Bullying: Not letting it go

A couple of weeks ago, students from the University of Virginia organized a candlelight vigil on the steps of Thomas Jefferson's Rotunda to remember the young people who have taken their own lives because they were bullied for being gay or perceived as being gay.

For me, and those who were there, it was a very powerful evening, filled with not just tears and speeches, but also with a steel resolve to end the bullying and call it out when we find it.

I don't want to let that evening pass as just another checkmark on a long to-do list this Fall.

So I want to bring two items to your attention today. First, sent by a friend, this blog item written by a mom whose five-year-old boy dressed up as Daphne from Scooby Doo. Yeah, he dressed like a girl. So what? Do we wonder where the bullies learn to be bullies? The bullies were other moms. Please read this by clicking HERE.

And then today I want to post the speech given at the UVA vigil by Sean Bugg, who is a fourth-year UVA student and a pillar of our Canterbury Episcopal student community. Sean was physically attacked on the street a few weeks ago outside of our Canterbury house by someone who jumped out of an SUV and shoved him to the ground, likely because of Sean's appearance. Here is Sean's speech, and I am very proud of Sean for his courage in speaking at the vigil:

By Sean Bugg

Over the past week I have watched online videos from the “It Gets Better Project” in an attempt to find some sort of answer to the tragedies we’ve heard about in the news. I’ve heard uplifting words from celebrities, such as Tim Gunn, as well as heart wrenching ones from Ellen Degeneres. A complete stranger even e-mailed me his video when he heard of the attack I suffered in the middle of September. But my words aren’t meant to be about me or what I’ve been through.

Suffice it to say, however, that in light of my own victimization and learning of the deaths of these young LGBT teens, I have lost my faith in humanity and am struggling to regain it. I don’t care who you are or what you believe, nor does it matter what your or my own personal convictions are. There is nothing in this world, there is nothing in this life, more precious and sacred than a human life. I won’t lie to you, because I can’t lie to you. I am angry, furious, and livid that our society would allow such terrible things to happen. I simply cannot fathom the crimes that have been committed against such wonderful, promising, gifted, and innocent persons.

As a poet and as someone who studies poetry, there is nothing more beautiful in the world to me than the testimony, than the sound of an other’s voice telling their story; and because of intolerance, because of someone else’s ignorance, we will never hear the voices of these elegant and graceful souls. Their voices have been silenced unjustly. This silencing sickens me to my very core. We are here tonight to give these youths the justice they deserve.

What happened is not removed from us by any degree, however minute. We, as members of this society, of this country, bear full responsibility for their unfortunate deaths. We must work to rectify this, because they truly are crimes against humanity, for which we must atone and ensure never happen again.
I see tonight as a gathering of people who wish to give voices to those who have had theirs prematurely taken away from them. Tonight is about – to borrow the words of a personal idol, American poet Walt Whitman – we came here this evening to “…sound [our] barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.”

The following are the voices of those named below, whose lives were senselessly ended merely because they dared to be true to their selves, because they were bold enough to embrace their identities.

This is the voice of Tyler Clementi: [silence]
This is the voice of Asher Brown: [silence]
This is the voice of Seth Walsh: [silence]
This is the voice of Billy Lucas: [silence]
This is the voice of Zach Harrington: [silence]
This is the voice of Aiyisha Hassan: [silence]

And these are the voices of those for whom we have no names, but whose voices have nevertheless been stilled: [silence].

They will never know the joy of having their name called out at a commencement ceremony, nor know love’s first kiss, nor the pleasure of another autumn. They will never know any of the daily joys of which you and I take pleasure, which we take for granted.

You may be wondering why I turned to Whitman’s words and why I will shortly turn to another poet’s words. Well, I do so because someone once told me: “When language fails you, turn to poetry;”and language has failed me, insofar as its ability to express the deep distress I feel for these youths and their families. So I quote from another American poet, Allen Ginsberg:

“America when will we end the human war?.../…America when will you be angelic?.../…America the plum blossoms are falling.”

Ask yourselves those very questions as I leave you with one final image and a poem. America, when will we end the human war? Before I leave you with this poem by Adam Zagajewski, I would like you to envision a monument, erected at Dachau, Germany. Inscribed on stone in five languages are the words “Never Again.” Let those two words be our promise to these young people and let us resolve to ourselves: Nie Mehr!

Try To Praise The Mutilated World

Try to praise the mutilated world.

Remember June’s long days,

and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.

The nettles that methodically overgrow

the abandoned homesteads of exiles.

You must praise the mutilated world.

You watched the stylish yachts and ships;

one of them had a long trip ahead of it, while salty oblivion awaited others.

You’ve seen the refugees heading nowhere, you’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully. You should praise the mutilated world.

Remember the moments when we were together in a white room and the curtain fluttered.

Return in thought to the concert where music flared.

You gathered acorns in the park in autumn and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars. Praise the mutilated world

and the grey feather a thrush lost,

and the gentle light that strays and vanishes

and returns.

Adam Zagajewski (Translated from the Polish by Clare Cavanaugh)

Bullying begins with adults

A couple of weeks ago, I was part of a candlelight vigil to bring attention to bullying and the suicides of children and young people who are gay or perceived to be gay. Bullying is much a part of our culture, and it's a reflection of the behavior of adults. Lori came across this commentary from a blog called Momastery by a mom named Glennon, who describes the title of her blog thusly:

"I chose “Momastery” because a monastery is a sacred place, apart from the world, where a seeker retreats to figure out what matters and catch glimpses of God. That’s exactly what motherhood is like to me."

Here is the post about bullying and I hope we can take it to heart in our work, in our churches and in our homes:

A Mountain I'm Willing to Die On

Along with every other concerned mama, I’ve been watching America’s response to the bullying related suicides closely. People seem to be quite shocked by the cruelty that’s happening in America’s schools. I’m confused by their shock. I’m also concerned about what’s not being addressed in their proposed solutions.

The acceptable response seems to be that we need to better educate students and teachers about what bullying is and how to react appropriately to it. This plan is positive, certainly. But on its own, it seems a little like bailing frantically without looking for the hole in the boat through which the water is leaking.

Each time one of these stories is reported, the tag line is: “kids can be so cruel.” This is something we tend to say. Kids these days, they can be so cruel. But I think this is just a phrase we toss around to excuse ourselves from facing the truth. Because I don’t think kids are any crueler than adults. I just think kids aren’t quite as adept yet at disguising their cruelty.

Yesterday I heard a radio report that students who are most likely to be bullied are gay kids, overweight kids, and Muslim kids.

Hmmmmm.

I would venture to guess that at this point in American history, gay adults, overweight adults, and Muslim adults feel the most bullied as well.

Children are not cruel. Children are mirrors. They want to be “grown-up.” So they act how grown-ups act when we think they’re not looking. They do not act how we tell them to act at school assemblies. They act how we really act. They believe what we believe. They say what we say. And we have taught them that gay people are not okay. That overweight people are not okay. That Muslim people are not okay. That they are not equal. That they are to be feared. And people hurt the things they fear. We know that. What they are doing in the schools, what we are doing in the media - it’s all the same. The only difference is that children bully in the hallways and the cafeterias while we bully from behind pulpits and legislative benches and one liners on sit-coms.

And people are sensitive. People are heart-breakingly sensitive. If enough people tell someone over and over that he is not okay, he will believe it. And one way or another, he will die.

So how is any of this surprising? It’s quite predictable, actually. It’s trickle-down cruelty.

I don’t know much. But I know that each time I see something heartbreaking on the news, each time I encounter a problemoutside, the answer to the problem is inside. The problem is AWAYS me and the solution is ALWAYS me. If I want my world to be less vicious, then I must become more gentle. If I want my children to embrace other children for who they are, to treat other children with the dignity and respect every child of God deserves, then I had better treat other adults the same way. And I better make sure that my children know beyond a shadow of a doubt that in God’s and their father’s and my eyes, they are okay. They are fine. They are loved as they are. Without a singleunless. Because the kids who bully are those who are afraid that a secret part of themselves is not okay.

No more outcasts

Today's sermon begins with the tragedy touched on in this space the last few days, the suicide of a young gay student in New Jersey. I pray we can find ourselves in a place of hope. The gospel lesson today is particularly apt: Luke 17:11-19.

* * *

I have a difficult, painful topic I want to talk with you about today. This is not a joyful topic, and I apologize to you if this sermon causes you pain.

Many of us this week were moved to tears by the story of Tyler Clementi, a freshman at Rutgers University in New Jersey. His roommate had surreptitiously videoed him while having relations with another man, and then posted it on the Internet with a few choice gay-bashing words.

What happened next is just tragic. Tyler jumped off the George Washington Bridge to his death.

We don’t know what went through Tyler’s mind, but he must have felt very alone, very shamed, an outcast in this world. We wish Tyler had felt differently. But he didn’t.

Let’s be clear about something: The world creates outcasts, not God. Politics creates outcasts, not God. Prejudice and ignorance creates outcasts, not God. Sadly, religion creates outcasts, not God.

Sometimes being an outcast has nothing to do with status from material wealth.
Sometimes being an outcast comes from being in the wrong tribe, or the wrong clique, or the wrong race, or the wrong religion, or the wrong gender, or the wrong sexual orientation – or just plain looking wrong. The world creates many wrong places to be.

It can be so very hard to be young and different than your peers when you know you just don’t fit in.

There was a news report the other day about a high school in Ohio that has had four suicides by students who were bullied. One was bullied because he liked to wear pink. Another was bullied because she had a Serbian accent.

We need to say enough. No more of this. God wants better than this. We need to do better than this for our children.

I think it incumbent upon us in the Church to stand with those who are outcasts or hurting or shunned or bullied, because I believe to the bottom of my bones that Jesus is weeping with them.

There are times when all I have are tears. There are times when I do not know what to say.

There are times when I am listening to someone who is very ill, or has experienced a tragedy or a loss, and I just don’t know what to say.

Sometimes the best I can manage is silence. I pray that my silence will be enough.

I have no words to explain why some people get sick while others get well, or why some people are hurt or bullied, and others seem to glide through life unhurt.
On one level, this healing business perplexes me. Life is not fair, life is ambiguous, life can be cruel, but none of that that is an explanation for anything.

In our parish, we’ve witnessed quite a bit of heartbreak lately. Two long-time members, Bill Lassetter and Sally Kauzlarich, both died in the last week after difficult illnesses.

We’ve had 21 funerals this year in the parish – that is an average one every other week. We had a service for Sally yesterday and we will have a service for Bill next week. That is just too many.

Sometimes there are miracles. And sometimes there aren’t. Why, I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers.

That question is squarely in front of us in today’s gospel lesson. We meet ten lepers who are healed, who get a miracle. Why should they be healed and others not?

Outwardly, the story is quite simple: Jesus tells them to go visit a priest and they will be healed. The lepers go and are healed, and nine of the ten go on their way.
But one of the lepers, a Samaritan, returns to thank Jesus; and Jesus tells him “faith has made him well.”

This is a shocking story on many levels.

Lepers are outcasts, and in the time of Jesus, lepers were required to live outside the gates of the city. They look awful, and they live in a filthy trash heap.

They are supposed to shout warnings to healthy people to stay away, but this group of lepers breaks all the rules. They cry out to Jesus asking him to join them.
And so he does.

As if that wasn’t stunning enough, one of lepers is a Samaritan. In the cast system of the ancient Jewish world, Samaritans are the lowest of the low, the untouchables, the dirtiest of the dirty people.

So here we have someone who is both a leper and a Samaritan – an outcast among the outcasts – who is healed by Jesus, and then he returns to thank Jesus.
Everyone else disappears, but it is the lowest of the low who comes back with the gift of thanks.

It is an outcast who outwardly has nothing to be thankful for, nothing to be faithful about, who has been dumped upon his entire life – it is this untouchable Samaritan leper who gives thanks.

And Jesus honors this outcast.

Jesus tells the Samaritan something extraordinary – that it is his offering of thanks that has made him well and set him free.

Healing is not a reward, healing is not earned by following the rules. Rather, healing – grace – comes as a free gift from God alone.

Please notice something really important: Jesus has just re-defined the very definition of faith. It is not adherence to a set of precepts or dogmas, or a mental exercise of intellectual understanding.

Rather, faith is defined as gratitude. Simple gratitude. Faith is about giving thanks.
The outcast has something important to teach us with his thanks. By giving thanks the Samaritan is set free to live, and to live with joy.

And that raises a few questions for me, and I hope for you.

What if we were use the word “thanks” instead of the word “faith”? What would that sound like to you?

Try substituting the word every time you hear it, see how it sounds.

Instead of saying “I have faith in God,” what if you said, “I give thanks to God”?

Instead of saying we belong to a “faith community,” what if we said we belong to a “thanks community”?

Instead of saying, “I don’t have enough faith,” what if you said “I don’t have enough thanks”?

What would change for you by saying that? By living that?

And ask yourself today: For what do you give thanks?

What brings you joy in your life? Give thanks for that. What makes you laugh? Give thanks for that. Who supports and upholds you especially in your worst moments? Give thanks to them.

Give thanks and you will be this close to God.

And those who give you support, and make you laugh, see in them the face of Christ. They are this close to God. Show your thanks to them and you are showing thanks to God.

Or how about this – instead of using the shopworn churchy word “stewardship,” what if we substituted the word “gratitude” for that? Instead of calling it the annual “stewardship campaign,” what if we said we are having a “gratitude campaign” this season?

What would it look like if we saw our giving as a tangible way of thanking God for the life we have and the abundance we enjoy?

What if our giving came not out of obligation or guilt, but out of joy and delight? How much would you give if your giving brings you joy? How much joy would you like to spread around?

And who needs your joy? Who are the outcasts near you who could use some of that? Can we find the Tyler Clementis in this world, show them our love, and give them our thanks for being who they are?

What would happen if we bring a little hope and healing – and a little joy – to those whose lives are linked with ours? What might change for them and for us when we do that?

Let me put it squarely. I believe we can be the hands and feet of Christ Jesus in our world, and it can begin to do that by giving thanks.

Maybe I’ve asked the wrong question about why some are healed, and some are not, in this world.

These stories of Jesus healing people are really meant to give us a window into the limitless love of God for all of us in this world and in the next.

What if we hear in these stories of Jesus healing the sick and outcasts the ultimate expression of the nature of God? What if see in Jesus the embodiment of a God who will find the lost sheep, who will be with us no matter the pain, and who will ultimately bring us healing either in this world or in the next.

Maybe then we might hear in these stories of healing lepers and outcasts as expressions of what God wants for all of us, for all of creation.

And then, can we experience healing and gratitude as the very essence of faith and salvation? What would our lives become of we live that knowing the truth of that?
How would we be set free to live here in this world with wonder, with love, and with joy?

May our thanks make us well. Amen.

* * *

My friend Carol Anne sent this link the other day to an essay "Memoirs of a Bullied Kid." The author talks about bullying from first hand experience and what each of us can do about it. This is a difficult post to read, but please read it if you get a chance. You can find it by clicking HERE.