Je ne suis pas Charlie

France suffered a horrible atrocity two weeks ago.  Eleven staffers of a satirical newspaper, Charlie Hebdo, were systematically executed in a terrorist attack.  There is no excuse.  There is no understandable rationale.  The motive was revenge for the satirical portrayal of the prophet Mohammed.  As to the facts of the crime, the motive is quite irrelevant.  It was simply a mass murder by cowards.  End of story.

In response people all over France and indeed all over the world proclaimed their solidarity with these words—Je suis Charlie.  I am Charlie.  And as to the act of terrorism we have a moral obligation to stand with them.  Je suis Charlie.  The Church must stand against murder regardless of motive.  Nothing that Charlie Hebdo ever published justified this crime carried out in the name of religion.  Murder is a desecration of the image of God.  Murder in the name of God is a profound blasphemy.  Murder is murder.  No one bears responsibility for it except the murderers and their accomplices.

And while the satirical portrayal of Islam in no way shifts responsibility for what happened from the murderers to the victims, neither do the murders give justification for mocking what some people hold most dear because it is religious.  We protect the right to freedom of expression, even in the form of the mocking of religions.  That there is a right, however, is not the same thing as being right.

It is fashionable in our day to make fun of religion.  Indeed, we quite often deserve it.  I can think of many things in the Church that would justify satire.  Making fun of my own religions is one thing.  Making fun of someone else’s is quite another thing. 

For Episcopalians, indeed for Christians generally, to do so breaches a fundamental tenet of faith, to respect the dignity of every human being.  And religion goes very much to the core of human dignity, at least as the religious understand it.  That is something we must take not only seriously but faithfully. 

I have a moral responsibility to stand in solidarity with the victims of a terrorist crime in Paris.  Je suis Charlie.  But I also cannot condemn the murders at Charlie Hebdo two weeks ago without also acknowledging that I must stand against all affronts to human dignity, including those affronts that are aimed at demeaning what other human beings hold most dear.  The fact that what other human beings hold most dear is religious does not make it right.  The fact that what other human beings hold most dear is something I do not understand does not make it right.  The fact that what other human beings hold most dear is something with which I disagree does not make it right. 

That is all the more true in a secular world in which faith is seen as reason for ridicule.  That is all the more true in a culture in which one religion, Islam, takes the brunt of the ridicule for all of us who are religious.  I must proclaim my solidarity with the objects of ridicule, too.  And as to that, Je ne suis pas Charlie.  Je suis musulman.  I am not Charlie.  I am Muslim.

Peace,

It Matters a Great Deal

Like many of us, today is my first day back after the Christmas break.  I love coming to work, but for some reason, I have been having a hard time getting back into the swing of it this year.  I had a hard time getting up this morning.  The walk to the station seemed especially cold today.  I dreaded getting on a subway, facing the crowds, and seeing the kiosks at Bryant Park empty and in some state of disassembly.  I lacked any inspiration of what I might share with you on this first day back of a new year. 

I hung up my coat, turned on my office lights, and got some coffee.  As I came back in my office door, my eyes spotted the Christmas cards that had arrived during December.  I had stood them up along my bookshelf to remember those who had sent them and the glad tidings of the season.  Christmas was over.  They certainly didn’t matter anymore.  Time for them to go, I thought, more in recognition of my mood than that Christmastide still has two days to go.  So I walked beside the bookshelf, scooping each one up, and with a tinge of regret, I unceremoniously discarded them in the trash. 

Then I sat down at my desk and stared at a blank screen not having any idea what to say.

It had only been a minute, if that long, when I received an email from Francis, a priest in Kenya.  He is someone I have never met in person, but to whom I feel a strong bond.  He was introduced to me two years ago by a mutual friend, another priest in Kenya, whom I do know well, because Francis’ daughter Marion was very sick with a brain tumor.  Since then Francis and I have been in close contact.

He has let me know how Marion was doing in her school (receiving honors, designated head girl), and he has let me know when he had to go and bring her home because she was in too much pain to concentrate.  There have been trips to the local hospital in Eldoret, Kenya and a distant hospital in Kampala, Uganda for more advanced treatment.  There have been times things looked like they were getting better and times they looked like they were getting worse.  The doctors seemed baffled, or at least Francis was.  On occasion I have been able to help with some of the bills, which have stretched the family financially.

We have talked about other aspects of Francis’ life, too.  Francis has reminded me that my fundamental vocation is as a pastor, and now, a pastor to priests.  He has shared family challenges as well as great pride and joy at his other child’s academic progress.  I have never been to Kenya and I have never met Francis, Marion, or their family.  Still, Francis has reminded me of the strength of the bonds of baptism across many miles and across barriers of entirely human, even Christian, construction.  I am so grateful to him.

Last week Marion had to go back to the hospital in Eldoret.  More debilitating pain.  I began to wonder if it might be possible to bring her to the United States for evaluation and treatment.  I have no doubt that the local medical team is doing all it can, but I also knew I wanted for Marion what I would want for my own child.  Over the weekend I asked Francis to send me some more detailed information, which arrived this morning at 1:31 Eastern time.  Once finishing this reflection, my plan was to forward the information to my doctor and ask her advice about who in New York might be willing to look into this case.

While I was staring into the abyss of a blank screen, another email from Francis arrived.  It was 7:57.  Francis wrote, “Thanks Bishop for all that you did for us but God has rested Marion today.”  I do not know how to express my grief at the death of brave Marion and my sorrow for her parents. 

This is a paradox, but somehow I have remembered why it is I come to work in the morning, and why it is I brave the cold to walk to the subway and get on the train each day.  There is an occasional day when I wonder if it has any point at all.  Today started out to be one of those, which are thankfully rare.  Marion has reminded me in the strangest sort of way that there is indeed a point, no matter how hard it may be to see some days.  Marion has reminded me to keep trying.  Marion has reminded me, in the most inexplicable way, of the nearness of God.  And Marion has reminded me of God’s promise in Christ that as he has been raised from the dead, so will she.  And so will we.

The first thing I did was to get the Christmas cards out of the trash and set them back up on my bookshelf.  It does matter after all.  It matters a great deal.

Peace,