Episode 2: Climbing the Mountain of Injustice with Austin Channing Brown
Hosted by Sarah Bessey and Jeff Chu
Featuring New York Times bestselling author, speaker, and producer Austin Channing Brown
For episode 2, Sarah and Jeff revisit Austin Channing Brown's bring-the-house-down sermon from Evolving Faith 2018. They reflect on what they've learned and experienced since that day as well as how Austin's words planted the seeds for some major shifts in their own lives.Listen and Subscribe
Show Notes & Links
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Special thanks to Audrey Assad and Wes Willison for the music on this episode. Shout-out to our long-suffering producer Jordan Gass-Pooré.
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“Your anger points to what is wrong and what could be made right.”
Transcript
SARAH: Hi friends, I’m Sarah Bessey
JEFF: And I'm Jeff Chu.
SARAH: Welcome back to The Evolving Faith Podcast.
JEFF: This is a podcast for the wounded, the misfits, and the spiritual refugees to let you know you are not alone in the wilderness. We're all about hope and we're here to point fellow wanderers to God. No matter where you are on your journey, no matter what your story is, you are welcome! We're listening - to God, to one another, and to the world.
SARAH: The story of God is bigger, wider, more inclusive and welcoming, filled with more love, than we could ever imagine. There's room here for everyone.
JEFF: There's room here for you.
SARAH: Welcome back, friends, to episode two of The Evolving Faith Podcast. We’re glad you’re here. Before we get started, we did want to share some good news with you. Tickets for Evolving Faith 2020 are now on sale. Our wilderness looks a bit different this year obviously, and so we’ve shifted to a live virtual conference. It’s on October 2-3, but you’ll have access to the videos on demand until April 1, 2021, as well. And we’re welcoming incredible leaders this year, like Kate Bowler, Barbara Brown Taylor, Dr. Chanequa Walker-Barnes, Sherrilyn Ifill, Jen Hatmaker, Propaganda, Nadia Bolz-Weber, Padraig O Tuama— so many more. Go to evolvingfaith.com to see the full speaker lineup. All of your questions will hopefully be answered there and to go ahead and register now.
JEFF: On this episode of the Evolving Faith Podcast, we hear from Austin Channing Brown, the author of I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness and the host of the web show The Next Question. Austin lives just outside Detroit with her husband and her son. And she is a superstar. You might have heard her on Brené Brown’s podcast or on Jen Hatmaker’s. And we in the Evolving Faith family cheered so hard a few weeks ago, when, over a year after publication, I’m Still Here made the New York Times bestseller list for the first time.
SARAH: [applauds] We’re so happy!
JEFF: Reese Witherspoon picked the book for her book club. And more and more people are discovering how powerful and beautiful Austin’s voice is, and Austin is. And we are lucky enough to be able to say, “We knew her when….”
SARAH: That is so true. It feels like it is a claim to fame right now, because it has just been such a joy to watch more and more people following and learning from Austin’s work and witness in the world. It is one of those beautiful and rare moments when we know the conversation is in good hands: Austin is just such a good and faithful leader, a wise woman, bold, prophetic, pastoral, unafraid, and so clearly motivated by joy and by love. I just love to be in her presence.
When we were listening and preparing for this episode, I remembered that I actually first heard her preach an early version of the sermon that you’re all about to hear when we were together at a small university in Indiana about a year or two before this Evolving Faith conference. And I remember us just kind of chit-chatting in our seats. I went up and preached, came back, sat down. She got up, and then just literally as she kept talking, and as she kept teaching— just literally feeling like I was getting saved all over again. Like, I know I’m the charismatic woo-woo one but it was straight-up filled with the Holy Ghost levels of anointing in that room. And I was shouting. After that, we went out for like an ice cream— ice cream sundaes. And we just were yakking in a booth right up until it was time to go back, like it was just normal, but I remember feeling this residual sense of awe, and looking at her, like: Oh, something is brewing right now. And I didn't have a clue what that would look like. And now seeing how all of this has come to fruition, there's zero percent of me that is surprised.
JEFF: It is amazing to watch a friend blossom and become the fullest version of themselves. I remember one of the first emails I got from Austin. We’d gotten to know each other just a little bit, not all that well. And she wrote to say: “Will be thinking about you and your husband as you continue to dream about the future.” And it strikes me: That’s what Austin does. She comes alongside people and encourages them to dream bigger and differently and more boldly and more justly about the future. She helps us imagine. She tells her story and asks you to let it ricochet off of yours, and after that, she asks, “Okay, what’s next?” And honestly, that’s sometimes a really hard question to answer, especially when you’re reckoning with the reality of what she just said. Friends, the next voice you’ll hear is that of our beloved friend, Austin Channing Brown.
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AUSTIN BROWN: Good morning, everyone.
I want to talk to the people of color in the room. Is that okay? I want to talk to the people of color in the room. It's really easy when a conference is predominantly white to assume that there's only whiteness in the room. But people of color are people and also have an evolving faith. And that faith has been evolving over centuries, because of slavery, and genocide, and lynching, and internment camps, and travel bans, and changing borders. Our evolving faith is not new. But it is different.
Our evolving faith has to answer some tough questions about history. Some tough questions about the present. Our evolving faith often involves the return to the ancestors. Our evolving faith means reading the Bible from the underside. Our evolving faith means starting with theologians of color, like Dr. Wil Gafney.
We're here. We're present. And my desire is to say that I see you and that God sees you.
The nation has been divided in two. It’s supposed to be the nation of God. But ever since its leaders have become obsessed with power, it has been defined by destruction and devastation, vengeance and assassinations. Leaders are rising and falling, fighting and rallying against one another. It doesn't feel like anyone is in control. The kingdom is in chaos.
And now a king has been installed. But he and his family members are a hot mess. Sexual assault, endangering his citizens, purposefully putting lives at risk, a tug of war over political power, arrogance, rape, incest, murder, death swirl around the family.
But it's King David.
He's been chosen by God, right? So better to focus on his successes, not his failures, right?
And just when it seems like things might calm down, a famine strikes, the rains have stopped, the land is dry. It's been three long years and something has to give.
So King David goes before God. “Why is this happening?” he asks. God responds, “Because of a broken promise.”
According to David, a covenant made decades ago was recently broken by the former king, Saul. And now a famine has resulted. So David gets off his knees, goes to the offended party, and asks, “How can we make this right? I'll do anything you ask to make restitution.”
“Great,” they say. “We don't want money, or treasures, weapons, anything material. What we want is to execute seven of Saul's descendants.”
Now I'm not gonna lie to you, friends. It seems awfully convenient that the answer to ending the famine just happens to be retribution against the family who could be convinced of their own right to the throne. But never mind coincidences, right? Never mind the decisions born under the pressure of political power. Never mind travel bans and the criminalization of immigrants. Never mind trans erasure and the black justice fighters who are being placed on extremist lists. Never mind white nationalist rallies and a president willing to call himself a nationalist. Never mind the violence people of color have endured over centuries. There's nothing to see here, folks. Just doing what's necessary for the greater good. This is what it takes to end the famine, people.
So David obliges and hands over seven young men, all descendants of former King Saul. They are impaled and hung on the hill of God. They are innocent. They have done nothing wrong. They simply belong to the wrong family. They are snatched from the streets, and from their homes, and they are gone. For the good of the nation.
Against custom, their bodies remain there, for the good of the nation. In an act of terror and intimidation their bodies are exposed, for the good of the nation.
Have we not been told the same?
Racial injustice for the sake of law, racial injustice for the sake of order, racial injustice for the sake of safety, racial injustice for the sake of your job, racial injustice for the sake of the nation.
But I need you to understand that racial injustice is death for people of color.
Until this moment in the story, women have been forced to play pawns, moved across the chessboard of the nation at the pleasures of the powerful. But then comes Rizpah.
Rizpah is the mother of two of the seven boys. For years, she has been caught between the conniving, unhealthy, retributive politics of nations, but with the death of her boys, she has had enough.
It's not uncommon for those in mourning like Rizpah to put on sackcloth. Jacob wore sackcloth after being told his son is dead. David wears sackcloth when his friend dies in battle. Job wears sackcloth when his life is devastated.
But Rizpah doesn't just wear sackcloth as a sign that she's in mourning. She forms an actual sack. She fills it, she throws it over her back, and begins to climb the hill of God.
When she reaches the top, she stretches her sackcloth as wide as she can and builds herself a tent. Rizpah has decided to convert the symbol of her grief into a resource for demanding the dignity of the boys. She will stay there. She will protect all seven bodies with her own.
For her, this is not a passing trend. This is not a phase. She stares at death and determines that it has redefined her life. She is pissed. And her anger is not wrong. Her anger is not negative. Her anger is not destructive. Her anger is not violent. Her anger points to what is wrong and what could be made right.
The anger of nonviolent protesters at rallies and on highways, at restaurants and dinner parties, on college campuses and government meetings is not wrong.
I declare to you on this day your anger is not destructive; it is instructive. Its jarring nature fueled by anger does not make it violent. Uncomfortable, sure. But we must not be fooled by the privileged and the powerful who defend actual violence, systemic violence, racial violence, and equate that to a missed meal at a fancy restaurant.
Your anger points to what is wrong and what could be made right. Do not apologize for not wearing your sackcloth and being sad in a corner somewhere by yourself. Throw that sackcloth over your shoulder and start climbing the mountain of racial injustice, no matter how uncomfortable it makes people feel.
For days, Rizpah determines that she will not let bird or beast feast on the bodies of these boys. But days turn to weeks and weeks to months. Rigor mortis sets in the first day the bodies were hung. The stiffness of their bodies is in stark contrast to the active lives they led only weeks ago. The bodies have decomposed before her eyes. The faces are drawn and discolored. She has kept the beasts away, but can't fight the insects that are making the bodies their home. Bodily fluids leak, pooling into a rancid puddle just feet from where she lays. The stench from all seven has been overwhelming. But still she stays.
Her body is weary. Her emotional state wanes with each day. She misses her boys. But still she stays.
The vultures and beasts can smell the bodies too. They swoop and call, they crawl and pounce. They came for an easy meal, only to meet a fierce competitor in Rizpah. She waves sticks and throws stones. She screams and stares them down. She is dirty and she is scared and she is putting her own life at risk. But still she stays—and fights.
I imagine Rizpah may have had an abundance of energy when she first climbed that mountain. But now she's tired and lonely. And her body hurts and her heart hurts and the Kingdom has moved on.
I don't know how she did it. But here's what I think. I think she looked at those bodies and remembered their humanity. I think she remembered the way they used to play at her feet. I think she remembered their first words. And the first time they learned to clap their hands together.
I think she remembered Trayvon’s smile and Mike Brown's laugh. I think she remembered how much Jordan liked music and how Sandra had hopes and dreams. I think she remembered their humanity.
You see, Rizpah refuses to be taken in by the message of dehumanization. Everyone else looked around at those decomposing bodies and were disgusted. But Rizpah refused to let religious notions of piety become the catalyst for her own inhumanity.
While she fights, of course the people are talking about her. Poor dear. Lost both of her sons. At first, they probably pity her, maybe even silently support her, but only under their breath. Never with their bodies.
But the comments become increasingly vicious. She has lost her mind. She's hysterical. A woman gone mad.
Then they start to get a little creative. She's a snowflake. A social justice warrior. She's toxic. She's just trying to divide us all. She's just practicing identity politics. She doesn't really care about all those boys. She's a heretic, up there with those decomposing bodies. God can't be pleased with her decision to live there.
Y'all just let me know when I get to yours.
I've seen her up there—and she has lost all civility. She's the real racist. Just watch how intimidating she is. She isn't a team player. She's always looking at the bad side. Such a cynic. She's an enemy of the nation. She doesn't care about the greater good of everyone, just her people. I mean, don't all lives matter?
They talk, and they talk, and they talk. And while they talk, Rizpah fights.
So I've decided: Call me a snowflake. Call me an SJW. Call me toxic. Call me divisive. Call me the real racist. You can claim that I'm a career identity-politics person or a paid protester. By all means declare that all I do is make white people feel bad or feel guilty or feel shame. Go ahead. Talk all you want. Tell me I'm not a real Christian or that I'm leading others astray or that my message has nothing to do with the gospel. I've heard it all.
Please feel free to add to the chorus of folks who believe that black lives are not worth fighting for. While you talk, know that I'm getting on this mountain until the dignity of every black life is honored. I'mma be right here.
Rizpah has been fighting on that mountain under the hot sun for months. She sits under the sackcloth to have another cry as she stares at the bones of the boys from her hiding place. She can hear the vultures circling above her head once more, waiting for her to fall asleep or give up. She is undone.
When all of a sudden she hears wheels turning, over grit and dirt. At first it sounds like only one chariot but then she can hear that there must be more. The noise of horses grow louder as the cries of the vultures fade in the commotion. Rizpah emerges from her makeshift tent and is shocked to find herself staring at the King’s attendants.
Because the people were talking, her story moves King David into action. She was speaking truth to power. And finally power concedes.
He cannot bring the boys back. But he can dignify them. He can take them down. He can bury them properly. He can acknowledge that they were loved. He can come alongside Rizpah and by his actions declare that she is not ridiculous. That she was doing what was right all along. He can join her in doing what is right.
Dear friends, who have been fighting for racial justice for a long time, and are wearied only by the ramping-up of the need to fight for racial justice: I need you to know that you are a part of Rizpah’s legacy. You who experience injustice in your bodies, in your families, in your communities: You are Rizpah, who has potential to move the king.
We join Ida B. Wells, who wrote against lynching. And Mamie Till-Mobley, who placed her murder child in an open casket. We joined Sybrina Fulton, who shared with us the life and death of Trayvon Martin. And Lesley McSpadden, who marched up and down the streets of St. Louis, to remind us that perfection is not a qualification for avoiding execution in the streets. The legacy has potential to continue in us.
So I declare you Rizpah, who fight for racial justice. I declare you Rizpah, who fight for the incarcerated. I declare you Rizpah who work for the rights and well-being of queer people of color. I call you Rizpah who refute at every turn the message that the Latino community is to be feared. I call you Rizpah who fight for Indigenous lives. I call you Rizpah who recognize the suffering in the AAPI community and resist model- minority myths. I call you Rizpah who fight against Islamophobia. I call you Rizpah, for you who have the courage to be angry and the love required to pursue justice. To step into lost causes, to speak truth to power. I call you Rizpah.
And today, if your evolving faith means standing before tombs and believing in the possibility of life, I want you to know that you are not alone.
Amen.
——
SARAH: Where are there even words? What are words?
JEFF: It’s hard to follow that sermon.
SARAH: Right? What are we even doing right now? I don’t even know.
I remember sitting in the front row. The way the room was set up, it was kind of like in a round. I was sitting over on the side of the stage with a bunch of folks—a lot of our speakers were all there—and as Austin began to preach this word, we went from clapping and cheering to weeping. Like, groaning, from the bottom of your soul repentance sort of thing. I have never in my life heard a sermon like this one— and listen, I have heard more sermons in more churches and contexts than is probably good for anyone’s health. But I had never heard of Rizpah, and the boys, and all of this.
It reminded me of that often quoted and misunderstood line from Hebrews— and, fair warning, I’m going to go, like, full King James here, so can brace yourselves: “For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.” That was what that session felt like for me: It was a discerner. The words pierced our souls and discerned our thoughts and intents.
After she was done, do you remember? I don’t know if you remember this or not, but Dr. Wil Gafney, this remarkable scholar, theologian… remarkable woman who also happens to be one of Austin’s heroes, and she mentioned her in the sermon, and actually you’re going to hear from her this season as well in a few episodes, literally stood up from her chair after Austin was finished and ran up the steps across the stage just to hold Austin after she had preached that word. That moment, of two Black women holding each other in the room, resting in the work of the Holy Spirit, supporting each other and rejoicing and weeping at the same time, I could bawl again just thinking of it. It was powerful.
JEFF: It was a memorable moment for sure. And it also reminds me of O=one of the most powerful things about Austin, what she does in this talk and in every talk: She makes clear whom she’s there for. She never pretends that she’s there to educate white audiences. She invites you to eavesdrop, but she always centers people of color and specifically Black women. In a society that constantly, implicitly and explicitly, centers white people, she offered me a powerful example of what it looks like not to do that. Sarah, you probably remember the very first sentence of her book: “White people are exhausting.” There are folks who will get offended by that, and Austin is more than fine to say, “Hey, folks who got offended by that, this book is not for you!” And I’m not sure I’m brave enough to do that.
SARAH: I remember reading that line and literally laughing out loud because it was just true. And let’s be honest, I mean, predominantly white progressive or liberal spaces are a particular kind of exhausting, right? There is often this need to perform wokeness and solidarity. There is often a repentance and a grief that is real, but we place that burden of processing it or validating it on the people of color in the room and that is the completely wrong thing to do. We are almost tasking or asking people of color to bear our burdens, hold our white tears, and manage our little, baby, fragile awakenings, like, give us cookies for coming late to the party. I know I’ve been guilty of that.
JEFF: I actually keep a jar of white tears on my bedside table. But seriously: So often white people look at us as if we have the ability to offer some sort of absolution. But that’s not our job. And I don’t bake a lot of cookies. And that whole dynamic just keeps white people at the center of the conversation.
SARAH: Exactly. Exactly. You know what? That was one of the biggest takeaways that we as the leadership of Evolving Faith kind of took away from this entire weekend, honestly, not just Austin’s session, is that we had unthinkingly completely centered whiteness. And this realization really brought about a deep repentance in us, which isn’t of course just feeling bad and filling up your cup of white tears but actually engaging in the hard, real, ordinary work of transformation and dismantling that. And so we’ve been working since then—slowly, imperfectly, don’t get me wrong—to decenter that. We believe that it is impossible, really, to deconstruct a faith, let alone reconstruct something that works not only for ourselves but for the whole big, beautiful, messy, good world unless we are engaging in the active work of dismantling white supremacy and decolonizing our faith. Evolving Faith has to climb that mountain, too.
JEFF: So, Sarah, to be honest, I’m wrestling with what the “we” means in everything you just said. Who is “we”? My first impulse was to say, Don’t implicate me as a person of color in that. But I also have to be perfectly candid and admit that I’ve also still got a lot of work to do myself to unearth the white supremacy that has been trained into my habits over many, many years. I’m someone who grew up in the US, I’m someone whose roots are in British-ruled Hong Kong, and there was a lot of whiteness in those cultures that was seen and named as good and normal—and it’s important work to identify what that has done to me and to my body and to my soul; to name the consequences of it; and to root that out in myself. And maybe part of that work is being angrier than my stereotypically subservient culture says is acceptable and polite. And maybe the holy anger, that kind of holy anger, that Austin talks about in her sermon, maybe that’s a way forward.
SARAH: That is a good path. I resonate with that on some level because growing up in any form of evangelical culture, you are taught, I think especially as a woman, you’re taught to never get angry, that nice Christian girls don’t get angry.
JEFF: Ah, that’s the traditional idolatry of “nice.”
SARAH: Listen, there are layers, because I’m also Canadian, and so “nice” is our primary weapon for passive aggressive peacekeeping!
JEFF: Blame Canada! I blame Canada!
SARAH: We’ll talk about healthcare and reasonable public discourse some other time, okay? I think, going back to your point: Being angry is seen, both implicitly and explicitly, as sinful or dangerous. That is why I remember being so struck by Austin’s declaration that your anger is not destructive. It is instructive. That line that she says, “Its jarring nature, fueled by anger, does not make it violent. It’s uncomfortable, sure. But we must not be fooled by the privileged and the powerful who defend actual violence, systemic violence, racial violence and equate that to a missed meal at a fancy restaurant.”
Whew. That was so important for that particular moment. And again, this is the thing about prophets, right? It is as true today as it was two years ago. So Austin’s reminder even about the grief, when she says, “Your anger points to what is wrong and what could be made right.” I felt that in my bones and I still do. When we’re taught to be afraid of our anger or to distrust it but it turned out that anger is the right response, that the Spirit’s invitation is in your anger. And that gospel movement, that one important movement, is what she said next: “Don’t apologize for not wearing your sackcloth and being sad in a corner somewhere by yourself. Throw that sackcloth over your shoulder and start climbing the mountain of racial injustice no matter how uncomfortable that makes people feel.”
JEFF: So that image of the mountain of racial injustice is something I’ve really been thinking a lot about, and especially in light of the fact that when Austin speaks, she speaks mainly to Black women and to Black people and then to people of color, so I want to gently push back slightly here, maybe at the risk of misunderstanding her or maybe at the risk of taking the metaphor too far. I know there are a lot of folks who never even realized that this mountain existed, this mountain of injustice. Now that they know it’s there, they seem insistent on describing the terrain ad nauseam. But the problem is, it’s like they’ve become hikers, or sightseers, or these gawkers who seem determined just to climb to the top and just take in the view, as if that does something. And it makes me think of those folks who hike just so that they have something to post on Instagram. So are you more interested in taking in the view, or are you maybe willing just to accept the testimony of those who intimately know the size of the mountain and then stay at the base of that mountain to begin to dig out that base, so that the whole thing will collapse under its own ugly weight?
And then back to the point about violence: I think we have to be nuanced here. So often it seems as if people—and when I say people here, I mean a certain category of commentator, fill in the blank yourself—people deem something violent if it rubs up against their way of seeing the world, their economic interests, their status quo. I often say that we’ve mistaken discomfort for danger. Likewise, I think some people mistake anger for violence, and, as Austin makes clear, they are not the same thing.
SARAH: I agree. I agree. That’s a good word. Because as a white woman, I heard these words as a call to listen, to believe Rizpah. To believe Black women. To leverage the privileges or access to the ear of the King towards justice and dignity. There has to be some honesty there, that I can’t fully understand a Rizpah. I mean, on some level, like, I’m a mum of four kids, and I remember the feeling of hearing that sermon and that groaning in my spirit was that fierce mother kind of love that was reflected in every line of that sermon. That point of connection was there for me. But there is a point of disconnection. Because I don’t know what it’s like, and I haven’t been powerless at the hands of a system and an empire like this, but I have felt the universality of a mother’s love, a mother’s grief, the kind that doesn’t run away just because there is pain or loss or no hope left. It’s that kind of love that remains. And the invitation there is that God deeply understands this grief. Right? That’s a Mother God’s grief. That fierce, never running away love. It’s here again that we see Emmanuel, right? God with us. Mother God with us, on the mountain, weeping over Her children. Rizpah—generations of Rizpah—are not alone.
JEFF: Of course. Absolutely. Of course. Of course we believe that God is present, in the weeping and with the weeping and with the suffering, but I really also don’t want us to use that as an escape clause: Oh, God is there! Everything’s fine. We have a role to play when we see someone suffering, when we see someone weeping because of injustice. And that role, to be clear, isn’t at the center of the story. It’s not to put ourselves at the center of the story, even though that might be a temptation. There’s a temptation to say, Ooh, I can be Rizpah too! But that’s not the point, I don’t think. To honor Rizpah and her story doesn’t mean to be Rizpah—not if we’re not in a parallel social location, not if that isn’t our story to inhabit. And maybe the story is for us to hear and to absorb and to honor. I think that’s one of the gifts of Austin’s sermon; she invites us to be wholly who we are—and also to honor wholly who our neighbors are, which means not always putting ourselves in the middle of the story but learning how to bear witness to it.
SARAH: Mmm. That’s good. That’s such a good point. Because not everything is for everyone, and I even see the danger of seeing… Austin’s sermon isn’t something we are here to consume. Instead, it’s an invitation to the story and even a release from making the story about myself. To make the story about Rizpah. Generations of Rizpah. To make the story about her boys. I think the invitation here is to come alongside of the story that God is already writing.
JEFF: You know, that makes me think of another really vital aspect of the story that I believe God is writing through Austin and through her life’s testimony. I was lucky enough to read an early draft of I’m Still Here while Austin was still working on it, and I remember that one of the things that struck me most about it was her insistent depiction of Black joy. It was so beautiful. It countered the insidious narratives and stereotypes that are sometimes out there. I think sometimes guilty non-Black people want to mitigate pain and harm, and with all the talk of anti-racism right now, which, don’t get me wrong, I affirm and I am glad for it, I also wonder, what are you for? You want to be anti-racist, but what’s on the other side of that? What does love look like? Are you fostering joy? In other words, how do we love our Black neighbors well not just by reducing what’s bad in their lives but also helping them to grow what’s good? How do we honor their joy and their delight and their flourishing?
SARAH: Exactly. Exactly. I think that is one of the things that has most shaped me in the wilderness is realizing it’s not enough just to be against things. I’ve got to be able to name what we’re for, right? So that’s something we’ve been talking about a lot behind the scenes as we try to get our hands around what Evolving Faith is for, right now, in this moment. Because to me, it is even more important to cultivate that sort of joy and even happiness, rest, in these painful days of feeling the full weight of collective grief and anger and injustice. An apocalypse is exhausting. And so these ordinary beautiful things and moments of rest are not less important because of collective suffering but they are even more important because of this moment. And so if is important to cultivate our joy and rest in the midst of the work, as I believe, then I think it is in this context vital for those of us who are alongside the story to look for what we are for and cultivate that as well, right? Particularly for those or alongside of those who are especially exhausted or grieving or despairing right now. We are not just here for the work but also for the joy of one another, too. Even that practice, or that posture from Austin, from the totality of her work—her newsletter, her web-series show, all of her interviews—all the things she’s doing, she’s always reminding us of the totality of what makes us human, right? And we aren’t more human or more holy when we forget joy and rest and beauty are important. That’s part of dignity. And in a lot of ways, it’s how she ended her sermon, that to me is even the invitation for all of us, even as we begin to wrap up the episode, is that: “If your evolving faith means standing before tombs and believing in the possibility of life, I want you to know that you are not alone.”
JEFF: Amen.
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HOLLY: Hi, my name is Holly, and I’m from Arizona. I’ve been trying to cultivate hope in the wilderness right now, but it’s hard. Usually I read to distract myself but for the past few weeks I’ve been unable to get through more than a page at a time before losing focus. Finally I picked up the Bible. I’ve never been able to read more than a page of Scripture at a time, so it felt like a good fit. As I read, stories of people journeying through unknowable times just like these surrounded me, all of them filled with hope. It’s been lovely.
MELISSA: Hi, my name is Melissa Summers, and I’m in Austin, Texas. And I am cultivating hope in the wilderness right now by watching Mo Willems teach kids how to draw characters from his books. It is bringing me joy and hope every day.
LAUREN: My name is Lauren Brockmeyer, and I Iive in Massachusetts, and I am finding hope and faith in the wilderness of reconstructing my faith while being a missionary. I’m about to head overseas, and I’m just finding it in moments of solitude and quiet, and accepting that I’m going to struggle and that it’s okay, and I can doubt, and question, and it’s all good. It’s all holy. Yeah, that’s where I’m finding it.
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JEFF: Friends, thanks for listening to this episode of the Evolving Faith podcast. You can follow Austin Channing Brown on Instagram and Twitter at @austinchanning. Her book I’m Still Here is available anywhere good books are sold; ask at your local independent bookstore or head to bookshop.org. You can also find her show The Next Question online at tnqshow.com. Also, please subscribe to her newsletter, Roll Call, at austinchanning.substack.com. This is a lot a lot a lot of links, but as usual, you can find everything you need in our show notes on the Evolving Faith website. You can also follow us on Twitter and Instagram at @evolvfaith, because someone else already took @evolvingfaith. You can also find me on Twitter at @jeffchu and on Instagram at @byjeffchu.
SARAH: We also have a podcast community over on Facebook. So you can come hang out with us by searching for The Evolving Faith Podcast After-Party. And I'm on Twitter and Instagram as @sarahbessey too. Don’t forget we also have a full transcript of the episode at our website, evolvingfaith.com, and click on Podcast. The Evolving Faith Podcast is produced by us, Sarah Bessey and Jeff Chu, along with Jordan Gass-Pooré.
JEFF: Oh, one more thing: We want to hear from you. Frankly, I’m tired of my own voice. So if you'd like to be featured in an upcoming episode of the Evolving Faith podcast, just call 616 929 0409 and tell us where you are finding hope out here in the wilderness. 616 929 0409.
SARAH: And don’t forget, before we say goodbye: Tickets for Evolving Faith 2020 now on sale at evolvingfaith.com. We’ve set a big, rowdy table in the middle of the wilderness, and together, we are planning a feast. We saved a spot for you. We’ll share stories and songs, wonder and curiosity, renewal and redemption too.
JEFF: And until next time, friends, remember that you are loved.
