Author Archive: Sandhya

About Sandhya

I was recently described as "schizophrenically talented," but I prefer "Renaissance Woman." I love to teach, preach, organize, sing, cook and write. I also really love to hang out with friends over coffee or a glass of wine. My true love is Oakland, and any man who dates me has to be comfortable with that.

The Power of Symbols When People Seek to Make Us Hide

I’m excited to be speaking at a remarkable church in Ft. Worth this weekend about intersectionality. I’m even more excited about how much intentional hospitality they have already shown me. I don’t know if it’s that it’s this church or that it’s Texas or that it’s healthy church or that their pastor told them to be nice to me or they’d be in trouble. Whatever it is, I’ll take it! How lovely to feel welcomed in a new place.
A kind couple picked me up from the airport (even though I arrived at midnight instead of nine!!!). I asked how they ended up at this church. They said they had both grown up Christian but were not welcome as a same-gender loving couple in so many churches. They were driving somewhere about a month ago and saw the rainbow flag on the church and thought, “maybe we should give this church a try,” and it has been a gift to them; “we feel complete,” one of them said, to have a community and not only to worship at home with each other. And they seem like a couple any church I know would be thrilled to have.
 
I used to work with a lot of churches struggling to survive in a consulting job I had. Many of them wanted to invite LGBTQ people. So they would put out a sign saying they were open and affirming. (That’s the term for LGBTQ+ inclusive in UCC and Disciples churches.) In my reports I would always note that no one knows what that means, but everyone knows the rainbow flag. This couple’s story reminded me of the power of symbols. 
It also reminded me of how much fear can constrain our ability to welcome even the people we want to welcome.
I think the churches I worked with knew that other than LGBTQ people who were already UCC or Disciples, no one knew what open and affirming meant. But many of them were trying to hold together a group of people with a wide array of theological beliefs, including people uncomfortable with being too enthusiastic in their welcome of queer-identified people. The way the church had stayed together was by not talking about it, far less owning it publicly, which is what a flag would have done.
Because of fear, I suspect most of the churches I worked with never made that bold statement by flying a rainbow flag.
I have no idea how many of them remained open, but I suspect few of them experienced growth. Growth and functioning out of fear don’t usually align.
Either way, though, I remain haunted by one story that gets at the REAL cost of fear, which isn’t whether a church grows or dies.
I met with a church in a small mountain town. It was the only progressive church in a very conservative area and dealt with a lot of marginalization in the community because of their reputation. They were the only Open and Affirming church in town. They MAY even have had a rainbow flag out, although I am not confident of that. Among conservative pastors and city council members they were held in contempt, and they supported each other as the town liberals. In some ways they reminded me of the Disciples huddled together in the upper room.
As they drove me around town, we went past a park and they told me about a junior high boy who had killed himself in that park the previous month. He was being bullied for being gay, or at least that’s what the kids were calling him — it wasn’t clear whether he was or whether that was just a fun thing for them to say about him.
“I wonder if he knew that one church in town welcomed him,” I commented later during the all-church meeting.
And the weight of that sat in the room.
Their fear and sense of embattlement had caused them to forget that they had Good News to proclaim to people who had no other source of that. Lives were quite literally at stake.
I believe that the vast majority of our work is around addressing fear and fear’s shadow side, greed.
I am so grateful for the witness of the church I am visiting. I am reminded that hospitality is a spiritual discipline. I am reminded that symbols matter and have meaning. I am reminded that the way we extend our welcome can have life or death consequences.
Because I have lost too many people who had received too many messages that they did not deserve love or life. And I am grateful for churches taking a risk in order to save lives.

“I thirst.” The fifth word in the Seven Last Words Good Friday Service at Allen Temple Baptist Church

preached by Sandhya Jha on April 14, 2017:

 

Last summer, I spent a week in Flint, Michigan.

On Sunday, a local pastor invited me to preach.

I don’t know why, with all they are dealing with in Flint, Michigan, that God told me to talk to them about refugees. But that’s who God told me to talk about.

I stood there in a church full of people who had been living six months with the knowledge that their government had put lead into their drinking water and then done virtually nothing about that fact when it came to light, and I talked to them about a man named Willie whom I had just met.

Willie has lived in northern CA for 20 years. A few years ago his sister’s husband was kidnapped in El Salvador; they called him and demanded $5,000 in four days for his release. Willie, who earns very little, could only come up with $500. They killed his brother-in-law. And then Willie’s nephew. Terrified that 3-year-old Stephanie might be next, 13 members of the family escaped, traveling on tops of trains and buses. At the US border they were detained and held in refrigerator containers for 13 days without blankets, where sleeping on the floor would have caused frostbite. Willie found out they were here and gathered money for 13 greyhound tickets so all 14 of them could live in his tiny apartment. Thanks to a faith organization, they have been granted asylum status.

I also told the people at Woodside church in Flint, Michigan about One of the organizations at the Oakland Peace Center, called the Mustard Seed Project. It provides legal assistance to youth seeking refugee status in this country because if they are sent home and refuse to join the gangs and drug cartels there, they will be murdered…or worse. The attorney who runs the Mustard Seed Project came into my office straight from the courtroom one day and said, “Babies. I am literally defending babies in the courtroom. Babies who cannot even speak their own names yet are supposed to defend themselves in our court system.” She had been in court with a toddler that morning, a toddler that the US government needed to defend himself in a court of law to make the case that if he was sent back to Honduras he would be killed.

I told them that the longer I worked at the Oakland Peace Center, the more my understanding of prayer merged with what I had heard Pope Francis say not long ago: You pray for the poor, and then you feed them; that is how prayer works.

I talked about our nation’s need to repent deeply for our policies in central and south America as well as our policies in the Caribbean and throughout Africa, and that part of our prayer of repentance was to act as God would have us act to our refugee brothers and sisters who are fleeing nations whose violence we created for the profit of a handful of people who today profit far more from war than from peace.

And after we had said our amens and given our offerings and sang songs of praise, we went to the fellowship hall. And the adults talked to me about more faithful immigration policies that we could work on together, and the little children played at our feet. And we had cookies arranged carefully on trays by the church mothers, and we drank coffee and lemonade…made from bottled water.

But everything about worship and fellowship time afterwards felt so normal that it was Wednesday before I realized, every person I was talking to, every little child playing at my feet after worship, had likely absorbed so much lead into their systems that they would suffer permanent harm, from irregular brain development to memory loss to uncontrollable tremors that would emerge over time, rendering them ineligible for the work that was already so scarce in that community that had nurtured them and destroyed them in equal measures. All because their government decided to take away their clean water and replace it with dirty water and then decided not to treat it, so that the pipes corroded.

I do not know thirst like my savior knew on the cross that day. I have always had access to water to drink.

I do not know thirst like my savior knew on the cross that day. But Willie’s family did, when they were held in refrigerator containers for 13 days by our government, including that three year old girl, Stephanie. Stephanie knew what it was to thirst and suffer at the hands of a government that did not consider her human but considered her a threat. Just like Jesus her savior knew what it was to thirst and suffer at the hands of a government that did not consider him human but considered him a threat.

Our brothers and sisters in Flint did not know what it was to be thirsty. They had access to jobs, and then they didn’t. They had access to opportunity, and then they didn’t. They had access to a safe and vibrant and thriving community, and then they didn’t. Some of them knew hunger. Many of them knew humiliation. Some of them knew redlining…intimately.

But they always had water.

For three years they did not know that the water they had was poisoning them.

They did not know at first where the rashes came from as they showered. They did not know why their memory was getting worse. They did not know why they experienced tremors that stopped them from being able to work.

They sought water and were given hyssop.

 

It boggles my mind that in his last moments, suffering so, Jesus was still teaching us. The scripture says that he said “I am thirsty” in order to fulfil scripture. The scripture was Psalm 69, in which the psalmist famously states, “They gave me poison for food, and for my thirst they gave me vinegar to drink.”

 

But that psalm was not only about being thirsty. It was about being overwhelmed and hated.

1Save me, O God, for the waters have come up to my neck.

2I sink in deep mire, where there is no foothold; I have come into deep waters, and the flood sweeps over me.

3I am weary with my crying; my throat is parched. My eyes grow dim with waiting for my God.

4More in number than the hairs of my head are those who hate me without cause; many are those who would destroy me, my enemies who accuse me falsely. What I did not steal must I now restore?

Willie’s family had enemies. They had to flee people who extort money from the poor. Their government would not help them. They came to a country that treats foreigners as less than human.

The people of Flint had enemies. Their own government poisoned them slowly for the sake of a few dollars and did as little as possible for them. Many of Flint’s residents were both poor and Black. Their government had treated them as enemies since before they were born.

And Jesus, on the cross, with one phrase passing his cracked, dry lips, “I am thirsty,” spoke a word of solidarity with Willie’s family and the families in Flint, and a word of solidarity for us in a city where police pass around young girls instead of participating in their liberation, where city officials spend more time talking about potholes than about the growing number of homeless people and the diminishing number of Black people.

When Jesus tells the crowd, “I am thirsty,” he hearkens back to the ancestors who had borne so much suffering that they wanted to give up. He let them know that he understood that feeling, that he felt it too. That our Lord and Savior does not condemn our fatigue but feels it with us might be scary to some, but to me it is immensely comforting, as my own South Asian community along with our Arab American brothers and sisters fear attacks in the streets because of our government’s barely veiled threats on Muslim lives in a nation that cannot tell Christian from Muslim from Sikh from Hindu when all they see is Brown. I do not know how to reconcile myself to living in a country where at any point someone could beat up by Indian father or kill him because they hate brown people and pretend it is about religion. Sometimes I am overwhelmed by how many enemies we have. And I know Jesus knows that feeling.

With that simple phrase, “I am thirsty,” Jesus hearkens to the plea of the Psalmist:

Do not hide your face from your servant, for I am in distress—make haste to answer me.

18Draw near to me, redeem me, set me free because of my enemies.

19You know the insults I receive, and my shame and dishonor; my foes are all known to you.

20Insults have broken my heart, so that I am in despair. I looked for pity, but there was none; and for comforters, but I found none.

21They gave me poison for food, and for my thirst they gave me vinegar to drink.

In that barely whispered phrase, “I am thirsty,” Jesus stands with Willie’s family who knew literal thirst but also knew what it meant to thirst for basic human dignity, to thirst for freedom from fear, to thirst for a place where children can grow up. In that plea, “I am thirsty,” Jesus stands with the people of Flint who did not even know they were thirsting for clean water and also for a time when their best and brightest did not have to dedicate all of their energy to campaigns of resistance and fights for basic rights.

When all he can utter, hanging from the cross and suffering, is “I am thirsty,” Jesus stands with the indigenous peoples, the Water Protectors in North Dakota who proclaim “Mni wiconi,” “Water is life” even when their homes are taken from them and their people are arrested for protecting the water for all of us. Jesus, like the psalmist he quotes, thirsts for a time when the world will be made right.

He thirsts for a time when this country is liberated from its founding sins of conquest of land, attempted genocide of indigenous people and the dehumanizing and destructive enslavement of Black people for profit, sins that have not disappeared but have evolved and adapted as only evil can.

Jesus feels the despair creeping in, the seemingly unwinnable fight and lets us know that our despair is reasonable, that our enemies are real.

But he also quotes the psalm because he knows that despair is not the end of the story.

30I will praise the name of God with a song; I will magnify him with thanksgiving.

32Let the oppressed see it and be glad; you who seek God, let your hearts revive.

33For the Lord hears the needy, and does not despise his own that are in bonds.

35For God will save Zion and rebuild the cities of Judah; and his servants shall live there and possess it;

36the children of his servants shall inherit it, and those who love his name shall live in it.

My brothers and sisters, Jesus still thirsts for the prisoners to be freed, for strangers to be welcomed because we were all strangers in Egypt once. Jesus still thirsts for a world where love is love and Black lives matter. Jesus still thirsts for a world where our governments partner with us in building a Beloved Community here on earth, where there is neither Jew nor Greek, male nor female, slave nor free.

Do you thirst with Jesus?

Do you seek to rid the world of hyssop and replace it with pure, thirst quenching water?

Do you want to build a Beloved Community where all of God’s children are welcome and equal and thriving?

Then in the name of our thirsting Lord and Savior, let us be about God’s work until all of God’s children’s thirst is quenched.

Shut the f*** up

NOTE: I was asked to submit a piece to a powerful advent devotional called #F***ThisS*** and was assigned this title and passage from Matthew. The clergy who launched it feel a sense of urgency in this moment that I also feel, and they have incorporated strong language to convey that urgency much as the prophets in the Hebrew Bible did in the parlance of their own time. The situation in which we find ourselves, with Black and Brown and poor people’s lives and labor treated as disposable or exploitable or turned into commodities to be bought and sold, is far more dire than the language in this piece. That said, for a PG version of this online devotional, seek the hashtag #RendTheHeavens instead. With deep gratitude to the Rev. Tuhina Rasche for inviting me to be part of this.

“SHUT THE F*** UP.”

And he will send out his angels with a loud trumpet call, and they will gather his elect from the four winds, from one end of heaven to the other. –Matthew 24:31, NRSV

At Thanksgiving, the Sherwood Forest ring tone kept sounding, as if the horns were calling us to a fox hunt.

It was one person’s text message ringtone, another’s voicemail ringtone, and a third person’s work phone ring tone.

I sat across from a man who voted for Trump because he was tired of corruption, and who wanted to be protected from people who look like my father.

I heard those quiet, awkward comments knowing that a good family friend, a well-educated Hindu woman, voted for Trump for the same reasons, seemingly not concerned that the people threatening the lives of Muslims can’t tell the difference between Sikh, Hindu, Muslim or Christian; they just see Brown.

It seemed like a good reason to sound the alarm.

Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake; (1 Kings 9:11-12a, NRSV)

There is so much noise right now.

There is noise about the theater and illegal votes and illegal people and terrorist skittles and protecting people through stop and frisk. Noise about Dick Cheney, Darth Vader and Satan as role models for power. Noise about “economic nationalism” as opposed to “white nationalism.”

Noise that drowns out the murder of William Sims by white supremacists. Noise that drowns out the death threats sent cowardly and anonymously to mosques across the country. Noise that drowns out the barricades being built by police to stop emergency vehicles from entering Sioux territory.

and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence. When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. (1 Kings 9:12b-13a)

We need to shut the fuck up.

The trumpets are sounding and we don’t hear them.

God is calling us with trumpets, bugles, and fox hunting horns.

God is calling us with prayerful people standing on sacred ground.

God is calling us through a boycott of injustice.

God is calling us with faithful Muslims inviting into conversation the same people who threaten them and people committing to protect the mosque from attack.

God is calling us with White Supremacists waking up to the harm they are causing and repudiating that harm.

But we can’t hear it or respond to it unless we stop listening to the wind and the earthquake and the fire, the tale told by an idiot signifying nothing.

We can’t hear it as long as we generate more noise.

We may be the elect from the four winds, or we may not. But we have a role to play in these coming days as God ushers in the birth of a baby born under the eyes of a brutal ruler controlled by a foreign empire. And we need to shut out the din around us and shut down the din inside us to hear the trumpets call.

For the sake of God, we need to shut the fuck up.

Men are like buses???

What’s that phrase you use…the one when a friend’s just been unceremoniously dumped by a man, or is afraid to let go of a man for fear of being lonely?

I ask because I just took a bus. It was a bus that picks me up near my friend’s apartment in Albany, my favorite Indian place in Berkeley and my niece’s house in the same town, the day center for homeless seniors I often visit and then literally drops me off two blocks from my home.

Except that it no longer drops me off there. The bus that comes to my immediate neighborhood takes me on a meandering route that ends up in the Oakland hills where I never have a reason to go.

The other bus I used to use all the time because it got me to the church in East Oakland and also to the monthly meeting of Faith Alliance for a Moral Economy in Berkeley no longer exists.

My favorite bus that used to get me to Alameda and the Fruitvale and also to my favorite Indian place is now two bus lines to make sure the line runs more on time, except it runs LESS on time.

I do not think that saying men are like buses will ever bring comfort to those of us who rely on public transit. Because all that tells me is that they’re often late, unreliable, changing routes with little notice, and leaving me stranded in random places I didn’t intend to visit, forestalling my more immediate and meaningful plans. And that’s just not true. Right?

Right?!