Abolitionists 

Let My People Go!

“I have observed the misery of my people in Egypt, and have heard them crying out because of their oppressors. I know about their sufferings and I have come down to rescue them from the power of the Egyptians and to bring them from that land to a good and spacious land, a land flowing with milk and honey…” (Exodus 3:7-8)

“The Lord, the God of the Hebrews, has sent me to tell you: Let my people go, so that they may worship me in the wilderness.” (Exodus 7:16)

God, Liberator of the oppressed, 

I hear your voice

roaring from the burning bush,

rushing into my soul with fury,

crying out for the voiceless,

“Let my people go!” 

You are crying for the unborn,

the creature you shaped, 

kicking in mom’s belly 

wanting to be born.

But her arrival is an inconvenience, 

so we use murder as a convenience.

I hear you crying with jealousy, 

“Let my people go!”

You are crying for the mom,

who wants her unborn to be born,

but enjoys no support  

of those who hasten to accuse her,

but move nothing to lift her sorrow

and deny her the dignity of telling her story.

I hear you crying for her, 

“That’s my daughter,

Let her go!”

You are crying for the sisters of Tamar,

who were treated like objects,

violated and discarded

by brothers who felt entitled to pleasure  

and abused their power to obtain it. 

I hear you sobbing with Tamar and her sisters

tears of sorrow, sobs of anguish, 

tears of shame, sobs of rage, 

tears of denial, sobs of despair, 

tears and sobs, 

tears and sobs, 

ashes and torn robe, 

bitter tears, bitter pain, 

heavy tears and rhythmic sobs, 

the sound of grief and the cadence of desolation. 

I hear you sobbing in anguish

“Let Tamar and her sisters go!”

You are crying with George Floyd,

your hands extended on the cross,

exhausted from searching for air,

looking at the guards who robbed your breath.

You cry with him in unison

“I can’t breathe.”

And your Spirit within me cries,

“Let my people go!”

You are sobbing with the parents,

who are losing children to gun violence 

in the red-lined streets of this land, 

split in half by the Troost,

by the wealthy knives of those who hid the truth.

You are crying in protest 

for your blood is red but draws no lines.

“Let my people go!”

You are crying with the immigrant,

who was lured by the “American dream”

and wakes up to a nightmare 

in the dreamland where only some dream.

We eat the produce they pick,

but can’t afford to eat.

We benefit from their labor,

but fail to protect their personhood

I hear your voice through “The Great Wall”

echoing through Rio Grande 

and piercing the Sonora Desert,

“Let my people go!”

You cry with the unhoused 

in the solidarity of having nowhere to lay your head.

You cry with them for mercy 

from passerbyers and runners,

lawyers and laborers. 

Some of them sound like Bartimeus

“Son of David, have mercy on me” 

And you cry aloud with them

“Let my people go!”

You are crying with the elders,

whose companion is loneliness, 

discarded by a society 

that searches for wisdom in empty wells,

ignoring fountains in nursing homes 

and rivers gushing out of lonely houses.

There is wisdom in the slow and steady pace

of feet that once ran

through mountains and valleys,

straight and curvy roads,

smooth and rocky terrain.

There is beauty to white hair,

depth to wrinkles

carved by sweat and tears,

tenderness in callused hands

that labored for our present comfort.

I see you meet their gaze through the window, 

crying out with indignation

“Let my people go!”  

Jesus Christ, Friend of souls in the margins

We lament our neglect.

We grieve our apathy,

for we live and worship comfortably 

in white castles with thick wide walls

that afford us the luxury of ignorance 

and the safety of distance.

Forgive us for not valuing 

life at all stages.

Forgive us for valuing 

the comfort of distance 

over the discomfort of proximity

to those who are not like us,

to those who don’t have as much.  

Forgive us, oh Lord, 

for drawing red lines over lives, 

knowing that your blood is red 

but draws no lines.

We repent for putting

whiteness over witness,

profit over personhood,

wealth over diversity’s wonder,

pride over poverty of spirit,

greed over gratitude. 

Make us disciples who are liberators.

Let our voices join with Moses

in the cry of justice 

that is as old as,

“Let my people go!” 

Amen