Across the world today, we
witness an alarming rise in old nationalisms,
each of which deploys openly or covertly
the rhetoric of race and racial hierarchy
and of religion and religious hierarchy. We see this happening, for
example, across Europe, in the Middle East, in India,
and of course, right here in the United States where
white Christian nationalism now has a strong foothold
in the executive branch of the federal government. This series on race,
religion, and nationalism seeks to critically examine this
phenomenon at home and abroad, locally and globally. It will ask such
questions as, to what degree does religion fuel
this racialized nationalism? In the American
context, for example, how does evangelical
Christianity support white nationalism? To what degree is
racialized nationalism, such as white
nationalism, a religion itself with its own myths,
rituals, and ways of life? And to what degree are different
racialized nationalisms now affiliating with each other
to form international networks? That's a working description
open to revision. The exact shape of the
series and the events that we're going to
host under its name are still coming into view. But at the very least,
we can promise you four years of consistent
inquiry into this urgent topic by some of the very best
hearts and minds we can find. I hope you will agree that
there is no one better suited to inaugurate this new
chapter in the Greeley Lecture in this new chapter at the
center than Professor Kelly Brown Douglas. Professor Douglas did her
masters and doctoral studies in systematic theology at
Union Theological Seminary under James Cone. Professor Douglas' academic work
focuses on womanist theology, sexuality and the black church. Essence magazine
counts her, quote, "among this country's
most distinguished religious thinkers, teachers,
ministers, and counselors." Her latest book Stand
Your Ground, Black Bodies and the Justice of God, examines
the challenges of a stand your ground culture
for the black church. We hosted a very
productive seminar on this really rather
incredible book earlier today in this very room. And I'd like to thank my
colleague, Professor Todne Thomas and her students,
many of whom are in the room tonight, for engaging so deeply
and vividly with Professor Douglas' book. A native of Dayton,
Ohio, Professor Douglas was ordained at St.
Margaret's Episcopal Church in 1985, the first black
woman to be ordained an Episcopal priest in
the Southern Ohio Diocese, and one of only five
nationwide at that time. She was the first to receive
the Anna Julia Cooper Award by the Union of
Black Episcopalians for, quote, "her literary
boldness and leadership in the development of
a womanist theology and discussing the
complexities of Christian faith in African-American contexts." She was an Associate Priest
at Holy Comforter Episcopal Church in Washington
DC for over 20 years. She currently serves
as the Canon Theologian at the Washington
National Cathedral. Prior to taking on the deanship
of the newly reconstituted Episcopal Divinity School,
she was the Susan D. Morgan Professor of Religion
at Goucher College. And prior to that, she was
Associate Professor of Theology at Howard University's
School of Divinity. I will not embarrass
Professor Douglas by listing all her
many publications. Suffice to say that they
are not only many but very learned and wise. Thank you again for
coming out this evening during this bad weather. I'm confident you won't
regret your decision. Thank you, Professor
Douglas, for giving of your very valuable
and limited time in order to give this lecture and
engage with our community. And please join me in welcoming
Professor Douglas to the podium to deliver the Greeley Lecture. [APPLAUSE] Thank you, Professor Stang, for
a very gracious introduction. And thank you,
Professor Thompson-- Thomas. Thomas. But thank you, again, for
hosting me this afternoon and the time with your class. And what a wonderful reception
I've had here on this day. And it is so good to
be with all of you here on this campus
in this center. And I thank you for coming
out in this weather. I can't promise you
that you won't regret it but don't throw anything at me. Just go get some hot
chocolate or something and warm yourselves up. And it's always great to be
back up this way and to be here. And I am especially
grateful to be here on this evening at this
time, because I could see my nephew who is a student
here, Christopher Hobson, whom I've not seen for a while. So he told me he might have
to duck out a little early to go to class. I said, yes, you better. [LAUGHTER] So but I thank him for
being here as well. Let me begin. And hopefully, we
will have some time for-- we will have some time
for questions and conversation and just dialogue. We all know the numbers, yet, it
is good to be reminded of them. As reported by the
Sentencing Project, African-American males
are six times more likely to be incarcerated than
white males and 2 and 1/2 times more likely than Hispanic males. Given current trends,
the report continues, one of every three
African-American males born today can expect to go to
prison in his lifetime, as can one of every six
Hispanic, Latino males-- compared to one of
every 17 white males. When we look at the
numbers by state, they are even more startling. Again, taken from the
Sentencing Project, African-Americans are
incarcerated in state prisons at a rate that is 5.1 times the
imprisonment rate of whites. In five states, Iowa,
Minnesota, New Jersey, Vermont, and Wisconsin, the disparity
is more than 10 to 1. In 12 states, more than half
of the prison population is African-American, with
my current state of Maryland topping the nation with a
72% African-American prison population. Within the state prison
systems, Latinx Americans are imprisoned at a rate that
is 1.4 times the rate of whites. The disparity of Latinx
Americans to whites is particularly high in
states such as this one, Massachusetts, Connecticut,
Pennsylvania, and New York, where the ratio is three to
four times that as whites. The numbers are just
as concerning when it comes to women in particular. For while there are more
men than women in the prison system-- again, quoting
the Sentencing Project-- the rate of growth for
female imprisonment has outpaced men
by more than 50% between the years
of 1980 and 2014. In fact, between 1980
and 2014, the number of incarcerated women
increased by more than 700%. In 2014, the imprisonment rate
for African-American women was twice that of white
women while for Latina women was 1 and 1/2 times
that of white women. Now, we know these numbers, but
what are we to say about them? How is it that black
and brown bodies are so disproportionately victims of
the prison industrial complex? What has made this
such a normal reality and embedded in the
American landscape? In a June 2013 tweet, Donald
Trump said it is, quote, "because the overwhelming
amount of violent crimes in our major cities is committed
by blacks and Hispanics, a tough subject," he said. He, of course, doubled down
on this version of reality as he continually repeated
some variation of it in his observations concerning
America's inner cities during his campaign and beyond. You will recall his saying
that African-Americans, Hispanics, quote,
"are living in hell, because it's so dangerous. You walk down the street,
he said, and you get shot." Needless to say, Donald
Trump's observations betray the complexity
of the matter. Yet, at the same time, his
observations and comments on crime or as he puts
it, "American carnage" reveals the racially insidious
nature of the matter. For it has become clear that in
his view, the African-Americans and the Latinos, as
he often refers to us, are synonymous with crime,
and therefore, the people themselves are the problem. In reality, what his
comments point to was that which they also
ignore, and that is the reality of violence
that too often defines the everyday lives
of the very people he would see as the problem. Yet, it is not only Trump
who ignores the real issues of violence in this nation. When many Americans see coverage
of violence in our cities, many view it as shocking,
and they want it to stop. But what these viewers
don't see and what the news does not
cover is the violence that is truly shocking. That is the extent of
the violence perpetrated against brown and black
bodies every single day. The gun violence,
for instance, that is often covered in the
news is merely sporadic compared to a much larger,
pervasive and mostly ignored racialized violent reality. It is the violence,
for instance, of racialized poverty. It is the case, for
instance, that blacks have the highest poverty
rate, 24.1%, while whites have the lowest, 9%. And in fact, the poverty
rate for the black and Latinx community-- and theirs is 21%-- is more than double
that of whites. Moreover, while over a four year
period between 2009 and 2013 almost half of whites
who were in poverty were able to move above
the poverty threshold, only one third of blacks
and Latinx persons were able to do the same. An even more disconcerting
manifestation of this racialized
cycle of violence is its impact on young
black and brown bodies. According to the report from
the Children's Defense Fund, black and Latinx
children continue to suffer disproportionately
from poverty with the youngest children most at
risk for being poor. One in three black
children and more than one in four Latinx children
were poor in 2015, compared to one in
eight white children. Nearly one in six black children
and one in nine Latinx children were living in extreme
poverty, compared to one in 17 white children. More than one in three black
children under age five were poor, and one in
five were extremely poor. While black children had
the highest poverty rate, the largest number of poor
children were Latinx children. The unrelenting color
line of race in America speaks to the troubling reality
that black and brown bodies are now and always have been
prime targets of not simply unrelenting violence but
unacknowledged violence. Again, the question is, why? What is the root
of such violence? And as we contemplate
this evening, what are the implications
of this for God's peace? In a 1967 speech defending
black protesters' rights to use violence to, as he said,
"rid ourselves of oppression," Jamil Abdullah Al-Amin,
then known as H. Rap Brown, said this, he said, "violence
is a part of America's culture. It is as American
as cherry pie." While Al-Amin's words received
much criticism at the time, he actually spoke a
truth about America, especially when it came
to brown and black bodies that, perhaps, he did
not even fully grasp. For the violence to which these
bodies fall prey in America reflects the coming
together of two narratives that are endemic to
America's identity. I want to look at these
narratives so, again, we can begin to understand
their challenges to us and the implications for
the meaning of God's peace. These narratives are the
narrative of anti-blackness and the narrative of
Anglo-Saxon exceptionalism or white supremacy. Let me turn first to this
narrative of anti-blackness. The narrative of anti-blackness
became most conspicuous with Europeans'
earliest incursions into the African continent. While ancient Greek and
Roman scholars were certainly chauvinistic when it came
to appraising the body aesthetic of their own people,
there is little evidence that color prejudice
was integral in their thought or culture. In general, the reality
of color prejudice is of Western origination,
coming into full relief with the earliest European
encounters with Africa. While the belief that Africans
were meant to be slaves was prevalent prior to
European encroachments upon the African continent,
an anti-black narrative was not as apparent
until their arrival. As the historian Winthrop
Jordan says, "one of the fairest skinned nations-- the English-- suddenly
came face to face with one of the darkest
peoples on the earth." Whether describing Africans
as black was initially done with purposeful
malicious intent is debatable, what is clear
is that skin color mattered to the Europeans and their
encounters with a people seemingly starkly
different from themselves. Furthermore, black was
not a benign signifier, no less an authority,
for instance, than the Oxford
English Dictionary. It already established whiteness
as a sign of innocence, purity, and goodness while blackness
signified vileness, danger, and evil-- not to
speak of the Bible. As far apart as the
English complexion was from the African,
the meaning of whiteness was from blackness. Consequently, to describe
the Africans as black ensured that the Eurocentric
color-defined gaze would not remain innocent, if it ever was. It was only the beginning
of an anti-blackness that provided the aesthetic
justification for the enslavement
and other violent acts against the bodies of
black men and women. As crucial as skin
color was, it was not the only physical
feature that astonished these early white intruders and
soon to be pillagers of Africa, nor was it the only aspect
of the anti-black narrative. Europeans also noted the
fullness of the African's lips, the broadness of their noses,
and the texture of their hair. It soon became very
clear that there was more at play than just
a shocking realization of the diversity
of human creation. In the European imagination,
the Africans' physiognomy signaled a genetic difference. When coupled with the
dissimilarity of dress and customs, not to
speak of religions, the European interlopers
became convinced that the blackness of the
Africans was more than skin deep. They believed it penetrated
through to the very character and soul of the people-- which, of course,
many Europeans claimed Africans did not possess-- thereby signaling a people who
were so thoroughly uncivilized that they were more beastly than
human and certainly not divine. Now, this beastly descriptor,
which became common, implied not simply that they
were wild and uncivilized but also hypersexualized. As Winthrop Jordan
points out, the terms beastial and beastly carried
with them sexual connotations. Thus, when an Englishman
described the Africans as beastly, he was, as
Jordan says, "frequently as much registering a
sense of sexual shock as describing swinish manners." Adding to this was the
unfortunate circumstance that the Europeans presumably
had their first encounter with the African apes at
the same time that they had their first encounter
with the people of Africa. It required,
therefore, a small leap in the European
imagination to conceive of an inherent connection
between the African apes and the African people. Once such a tie was forged,
it was an even easier leap of logic for the
Europeans to assume, as Winthrop Jordan remarks,
a, quote unquote, "beastly copulation or conjuncture," end
quote, between the two species. It was in this
way that blackness came to signal a
people who were grossly uncivilized and dangerously
hypersexualized. If nothing else, it was
clear to the white intruders that these were a
people who needed to be patrolled and controlled
given their desolate character and beastly disposition. Now, before I go
further, I must point out the unique bearing this
narrative of anti-blackness had upon black women from
the earliest beginnings. For the European gaze
was not only shaped by color but also by gender. Thus, it involved a
racialized standard of beauty that indicated whether or
not one was a proper woman. The visage of a beautiful
woman in the English mind was well established during
the Elizabethan period with the queen serving as
the perfect exemplar of it. Once again, this
aesthetic assessment was not benign when it came
to black women in America, especially given the enslaved
realities of their lives. As far away as black women
were from the standard of white beauty, they were also
from the standard of femininity and what it meant to be a lady. As is well documented, black
women became the perfect foil to white women. While white women
were considered virginal, pure angels
in need of protection, black women were considered
wanton, lascivious Jezebels in need of controlling. The violent nature of the
anti-black narrative itself now becomes clear. It is about more than a
chauvinistic repulsion to skin color and
cultural differences. It is a narrative that negates
the very humanity of a people, thereby making it
inherently violent. Any ideology or
system of thought that objectifies or
dehumanizes another human being must absolutely be
understood as violent. Furthermore, as we will see,
such a system of thought initiates a cycle of violence
in which the objectified, dehumanized being-- in this
instance, black bodies-- becomes entrapped. This brings us to the
centrality of this narrative to the American identity and
another violent narrative that it comes together with. The anti-black narrative arrived
in America most explicitly with the Puritans and Pilgrims. When American's Pilgrim and
Puritan forebears fled England in search of freedom,
they believed themselves descended of an
ancient Anglo-Saxon people who uniquely possessed
high moral values and, quote unquote, "an
intrinsic love for freedom." Their beliefs reflected an
Anglo-Saxon myth instigated by a first century philosopher--
whom for many of you, this will be a review-- who touted the
distinctive superiority of these Anglo-Saxon people from
the ancient woods of Germany. Fueled by this Anglo-Saxon
myth, the early Americans crossed the Atlantic
with a vision to build a nation
that was politically and culturally, if
not demographically, true to their exceptional
Anglo-Saxon heritage. As such, America was
envisioned as a testament to the sacredness of Anglo-Saxon
character and values, if not people. American exceptionalism was
Anglo-Saxon exceptionalism. American identity was equated
with Anglo-Saxon identity. Now, in order to
safeguard America's mythic Anglo-Saxon
vision and sense of self, a pervasive culture
of whiteness was born. Thus, whiteness became the
perfect way to mask the fact that America was an immigrant
nation with migrants-- even from Europe-- who are not actually
Anglo-Saxon. The elevation of
whiteness was inevitable since, as noted
earlier, whiteness had come to signify purity
and moral innocence, a skin tone therefore
befitting, quote unquote, "exceptional Anglo-Saxons." Invariably, therefore, whiteness
forged an impregnable wall between America's myth of
Anglo-Saxon exceptionalism and that which
might compromise it, such as those persons on
the other side of whiteness. Hence, the birth
of white culture with an anti-black narrative as
its defining feature was born. After all, there was
nothing more opposed to whiteness than
blackness, not only in color but also in what it had come
to signify about a people. It is this opposition between
whiteness and blackness that forms the basis of
white supremacist ideology. In the words of legal
scholar Cheryl Harris, quote, "the amalgamation
of various European strains into an American identity-- that is Anglo-Saxon identity-- was facilitated by an
oppositional definition of black as other," end quote. It is this oppositionality
between whiteness and blackness that forms, again, the basis
of white supremacist ideology. With the emergence of this
white supremacist ideology, two things become clear. First-- to state the obvious-- the ideology of white
supremacy depends upon the narrative
of anti-blackness since the notion of
white superiority rests on the ideal
of black inferiority. Second, whiteness itself must be
regarded as a violent identity construct in as much
as it is defined by denigrating that
which is non-white, most notably blackness. This brings us back to
the fact of white culture. To reiterate, if America's
mythic Anglo-Saxon white identity was
to be protected, then blackness had to be
repelled at all costs. And this is the job
of white culture. White culture, in its
various manifestations, is that which perpetuates the
ideal of white superiority and, especially through
its legal and extralegal expressions, helps
whiteness to stand its ground against any
corrupting or threatening intrusions into the
white Anglo-Saxon space. And so once again, the reality
of America's inherent identity is violent. For like white identity-- I'm sorry, of white
culture is violent-- for like white identity,
white culture in all of its expressions is
intrinsically violent given its necessary anti-black nature. The fact of the matter is this. That as long as America's
identity is grounded in the myth of Anglo-Saxon
exceptionalism-- and it is-- then it is
grounded in violence. In this regard, there
is no getting around it. Anti-blackness is a part
of America's original DNA and so is Anglo-Saxon
exceptionalism. And so it seems that not only is
violence in general as American as cherry pie but
so too is violence against non-white bodies,
in particular, black bodies. So let's look a little
more specifically at the impact of the deadly
violence of anti-blackness. This is a violence,
as has been suggested, that goes beyond the
racially biased war on drugs, the biased policing, and
tough on crime measures. This is a violence, indeed, that
has its most greatest impact-- as it's also been pointed out-- up on the most vulnerable
of those non-white bodies, children. It is a violence whose greatest
reality and most pervasive reality is, perhaps,
the cycle of violence created by the violence
that is poverty. But before I go on, let me say
something most particularly about the reality
of gun violence for that is about which we
hear so much in the news, particularly as it
is expressed in terms of black-on-black homicides
and black-on-black crime. Paulo Freire is right
to say that violence is rarely, if at all,
initiated by the oppressed. Given, for instance, the
violent culture of poverty-- which is best understood in
my mind as a culture of death with its realities of lack
of decent job, housing, educational, and
recreational opportunities-- the high rate of gun violence
within our cities given this culture should
come of no surprise. Indeed, what is more
surprising are the number of black and brown persons that
are able to survive and thrive with dignity in conditions
that intend their death and not the abundant life
which God promises all of us. But there is an even more
disconcerting reality when it comes to
the fact of guns and that is the narrative
that, as Victor Rios says, criminalizes black
and Latinx persons, even before they have done
anything criminal, a narrative that, again, is central to
America's collective identity and has insinuated itself into
the collective consciousness of Americans. Consequently,
successfully implanted deep within the American
psyche because the image of black and brown bodies as
dangerously criminal bodies and thus, an ever present
threat to whiteness. Indeed, there are
numerous studies that reveal almost automatic
unconscious responses to these bodies as if they
are threatening and violent in and of themselves. Given, then, the
pervasive impact of the anti-black narrative
on the white imagination, it is no wonder that it was
easier for the public to paint, for instance, 17-year-old
Trayvon Martin, who had no juvenile record,
as a thug who deserved to be killed while
giving his killer, who had a police record, a pass. Nor should it be a
surprise to any of us that the officer who shot and
killed 18-year-old Michael Brown thought it reasonable
to describe him as a demon, just as it seemed reasonable
to the officer who killed 12-year-old Tamir
Rice to mistake him for a 21-year-old
threatening man, or that an officer would
perceive Sandra Bland as threatening during
a traffic stop that led to her arrest
and subsequent death. The point of the matter is this. That as long as the violent
narrative of anti-blackness is a decisive aspect of
America's Anglo-Saxon identity, then black and brown bodies will
be disproportionately impacted by denigrating and deadly
violence, that which is seen and that which is ignored. To reiterate because it
cannot be said enough, the narrative of anti-blackness
is violent as its sole purpose is the denigration and
dehumanization of a people. This narrative alone would
have a devastating impact on black lives. However, as it is interacted
with America's narrative of Anglo-Saxon
exceptionalism and, thus, become an integral part
of America's identity, it is even more deadly. Moreover, I should point out
that these narratives and guns don't mix, which means
that America and guns are a most deadly combination for
particular groups of people-- that is non-white peoples-- given the fact that,
again, these narratives are endemic to
America's identity. And hence, Al-Amin's
observation takes on even greater meaning as it
would seem that gun violence is just as American as cherry pie. Now, before looking at
the meaning of God's peace in light of such
violence, I must say a word about a
violent vision for America to which a majority
of white Americans and white Christians
in particular actually gave their support. A vision which reflects
both of these narratives, the violent vision to
make America great again. That the vision to
make America great again is a 21st century
effort to carry forth the legacy of the Anglo-Saxon
myth and the culture of whiteness that protects
it was made abundantly clear during President Trump's
campaign for the presidency. Recovery of America's
greatness was shrewdly associated with the
country ridding itself of non-white immigrants whose
very presence, according to Trump, has sent the nation
spiraling into social disarray and moral decadence. To bolster this prescription
for America's greatness, Trump trafficked in and
continues to traffic in disparaging
misrepresentations of immigrants as criminals and
of African-American communities as dangerous enclaves
of criminality. And in fact, we just saw
that again last night. His vision for
greatness, therefore, resonates with those
who have longed for an Anglo-Saxon
white America. And so it is no surprise
that Trump's solution to America's carnage
is one that ignores the violence of
white supremacy that destroys brown and
black lives and instead seeks to protect the greatness
of America that is white. Thus, his administration puts
forth a law and order agenda that doubles down on the kind
of sentencing that will again enhance the prison
industrial complex. We need law and order, he says. If we don't have it, we're
not going to have a country. If there's any doubt
of what he means, all one has to do is
look at the White House website and the mandate by
Attorney General Jeff Sessions to seek the highest penalty
for crimes committed, basically reenergizing the
mandatory sentencing that proved to be racist. As for the reality of
violence that is poverty, as Trump's secretary of
HUD Dr. Ben Carson said, that is in one's
mind, thus, again, demonizing the victims
as opposed to recognizing the violence of poverty itself. Overall, in the Make
America Great Again vision, police officers and other
law enforcement agents as well as social
agencies become overseers in black and brown
communities, so to ensure the protection
of white Anglo-Saxon space. Likewise, Trump's restrictive
immigration policies and attacks upon
DACA reflect, again, the violent culture
of whiteness. In the end, the
mantra of greatness has been a clarion
call to action for those who have clung tightly
to the Anglo-Saxon white vision of America. No one made this clearer than
past imperial wizard of the Ku Klux Klan, David
Duke, when he said, quote, "We are determined
to take our country back. We are going to fulfill the
promises of Donald Trump. That's what we believed in. That's why we voted
for Donald Trump, because he said he is going
to take our country back. That's what we're going
to do," end quote. Now, here is the most
disconcerting fact of all. And that is not only did 81% of
white evangelical Protestants support this violent
vision, but so too did 58% of non-evangelical
white Protestants and 60% of white Catholics. In general, white
Christian America found common cause
with a violent vision for America's greatness. And so what are we
to make of that? What are the implications
for the faith community in light of God's peace? I will talk about
this, in particular, in relationship to the
Christian narrative with implications for the
wider faith community as well. Within the Christian tradition,
the meaning of God's peace is ironically found in the
very reality of the cross. There is no doubt that the
cross reflects the depth and scope of human violence. The cross, in this respect,
represents the consuming violence of the world. It points to a world that is
saturated with and, thus, held captive to a culture of
violence, which is nothing less than a culture of sin. Such, in fact, is
the original sin of America, that is the
violence of whiteness. So America is held captive
to its original sin. This violence, as we've
said, includes not simply the physical brutality
meant to harm bodies but also the system,
structures, narrative, and constructs that
do harm, including the narrative of anti-blackness
and the systems and structures it fosters in conjunction
with anti-Anglo-Saxon exceptionalism. To reiterate,
anything that would devalue the life of another-- whether it's an ideal, whether
it's a narrative, system, or structure-- anything that does that
is inherently violent. Through Jesus, God enters
into this world of violence, yet does not take
it into God's self. Thus, God responds to the
violence of the world, not in an eye for eye manner. Instead, God responds in a
way that negates and denounces the violence that
perverts and demeans the integrity of human lives. God accomplishes this
by affirming life as seen in the very
Resurrection of Jesus. Now, before going
further, it must also be pointed out that
God affirms life by entering into solidarity
with those whose lives are most defined, most
denigrated, and most destroyed by crucifying
violence, if you will. On the cross, in
other words, God makes common cause with
the crucified classes of people in our world. Essentially, God
responds to the violence of the cross, the
violence of the world on the side of
the most crucified in a nonviolent but
forceful manner. Black feminist literary
artist and social critic, Audre Lorde once said, "The
master's tools will never dismantle the master's house. They may allow us to temporarily
beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us
to bring about genuine change," she says. What in the Christian
tradition, the crucifixion, resurrection event reveals
is that God does not use the master's tools. God does not utilize the
violence exhibited in the cross to defeat deadly
violence itself. As Lorde suggests, while this
may bring a temporary solution, it does not bring an end to
the culture of deadly violence itself. Rather, one stays entrapped
in that very culture. As such, as she says, only
the most narrow parameters of change are possible
and allowable. This implies, therefore,
that the only way to defeat violent power
is with nonviolent means. It is important,
however, to understand that nonviolence is not the same
as passivity or accommodation to violence. Rather, it is a
forceful response that protects the integrity of life. This is even clearer in
the Christian tradition as one recognizes that Jesus was
crucified in the first place, not because he
prayed, but because of his active,
forceful resistance to the violent political and
religious powers and structures of his time, which
trapped various persons in violent and crucifying
realities of living. Perhaps, he was able to
do this because he prayed. And that because
he prayed, he was able to then go to the cross. The point is that while violence
seeks to denigrate and do harm to the bodies of
people, nonviolence seeks to free bodies from
denigrating and deadly violence. By not resorting to
violence, nonviolence breaks the very cycle
of violence itself. It is in this way that I think
of the crucifixion-resurrection event as nothing less
than a counter-narrative to the very crucifying
violent narratives that we have just spoken about. This leads us, then, to the
fact of the peace of God. God's peace is freedom
from the violence that distorts the human person. It is the elimination,
in other words, of systems, constructs, and
all actualities of violence. It is, then, nothing
less than God's justice. No justice, no peace. God's peace thus requires
a radical restructuring of a political, social,
and economic order that is sustained
by and thus creates crucified classes of people. These, again, are
the very narratives of anti-blackness
and white supremacy along with the structures,
systems, and cultures of violence that foster
and sustain them. As Daniel Day
Williams once said, "God's justice is
manifest in God working to put down
the unrighteous, expose idols, show mercy,
and achieve reconciliation in a new order which
expresses human beings' dignity as the bearers
of the divine image. God's justice, he says,
means a restoration of the sacred dignity
of all people." It is, it seems to
me, again, in this way that the
crucifixion-resurrection event reflects nothing less
than a counter-narrative to crucifying
narratives of violence. And this brings me quickly
to this matter of narratives. What can we do? Even as people must consistently
resist and dismantle the systems and
structures that serve to protect the myth
of Anglo-Saxon white exceptionalism and
spawns anti-blackness, something just as
essential must be done to counter these various
narratives of violence against non-white bodies. That is there must be actual
counter-narratives that affirms the value of
black and brown people. These narratives must disrupt
the collective consciousness of America if black and
brown bodies are ever to be truly free from the
various violent manifestations of America's whiteness
and anti-blackness. And this is where people of
all faiths must take the lead. In this regard, the
refrain Black Lives Matter is just as significant as
that movement's active protest against systemic and
structural violence perpetrated against
black bodies. For the refrain itself offers
a direct counter-narrative to a narrative of
anti-blackness as it loudly affirms the sacred
value of black lives. So in the end, it is
essential that the Black Lives Matter refrain be
consistently repeated in the public square
so that perhaps it will seep into the collective
consciousness of America. Moreover, our theologies must
reflect the importance of a God who is understood only
through the diversity of God's creation. If we are to know God at all,
we must experience that God through the fullness of God's
richly diverse human creation, that is through all
those, everyone who has breath that bears God's image. Which means that if we're going
to counter those images that demonize and degrade
non-white bodies, then we must put forth images
that reveal them as sacred. Hence, again, the images
and icons, for instance, which are in our
sacred spaces must be bathed in more than whiteness. And most importantly, just
as we resist the narratives of violence, we must be also
proactive in showing forth the very meaning of God's
justice, of God's peace. We can't just react. We must be proactive. I'm going to bring this to
an end, and we can talk. Audre Lorde has reminded us that
our silence will not save us, and she is right. Our silence has not
and will not save us from the violence of
Anglo-Saxon exceptionalism and anti-blackness. Therefore, we must proactively
witness against it. In 1961, James Baldwin
declared, "The time has come, God knows, he said, for
us to examine ourselves, but we can do this only if we
are willing to free ourselves of the myth of America
and try to find out what is really happening
here and tell the truth." My friends, the
time has come for us to decide who we want
to be as a nation, who we want to be as a people. Are we to be a nation
that is defined by racialized greatness,
or a nation that is defined by justice
and freedom for all? Are we to be a people
of an Anglo-Saxon God? Are we to be a people of a
God in whose image we are all created? I'll end there. [APPLAUSE] I was going to say,
I'll take questions, and I see one pop right up. So one of the suggestions
that you offered up, you said, it must be
counter-narratives that are from the
value of black people, and they must disrupt
the conscious of America. And then you mentioned
Black Lives Matter. So then I'm thinking
about well, that was a common matter [INAUDIBLE]
on the body of black people. It disrupted the consciousness
of America, and some of them rejected it. Some of them wanted to replace
it with another narrative to be more inclusive,
and it just seemed like white people had
a hard time accepting that. I'm still stuck
on the disruption, because I'm looking
at the disruption, and it's like the
stages of grief. First, there comes denial. And I just wonder
if you could talk us through what that
disruption looks like, because it seems like
mere acceptance of it is not going to come just
by hearing the affirmation. No, that's right. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-- first of all, that's right. It's not going to come by
just hearing the affirmation, but it's very interesting that-- look how powerful-- and this
is why words matter, ideals matter, narratives matter. None of these things
are ever benign. They have life. They find life. They create life. Look what happened. This tells us something
about this narrative of anti-blackness and
whiteness standing its ground. Just the fact that folks
said black lives matter, look how disruptive that became. You would think,
black lives matter-- [LAUGHTER] Instead of people--
just say, we know that. That's all they did. If this wasn't the problem,
they could have just said, well, we already know that. They didn't say that. What they did was they pushed
back against that narrative, and what we saw was whiteness
standing its ground. And whiteness was not
going to give sway to this, because what's going
on here is then you are allowing black lives to
enter into a space that was not meant for them. Because to suggest that
black lives mattered-- it's not only an affirmation
of one's humanity, but it's an
affirmation of the fact that these black
lives have a right to the same kind of
freedoms and all of that that white lives do. And that wasn't going to
happen, so black lives don't matter that much. So whiteness stood its ground. And I keep saying, the very
fact that people got upset over those little words tells
you something about the depth and the reality of white
supremacy and anti-blackness in the very identity of America. Because what it's
also really saying is that black people
can be Americans, but the American identity
is not supposed to be-- and Charles Mills
was up here once. He taught here. He said that. It wasn't meant for that. That's the first thing. So don't take too
lightly the disruption of just that narrative, of
those words, that they mattered. So then what does
one do beyond that? Well, first, let me
answer your other point. The stages of that. The first thing that, of
course, happens is most folks-- a lot of folks push back. In this refrain, White Lives
Matter was not innocent. That was nothing less than
whiteness standing its ground and refusing to recognize
someone else into that space. So that wasn't innocent, and
that's one of the things that happens with white supremacy
and white racism and whiteness standing it's-- it masquerades
itself to try to mystify the reality. And so it's like, well, we're
saying, all lives matter. And so what it's really
doing is mystifying the fact of white supremacy
and white racism that is there, because it's like, who could
deny that all lives matter? No. That's not what you meant. It's just like Making
America Great Again. We know what you meant. So that's the first
thing, which means this. It's not denial. It's a recognition of
what you have to give up and the unwillingness
to do just that. The privilege of whiteness
has to be given up. And I say, and you heard
me say before, it's not about people who happen to
look like white Americans. Just because you happen to
look like a white American, don't mean you have
to act like one. And one of the things
that these refrains call-- like White Lives Matter calls
out is white people who-- those who happen to look
like white Americans and live into it and
accept that privilege. And you have to recognize
the privilege of whiteness and then give it up and
live over and against it. And what does that mean? What does that look like? You're called out, and so Black
Lives Matter calls that out. You think of some people that
were on the political scene, and they were called to account
for saying all lives matter. And then they had
to figure out, why was it so easy for me
to say that and not say black lives matter? It's an indictment. And it's like calling
out and naming the demon. I can't remember the last
part of your question. Well, we go from
narratives-- we go from-- it doesn't stop there,
because what it suggests is a construction, and
it's what's happening, quote unquote, "in
the Black Lives Matter movement" as it moves forward-- is that we go-- that refrain, rather, itself
constructs a different reality. You imagine, what's the
reality that you imagine when you say black lives matter? What does the world
have to look like? So that's not only simply
a statement of fact, but it's also a call. It's a challenge. And that's the other
thing that people heard. What kind of world do you have
to construct for black lives to matter? I'm going to let
you all play nice. I saw a lot of hands. Play nice in the
sandbox, as they say. I was going to follow
up on Meisha's question. First of all, thank you so much. And just to ask about-- if we are going to
engage in creating these counter-discursive narratives
so that we can be proactive, there's a question of-- you quote Michelle
Alexander in your book. It talks about race
and its constructs that allow its formulation
to be highly adaptable to
sociocultural histories. And so how do we then make
sure that we're not constantly in a space of reacting
to the adaptability of these racial constructs
and our counter-discursive narratives become just
like adaptable reactions? So we have to always
do more than react, and we have to begin to
construct a different reality. Let me say one brief
thing and then to that-- back to this question
about the power, because discourse has power. And that's how when we talked
about this earlier-- that's how particularly
subjugating power enacts itself, discursively and
productively, not coercively. And so again, the Black
Lives Matter refrain showed the power
of those narratives and the power of discourse. How do we get out of
the trap of always simply reacting and
staying really entrapped within this very violent
cycle, because that's what we're doing. And we're just
reconstructing new realities within a cycle of violence
or an unjust cycle. Well, that's a good question. But here's the thing. We have to be guided
by the possibilities-- what I call a
moral imagination-- the possibilities
of what can be. That's what has to pull
us and energize us. We cannot be energized by
always reacting to what is. We have to change our gaze. I talk about it as
being proleptic, living into the as if and living into
the reality of the way things are going to be. If we don't have that vision
and don't live into that, then we always find
ourselves reacting, and we're never
constructing anything. We're always
reacting to what is. We're always
reacting to injustice and not creating
spaces of justice. And the more we
react to injustice, well, we do injustice's
job, because we aren't creating a new space. It's one of the
things if we talk about what's going on
right now in our culture. As bad as the
administration is-- and I don't take
that lightly at all-- but we can't simply
react to that. We've got to begin to construct
new realities, a new way of being, instead
of simply reacting, because we're just caught
in this cycle of reacting. And the reality of that-- whether he's there
or not-- is going to live with us for a while. But here's what's interesting. Imagine, what would
the world look like if black lives mattered? What would you do? What is justice? What's a just world look like? Have you ever
thought about that? What's a just world look like? Then how do you construct that? How does our theological and
philosophical and political ideology and rhetoric
move beyond that? Because it only remains rhetoric
if it moves beyond that. How do we really talk about
socially impactful leadership and what that looks like? How do policies get written? How do we do that? How do we change? Not simply the discourse, how
do we change the landscape? What's very interesting to me-- people say, so how is it that,
for instance, particularly Christians complain
about how conservative, white evangelical Protestants
have claimed the narrative? And Christians always say,
I'm just so embarrassed to even say I'm a Christian,
because they've just claimed the narrative. You've heard that? People heard that? I don't even want to
say I'm a Christian. Well, that's shame
on you, not on them. Then you need to go
out there and claim who you are but-- and shame on us. But here's the thing. They know what they stand for. You ask them what kind
of world they want, and how they-- they'll tell you. Quote unquote, "The others,"
whomever, progressive, liberals, whatever-- they know what
they stand against. Now, you ask us to construct
the world and what we stand for, and everybody's fighting. I'm serious. I'm just being
practical, look at it. Progressives don't know. They can't get together. They don't know. You say, what's
justice look like? And they can tell you
what it isn't, but they can't tell you what it is. Now, you ask them
on the other side. They know what kind
of world they want. They're clear. That's how come they can
control an electorate and control the people. They're very clear. We've got to begin to
articulate a vision. And we've got to begin to
try to implement that vision. They're doing it. They're taking away
voters' rights. And what are we doing? We're hollering about them
taking away voters' rights. I'm serious. I'm serious. And I always say this to people
at the seminary union and EDS. Jesus said, feed the hungry, not
think about feeding the hungry. So then we better
figure out how to do it. So I just say, you got
to redirect your energy. We got protest. That's good. But we can't spend our time-- that's good. We've got to do that. We've got let folk know
we around, but we can't-- that can't be where we stop. That can't be where
all of our energy goes. We have to construct
another world. Dr. Douglas, thank you
again for being here. Thank you. To your theme about constructing
a different reality, though, I've been
wrestling with thoughts around that exact same idea. So for me, around constructing
a new reality my question is, how then do we help white
people see themselves in a narrative of
black lives matter? And in constructing
a new reality, how do we lift up blackness
or rather reframe blackness so that way it's easy to be seen
as an expression of the Imago Dei versus an antithesis
of the Imago Dei? Thank you. First, I just want to nuance
a little bit, not nuance, push back a little bit. We don't have to
help white people see that black lives matter. And that's the job of white
people who claim to get it. Then they need to help
other white people get it. For clarity, my
point is not to help them see that black lives
matter but to see themselves as a black life that matters. Well, they got to get there. And I am way serious about
this, because this is not simply our work. And it is their work. And we talked about this
this afternoon a little bit. That they are as
raced as we are raced. James Baldwin always
said, their humanity is more at stake
than our humanity, and especially because
they don't know it. Baldwin said this
one, and he's right. Here's where I want to
begin to have conversations with white people. And I think those
conversations are important, and we should have
those conversations. But I'm not going to initiate
those conversations, say, in a room like this. Those conversations
are initiated, because we will both find
ourselves having shown up in the same place
fighting for justice. And it is out of that. That's what praxis is all about. It's out of that, then
that conversation begins. And then we're colleagues. We're in this
solidarity together. That's what I say
in relationship to what our interactions
in that regard should be, not just for white
people, but folks that don't see themselves as-- that this is their problem
or a problem for them. How do we help them to see
that black lives matter? We begin to construct
a world that says that black lives matter. And we have to do the work in
the places in which we find ourselves that affirms that. And so that means that we
don't let them, let anyone, off the hook in terms
of the kind of policies that are implemented and
created, the kind of things-- law, all these things. There are many things that are
happening that we don't-- we aren't even aware of, because
we're so busy reacting to this little superficial
stuff that is going on. I can't remember what it
was that the president said, and everyone's attention
was turned to what he said. And at that same time,
the attorney general was implementing-- there
was like a five prong plan that he was implementing while
we were all worried about what something the president said. And that was important,
but that wasn't going to have a whole lot of life. What now is embedded
and has a life is this thing that he
has done in terms of-- if they're-- one of
the parts of the law-- one about gangs, infiltrating
gangs or whatever and the other thing
was about if you have any hostile responses
to police officers and the way in which that
has now become a major crime. And so we're worried
about the president calling us out of our name. Well, we know he's going
to call us out of our name, so let's just move on. And so I think that we have to
begin to really, really engage ourselves in creating the kind
of policies and not letting-- how do I say this-- not letting there
be a moment when we don't raise our
voice, offering another alternative reality
to the kind of policies, structures, systems,
bans, all these things that he's putting forth. But we're silent. We are virtually silent. And the faith
community is silent. I don't know, maybe
I'm somewhere-- I'm just not hearing them. But I'm serious. But they're silent,
and so we've got to begin to act like
our lives matter. Now, let me tell you one little
glimpse of where that happened. And we know, down
there in Alabama. Let's not get too slap happy,
because that was black women. And they stood up and
took control of what was going on down there. And they actually did put
forth an alternative vision. And it seems to me
when we do that, that calls other people out. And those people that are
there will get on board, or they won't. But I can't worry about those
that don't get on board. But I think there
are enough that recognizes the truth of
what's going on and the truth that they don't want
to be a part of. Because I do believe this. I do believe this with
all the fiber of my being that most
people in America-- and in this instance,
of course, we're talking about white Americans-- are not malevolent,
intentional racists. They are not. And I believe that they
aren't aware of the ways in which, indeed, they are
complicit in that racism. I think we are now at a time
in America where one cannot say that they are unaware. And so that means that
people have to make a choice. And it's a hard
choice for some people who are so used to living
unawares in their privilege. I think-- I do. I do. I do believe that the people
will make the right choice. One of the things
that helps them do that is if we move
in a different direction and point a different direction. And I really do believe that,
and regain the momentum moving toward a more just world. I think there are opportunities
for us to do that. You look at people like Barbara
and the Poor People's Campaign. He's talking about what
justice looks like. So I don't know if that
answered your question. I don't know, because
my answer reveals the complexity and
the confounding nature of the problem. Because it is confounding. And I have to believe
that-- well, I do believe people are
good, because everything that God created was good. So I do believe that. And so how do we make
people aware of what is-- here's my question. What is it that has
prevented us from seeing the humanity of another? We have to recognize that, name
it, and empty ourselves of it. What is it that has
prevented white people from seeing the humanity
of non-white people? What is it? We have to name that. And this is where these things
like anti-black narratives come into play. And they have to
recognize how much that has become insinuated,
whether or not they will admit it or
want to recognize it before into their consciousness. And it's those little
things that white people react to unconsciously. Say for instance, you see a
group of white guys hanging out on the street. What do you do? They're being kids. Then what's that
little twinge you have when you see a
group of black guys? You've got to name that. That's that
unconscious whiteness. You've got to name
it and let it go, because it's standing in the way
of you seeing another person's humanity. So I don't know. It is confounding. And I'm one to
struggle with you. It's confounding and scary. Thank you so much for
your wonderful talk. I don't mean to pick on-- you
quoted Lorde a couple of times to move with this in terms of
how rejecting the master's tool can be a way of rejecting
the violent versus the non-violent
means of resistance. I want to think a
little bit about-- or I want to hear what you
think about another way where Lorde's and
others narratives were adopted, which is in the
tradition of Afro-pessimism, where we have the
work of Spillers, and Wilderson, and
[? Benge ?] and others. And at the same time,
how does this fit within a narrative
of-- or would you think about it within a
narrative of resistance? And how do we dig what
you described in your talk but also in relation
to Afro-pessimism and think about the
anti-black narratives and the white
supremacy narratives and the making of
America, but in this case, in its imperial [INAUDIBLE]? So how do we think
about [INAUDIBLE]?? How do we think
about Africa itself? They're all-- go
ahead, I'm sorry. How do you think about--
and in this case, how does this non-violent
engagement takes place when we're thinking
about white supremacy as a mode of imperialism? I go back to the question
of Afro-pessimism as a mode of resistance that
thrived for quite some time. And also it wasn't
adopted in many places by native resistance,
for instance. I'm thinking about [INAUDIBLE]. Because I was going
to say, tell me what-- when you think of
Afro-pessimism, tell me what-- because Afro-pessimism-- tell me what you're
thinking about. I'm thinking about the
traditions of rejection, abstention, renunciation, and-- then again, that had a
lot of their implications around the world more
than in the United States in particular. But in many cases, they
adopted the same view or the same-- and people
used the same code that's used by Lorde to think about all
of this are the master's tools. And you need to completely
abstain and reject in order to be able to actually
move beyond the master's tool, which again, it doesn't
say that you can never use it. But that real change
requires this pessimism of the master's tool. So I would want to hear-- Well, yeah, there's a pessimism. First of all, Afro-pessimism,
as is this critique, is always global-- is global in nature. It's also globally pervasive. So here's the question for
Afro-pessimism, and it's-- how do you get outside
of the culture? Because you see,
everything is corrupted. So now, how do you get
outside of that culture? That's like beyond the
particulars of Afro-pessimism, because I do find it
a little misogynistic. More than a little. I'll put it this way,
a little masculinist. And so in many respects, it's
like the 21st century version of what was then Afro-centrism. And this is why
the roots run deep. How do you get outside of this
culture that negates blackness? How does one get
outside of that? And I don't know that
one gets outside of that, except that one has to name
it, critique it, recognize it, and then construct
counter-narratives. And so otherwise,
where do we land? And I think that's the, quote
unquote, "pessimistic" version of things. Where do you land if indeed
you can't get outside of it, you recognize the global
pervasive nature of it? So how do you land on
the other side of it? And I don't know, what is
the constructive project of Afro-pessimism? And I'm asking
that rhetorically. [LAUGHTER] As a critique of it because
I really don't know what the constructive--
because I don't disagree. I don't disagree with the
embeddedness, if you will, of the problem. I don't at all
disagree with that. But what's the constructive
side of that narrative? Tell me an Afro-pessimist
who's constructed a different reality. And that's where they
leave you, I think. And I'm not an
Afro-pessimist, so I haven't read all of
the Afro-pessimist that you have read. And I'm not-- I'm not an
Afro-pessimist either. [LAUGHTER] Though he says
that he's not one, people theologically try to
make Vincent Lloyd in theology-- if you're familiar with
Vincent Lloyd's writings in Afro-pessimist-- and he says he's not. But what they do recognize is
the pervasiveness of the, quote unquote, "anti-black narrative." But I just have
to say, how do you get outside of that culture? And so what you're saying
is that you're always using the master's tools. Is that what you're suggesting? Not exactly. What I'm suggesting--
and again, I think you recognize the
idea of the global nature of Afro-pessimism. And again, I'm not
an Afro-pessimist, but I think the constructive
project included-- happened, actually, a lot of the
constructive projects happened in Africa in the
post-colonial world. And there, the extension
and the movement beyond was more possible, I
would argue, than-- No, but what they did in
the post-colonial world was reconstruct colonialism. They never got outside
of the very parameters and of the very structures,
really, of colonialism. They never broke the
cycle, and that's why you see that
you really have-- I don't want to call
it recolonization. But you have this-- what happened in [INAUDIBLE]
and all of these people once they declared independence? Then they began to reenact
the very structures that colonized the very nation. And that's what I mean
when I think about the master's-- because they
never got outside of those structures. No. That's not an example
of constructing another way of being. All they did was reenact it,
but now who was in power? They are. Right. So what I say is this. That also, just as white people
and white America and white persons have to-- those people
who look like white Americans-- have to-- don't need to live into what it
means to be a white American, then those people who don't
look like white Americans, they have the
responsibility of not trying to become and not live
into the culture of whiteness. And that's what has
happened in, quote unquote-- many parts of--
"post-colonial Africa." And we know that. And one of the reasons
for that, I think, is because we have not been able
to construct a vision of what post-colonial life looks like. We haven't constructed
that vision, and so we're always staying
within the very cycle and just transforming
those things that we-- those forms of oppression. And so I don't know. And I don't agree in
that regard in terms of the Afro-pessimist
project to suggest that you have this post-colonial
project going on in Africa. And one wouldn't say that. The Africans wouldn't say that. You can push back. I can't [INAUDIBLE] [LAUGHTER] Let's take one more question. One more question so I'm
going to close my eyes and let you pick, because
a lot of hands went up. Hi. Thank you for an amazing talk. Obviously, I came in
expecting to hear about God and this issue about-- But you did. [LAUGHTER] And I'm wondering
how we can honor this really beautiful,
black Christian tradition while also acknowledging-- I'm from New York-- and acknowledge the complexity
of the black community in American today. We have all sorts of
immigrants who come in and it's just-- not everybody
is Christian in the way that you articulate it. And not every black
person in my life is necessarily invested
in, what does it mean to be Christian right now? So I'm just
wondering, how can we be inspired by that
tradition but also expand how we're
thinking about blackness? And that's what I was
saying at the end. I speak from a Christian
theological perspective. That's my particularity. But what we have to
embody and embrace is the fullness of who God is. And the fullness
of who God is is reflected in the
richness of humanity, whether we're talking
about ethnically, we're talking about
culturally, we're talking about gendered
realities, sexual expressions of those gendered realities,
religions, whatever, the various ways in which
people act out or enact or live into what it means to be human. Any religious
tradition that denies the culture, the religion-- because religion is
part of culture-- that of another, the different
ways in which people live into and the diverse ways in which
people express for themselves what it means to be human,
well, to me, something's wrong with that religion. Let me point to someone in
the black faith tradition that did that well,
and that was-- he was up at Boston College
in his day, Howard Thurman. Boston University. Boston University. What did I say, Boston College? Boston University. And at Howard as well. And Thurman was-- he's one of
the great, black church heroes, so to speak, saints. Thurman said this. And he was also very interfaith
and very interreligious. And Howard Thurman said,
when we talk about God and having to get to God,
so to speak, he said, we need to think of it
as God being in a room with many doors. Now, the object is
to get into the room. And you go through the door
that is most appropriate for you and who you are
and where you are. Now, he said, nothing
makes one door any better than the other door, he
said, as long as the door opens up into the room. But if you start
worshipping the door-- look at my door. [LAUGHTER] My door's so great. What happens? You don't open up the doggone
door and go into the room. And so as long as your door
opens up into the room, then it's a good door. And the room that
it opens up into is a room where
everybody that has breath is regarded as sacred. The moment any door denies the
sacredness of another human being, than the doggone door
doesn't open up into the room. And so that's where
I'll leave it. [APPLAUSE]
