A few words on bravery
I'm afraid.
Of course I am. Only a fool would not be fearful in times like these.
We are all carrying some sort of fear, from concern all the way to existential dread. We are in a position this world has not been in since the 1940s. The forces of authoritarianism seem to be waxing, while those of freedom are waning. Fear is a rational, natural reaction to this.
I fear a deportation force sweeping through my library looking for "illegals". I fear an out-of-control president siccing the military on Americans. I fear the plans I'd been making for the future will be scuppered, never to be regained. To not have at least concern means that either you simply don't care, or you think this regime will not affect you.
One thinks that people who are brave are fearless. Nothing could be further from the truth.
Bravery is not an absence of fear. Bravery is acting in spite of your fear. Bravery is knowing you're afraid, but your conscience will not allow you to act otherwise.
Yesterday, at Donald Trump's pay-to-pray mishegoss at the National Cathedral, we saw an act of utmost bravery.
The Episcopal bishop of Washington, D.C., Mariann Edgar Budde, preached the homily. She could have gone soft. She could have spoken in platitudes. Instead she said this:
"Let me make one final plea, Mr. President," Bishop Mariann Budde said in her 15-minute sermon. "Millions have put their trust in you. And as you told the nation yesterday, you have felt the providential hand of a loving God. In the name of our God, I ask you to have mercy upon the people in our country who are scared now," said Budde, as she appeared to look towards the president.
"There are gay, lesbian and transgender children in Democratic, Republican, and independent families, some who fear for their lives."
"The people who pick our crops and clean our office buildings; who labor in poultry farms and meat packing plants; who wash the dishes after we eat in restaurants and work the night shifts in hospitals, they – they may not be citizens or have the proper documentation. But the vast majority of immigrants are not criminals. They pay taxes and are good neighbors," said Budde.
In the tradition of clergy holding the powerful to account, she closed her sermon with this:
"I ask you to have mercy, Mr. President, on those in our communities whose children fear that their parents will be taken away. And that you help those who are fleeing war zones and persecution in their own lands to find compassion and welcome here. Our God teaches us that we are to be merciful to the stranger, for we were all once strangers in this land."
Of course, Trump reacted the way he always does, dismissing it. And the usual contingent scoffed at her words, saying that they were wasted on Trump.
That, of course, misses the point. Bishop Budde stood before the powers and principalities and spoke the truth of her faith. She committed an act of bravery which has been noticeably absent from those who should be the ones defending this Republic. In the tradition of the prophets, she held a mirror up to them to show them their sins. Whether they acknowledge that sin is immaterial; speaking the truth is incumbent in the face of injustice, intolerance, hatred.
Trump knows nothing of mercy. And that will be the downfall of him and all his circle. Because they have no mercy in their hearts, no love in their souls, they are weak. They are not strong in the slightest. They, too, live in fear; but they have nothing but that fear. And fear is a weak foundation upon which to build a life, or a state.
I don't know what was in Bishop Budde's mind or heart when she got up to the pulpit. I don't know if she feared about what she was to do. But it would only be natural, even with the force of faith. The powers and principalities do not like to be called to account. But she pushed on anyway. If she had any fear, she overcame it. That is the definition of bravery.
In these dark times, we must all have a bit of Bishop Budde in us. It is this quiet, forceful bravery in the face of power which will save the world.