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
