Hope

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  ὀχέω : impf. ὥχουν Eur. Hel. 277, Ion. ὀχέεσκον Hom.: fut. ὀχήσω Aesch., Eur.: aor. @ynoa-Call. Jov. 23:—Med. and Pass., impf. ὠχέετο Hdt., -e’ro Xen.: fut. ὀχήσομαι 1]. : Ep. aor. ὀχήσατο Od.; also aor. ὀχηθῆναι Hipp. 4. 250 Littré, Luc.:—in Att. Prose, only used in pres. and impf.: Hom. never uses the augm.: [the first syll. is made long in Pind. O. 2. 121, Lyc. 64, 1049, where it is written ὀγχέω, ν. ὄφις sub fin.] (From ὄχος.) Frequent. of ἔχω, as φορέω of φέρω (ἔχειν τε καὶ ὀχεῖν Plat. Crat. 400 A), to uphold, sustain, ἄγκυρα δ᾽ ἥ μου τὰς τύχας ὥχει (sic leg., v. Dind.) Eur. Hel. 277. b. to endure, suffer, ὀχέοντας ὀϊζύν Od. 7. 211; κακὸν μόρον .. , ὅνπερ ἔγὼν ὀχέεσκον 11. 619; ἄτην ὀχέων 21. 301; ἀπροσόρατον ὀγχέοντι πόνον Pind. O. 2. 121; ἄχθος ὀχ. Hipp. Fract. 758; τἀγαθὰ μὴ .. ὀχ. εὐπόρως to bear prosperity not with moderation, Democr. ap. Stob. 55. 47. c. to continue, keep doing, νηπιάας ὀχέειν to keep playing childish tricks, like ἔχειν, ἄγειν Od. 1. 297 ; φρουρὰν ἄζηλον 6x now will maintain an unenvi- able watch, Aesch, Pr. 143. 2. to carry, χερσὶ λύρην Theogn. 534; τινα Eur. Or. 802; φιάλην Xen. Cyr. 1. 3,8; of the legs, to carry the body, Hipp. Art. 819. 8. to let another ride, to mount, αὐτὸς Badifw.., τοῦτον δ᾽ ὀχῶ Ar. Ran. 23; so of a general, fo let the men ride, Xen. Eq. Mag. 4, I. II. much more often in Med. and Pass. to be borne or carried, have oneself borne, ὀχήσατο κύμασιν ‘Epyjs Od. 5.543 νηυσὶν ὀχήσονται 1]. 24. 731; ἵπποισιν ὀχεῖτο h. Ven. 218; so, ἐφ᾽ ἁμάξης ὀχεῖσθαι Hdt. 1. 31, Ar. Pl. 1013; ἐφ᾽ ἵππων Xen. Cyr. 4. 5,583 ἐφ᾽ ἅρματος Plat. Lys. 208 A; ἐν ἁρμαμάξῃ Xen. Cyr. 7. 3, 4: δελφῖνος περὶ νώτοις Opp. H. 5. 449; ἐπὶ θατέρου σκέλους ὀχεῖσθαι τὸ σῶμα to let its weight lean on.., Plut. 2. 967 C. 2. absol. (with- out the dat. ἵππῳ, νηί, etc.), just like the kindred Lat. vehi (sub. equo, curru, navi), to drive, ride, sail, etc., [ἵπποι] ἀλεγεινοὶ .. ὀχέεσθαι difficult to use ix a chariot, Il. 10. 403., 17. 77, cf. Ar. Ran. 25, Dem. 570.5; of a dislocated bone, which rides on the edge of another instead of resting in the socket, Hipp. Art. 818. 3. of a ship, to ride at anchor, metaph., λεπτή τις ἐλπίς ἐστ᾽ ἐφ᾽ ἧς ὀχούμεθα 'tis but a slender hope on which we ride at anchor, Ar. 4. 1244; ἐπὶ λεπτῶν ἐλπίδων ὠχεῖσθ᾽ Id. Fr. 198. 11, cf. Plat. Legg. 699 B; so, ἐπ᾽ ἀσθενοῦς ῥώμης Eur. Or. 69, ubi v. Pors.; ἐπὶ τούτου τοῦ λόγου, ὥσπερ ἐπὶ σχεδίας Plat. Phaedo 85 D:—of Delos, οὗ νᾶσος ὀχεῖται rides at anchor, floats, Orac. ap. Dion. H. I. 19: cf. ὁρμέω. IIT. Arat. 1070 uses it for ὀχεύομαι.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  She had no place in our relationship and Theresa had no right to request this of me. My temper tantrum over the suggestion won out and I had a day and a night away from our contrived little family. By the end of the visit with my father, I begged him to let me live with him, but he shook his head and said he was in no position to have me. “Next year will be better,” he promised. “There’s some deals I’m working on and if they come through I stand to make a lot of money and when that happens I’m going to send for you. One day I’m going to be wealthy, Celena, you can count on that. And when that day comes, you will be too. I’m going to buy a mansion in Beverly Hills and you’ll be sitting pretty.” I hung on his every word. Ray’s comment that my father didn’t really want me had reactivated a deep fear I’d recently developed. Why didn’t my father insist I stay with him even if he was poor? Ray and Theresa had nothing, yet they held no qualms about raising not one, but two children. I clung to my father’s claims that he was working on it, but Ray’s lash out stung as he had intended it to. Since we had left Synanon, Theresa frequently talked up Disneyland to Ray and Sara, who had never been there. She spoke glowingly about what a magical place the theme park was and its most marvelous attraction “It’s a Small World.” “There are dolls that represent people from various countries all over the world and they are singing while you float past on these little boats.” Ray’s eyes always grew shiny with emotion when Theresa spoke about this particular ride. “I would love to see that,” he’d say and Theresa would nod her head emphatically. “Oh you will. It’s going to knock your socks off.” We arrived at Disneyland in the late morning, Theresa clearly in charge of the expedition. She had meticulously mapped out our entire day the night before. While Ray counted out his money to buy our tickets, a grin spread across his face, the first time I had ever seen him smile when paying for anything. His eyes blinked rapidly and after the man behind the booth handed us our tickets, my stepfather walked as if in a daze behind Theresa, who marched forward, turning to look at us now and then, her bottom lip tucked under her front teeth. We made our way straight to the “It’s a Small World” ride, where we waited in line for half an hour before it was our turn to step into one of the little boats.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  Melissa’s complaint prompted another ban on my spending time with Theresa and discussion among the demonstrators about whether she and Ray were mentally fit enough for children to be around. An official complaint was made to management. Ray’s things were confiscated, and he was sent to work camp for a week. During the evening hours when Theresa and Ray were alone in their room, they began to discuss their growing dissatisfaction with Synanon and the possibility of leaving. To leave the community was an undertaking that seemed insurmountable to many of the residents. Living in such an insulated society for so many years and being told regularly that it would be almost impossible to survive outside of Synanon made many people afraid to leave. To leave meant severing ties with close friends and sometimes children if one parent left while the other stayed. There were also restrictions against taking money or items of value. Synanon management purposely made leaving difficult, thereby quashing any incentive to start a new life and inciting fear of the world outside of Synanon . Management wanted community members to see leaving not as a positive beginning, but a punishment. Even with the squeeze, it was still hoped that the Synanite would make the right decision and do what was necessary to remain in the commune. Ray and Theresa had had enough. They talked to each other about how disreputable Synanon had become in their eyes. While the majority of community members lived by strict rules of austerity, a select group of VIPs lived a different life at the Home Place in Visalia, a life of unbridled luxury, with gourmet meals, regular spa treatments and personal servants. Shocking pictures of Chuck, his wife, Ginny, and daughter Jady boozing it up on a beach in Italy circulated through the community. Many of the VIPs had stopped cutting their hair and sported longer tresses while the rest of us maintained the military hairstyles. The rise in violence and Chuck’s increasingly sordid demands upon community members finally pushed Ray and Theresa to admit, if just to themselves and each other, that Synanon had become corrupt. My mother also missed seeing me on a regular basis; she missed being a mom. I was growing up, and while she spent the majority of her time with Gwyn, she saw little of her own child. A Sunday newspaper prompted Theresa and Ray to action when Ray discovered a small ad placed by a community called University of the Trees in Santa Cruz, California. The ad stated that the community was looking for new members. Bolstered by this inkling of hope, a decision was reached. “Congratulations. I just heard,” one of my peers, Sue, said to me. Her greeting stopped me in my tracks. “Congratulations for what?” She scrutinized me, then her eyebrows shot up. “You mean you don’t know?” “Know what? What are you talking about?” “You’re leaving Synanon.” Her words seemed to hang in the air. Was she putting me on?

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  decision and do what was necessary to remain in the commune. Ray and Theresa had had enough. They talked to each other about how disreputable Synanon had become in their eyes. While the majority of community members lived by strict rules of austerity, a select group of VIPs lived a different life at the Home Place in Visalia, a life of unbridled luxury, with gourmet meals, regular spa treatments and personal servants. Shocking pictures of Chuck, his wife, Ginny, and daughter Jady boozing it up on a beach in Italy circulated through the community. Many of the VIPs had stopped cutting their hair and sported longer tresses while the rest of us maintained the military hairstyles. The rise in violence and Chuck’s increasingly sordid demands upon community members finally pushed Ray and Theresa to admit, if just to themselves and each other, that Synanon had become corrupt. My mother also missed seeing me on a regular basis; she missed being a mom. I was growing up, and while she spent the majority of her time with Gwyn, she saw little of her own child. A Sunday newspaper prompted Theresa and Ray to action when Ray discovered a small ad placed by a community called University of the Trees in Santa Cruz, California. The ad stated that the community was looking for new members. Bolstered by this inkling of hope, a decision was reached. “Congratulations. I just heard,” one of my peers, Sue, said to me. Her greeting stopped me in my tracks. “Congratulations for what?” She scrutinized me, then her eyebrows shot up. “You mean you don’t know?” “Know what? What are you talking about?” “You’re leaving Synanon.” Her words seemed to hang in the air. Was she putting me on? We stood next to some picnic benches, which were semi-protected by a canopy of thick plastic. She leaned against one of the aluminum pillars, watching me, waiting for my reaction. Leaving Synanon was a dream for most of us kids and had been a

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  violent stage as a result of Chuck’s growing paranoia of anything or anyone that wasn’t part of Synanon. The fact that he had walled himself off in his self-created society, immune from any criticism from “his people,” led him to become ever more delusional and Orwellian in his thoughts and ideas for what a Synanon lifestyle should be. The school had devolved into an orphanage of sorts. Parents by then were encouraged to stay away and give up their children completely to the community. Amid the expensive lawsuits Synanon was fighting at the time, and due to the expense required to care for the children, Chuck began to view us as useless. Synanon children, Chuck complained, could not be put to work like the teenagers of the cult, yet we ate and took up space, contributing nothing of value while using community resources. Instead of the best and brightest teachers, adults were sometimes assigned haphazardly to different positions in the school, teaching academic subjects in which they had no training. Rules and lessons were often random, incongruous with principles of developmental growth. The Synanon school’s style was a paradox of militaristic rigidity and strict rules infused with intermittent periods of autonomy absent of adult oversight altogether. For me, the “school” created a dissociative independent type of personality. To cope with the constant barrage of verbal attacks, whether directed at me, heard in passing, or on the Wire, the Synanon radio, I became adept at mentally detaching myself from my environment. Despite Synanon’s ambition to destroy the parent-child bond, my mother in bits and pieces, through letters and sometimes clandestine visits, communicated her affections to me, emotional inoculations that helped to foster a sense of strength and hope within myself that the cult could not conquer. There has been quite a lot written about Synanon. They are memoirs, historical and philosophical literature, and scores of articles; however, the point of view is almost always from that of an adult who came to the community of his or her volition looking to escape the ills of modern American society. Of the children raised in Synanon, there is little written on what it was like for us growing up in the commune. Here I offer my own story. I do not speak for all children raised in the community; this is a memoir of my journey. For the sake of privacy and respect for others, I have changed most of the names. SYNANON KID GROWS UP: BOOK TWO A MEMOIR OF LEARNING TO LIVE OUTSIDE THE SYNANON CULT

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  You should write a memoir, the agent says, and across the table, she hands me her creamy card, which I resist pinning to my dress like a merit badge. No way is the card a ticket to ride. It is a chance, though. For years I’ve circled Boston agents like a horsefly on the off chance they might drop a card. On the way back to the hotel, Toby says, Don’t be disappointed if my agent doesn’t sign you. She’s never taken anybody I’ve recommended. That worries me not at all, since I’m so unable to get a pen to traverse a white sheet, I doubt I’ll ever have a single page of anything to send her. But a small part of me wonders if prayer wrought that whole series of wonders. Joan tells me without it that I’d never have gotten (a) sober, (b) the grant, and (c) the invitation to the table where the agent solicited me and not the other way round. Nor would I have d) dared tell Mother’s goofball story without Toby drawing it out of me, for I’d have been too busy trying to pass for an East Coast swell with an Ivy League hookup instead of the cracker I was. That may be so, I tell Joan. But I’ve also prayed to write as well as Wallace Stevens, prayed to be five-ten, and not had those prayers answered. As Emile Zola once noted: The road to Lourdes is littered with crutches, but not one wooden leg.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  Ninety meetings in ninety days, she says. I don’t complain but must’ve pulled a face. It’s like you have cancer, she says, and coming here is really chemo. It’s not a luxury. It’s not a help. It’s what stands between you and going insane or winding up in the boneyard. Ninety meetings in ninety days, I say. Consider me the Navy SEAL of sobriety. All yes ma’ams. You have to start giving the higher-power thing a try—it’s the one suggestion you skirted. You didn’t pray. Jenny doesn’t pray, I say, and she’s been sober twenty years. (Jenny is one of the sober ladies I’m getting to know.) And Jenny’s disposition? Mean as a snake, I confirm. You might find sober people who don’t pray, but all the happy ones have some kind of regular meditative or spiritual practice. There are humungous dark trees in the hospital yard, and I gaze into the torn-out spaces between them at a few sequiny stars. I’ve never felt anything even faintly mystical in my life and tell her so. Faith is not a feeling, she says. It’s a set of actions. By taking the actions, you demonstrate more faith than somebody who actually has experienced the rewards of prayer and so feels hope. Fake it till you make it. Didn’t you fake half your life drinking? Wouldn’t any god be pissed that I only show up now, with machine-gun fire on my ass? First off—can’t you see this?—you have a concept of God already. It’s one who’s pissed at you. Which is oddly true, given my godless upbringing. Where had that come from? She must see the slack look on my face, for she goes on, Let’s say your kid falls down and bloodies himself, or he picks up a butcher knife and hurts himself with it. Are you mad at him? Course not. Well, drinking is like the butcher knife. You have to put it down before you can let God in. It’s like you have to break up with the guy who’s beating the crap out of you before you can scan the room and find the nice guy who’s got a crush on you. I’m trying to start hearing the word God without some reflexive flinch that coughs out the word idiot. Maybe, as somebody suggested, I’d have to practice internally repeating God-specific sentences to hear them in my own voice. She tucks a few wisps of dark hair into her chignon. An ambulance screams by. After a while, she says, You should be dead tonight. We both should be. My mouth’s dry. I nod. It’s a striking concept. Mostly I’ve thought of life as my right and death as an unfair aberration, but inverting the formula is no less valid. Life is a blessed aberration, a gift, and death isn’t my business yet. I wonder aloud how many hours I’ve squandered fearing death. You were saved for something, she says. Don’t die before you find out what.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  Feeling the cool metal post in my hands, I dig in to driving the merry-go-round, putting my back into it, sprinting a few steps. Is it at least possible, Joan says, that something—some force you’ve never looked for—could’ve invisibly tugged the vote in your direction? I mean, you’re a hundred percent positive? I feel some fleet movement travel through my chest—a twinge, a hint. This faint yearning was not belief itself, but wanting to believe. Willingness, it was which for months Joan had been telling me I lacked. My inclination to refuse faith begins to lean a few degrees toward the numinous. And I let fall from my mouth my first inadvertent blip of hope: Maybe, I say. So say thanks tonight, you ingrate. While I haven’t exactly surrendered to the practice of hope, I’ll keep at this perfunctory gratitude the way a stout girl drinks diet sodas while stuffing her face with cheese fries. The meeting’s about to start, Joan says, dismounting from her post. One more, Mommy, a really good one. I run around a few times as Dev whirls through what’s become full dark. The trees are whooshing overhead from wind. To Joan, I say, Okay, okay. Maybe, yes. It’s possible. I’ll say thanks. I mean, I’ve never prayed before, and nobody’s ever called me out of the blue to give me money before. Dev gets off the merry-go-round to stagger dizzy a few steps like a drunk. Then he pulls his hat over his ears as if to steady himself from above. He sits down hard in the dirt, looking puzzled a second. C’mon, angel puff, I say to him. He climbs up and staggers toward me. The three of us are walking toward the street when he says, Who made all this? The park? Some nice liberals, I say. No, this, he says, sweeping his upturned palm across the autumn landscape. Joan says, I believe there’s a magic force that made it. Like God? Dev said. Because it’s Dev saying it, nothing in me resists the sweetness of Joan’s saying, Like God. He grabs her hand, and the three of us stop at a crosswalk down from the church. Joan asks if I can fill in for her at Thursday night’s charity event. Our group visits a distant group to put on a meeting, swap ideas, basically mix it up. Isn’t Warren home then? she asks. The green light flashes. Dev drags us across the street. Hurry, he says. I tell Joan I don’t know the guy driving or anybody else in the car. The prospect of riding off with strangers sans Joan feels like being dragged to some hideous school dance without a date. But I’m either practicing a kind of surrender or following instructions my inner outlaw would never have gone for. She hands me a slip of paper with directions, saying, You show up at the post office in Lexington. Be there by six. James’ll show up. He drives a silver Benz.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  When my disease has ahold of me, it tells me my suffering is special or unique, but it’s the same as everybody’s. I kneel to put my body in that place, because otherwise, my mind can’t grasp it. Out of the kitchen holding a crockery mug comes a lady with cropped dark hair and eyes the color of fresh-dug earth. Liz has the frank, inquisitive gaze of a trained scientist, but softer in its aspect. The clubhouse/college-dorm feel of this place suggests a camaraderie lacking with my writer pals. Can we help her not drink? Deb asks, Liz. And it appears a sincere question. Absolutely, Liz says, pulling up a chair. We’re all about the not-drinking thing. From the TV in the living room, the mongoose is announcing his name in a chittering falsetto: Rikki-Tikki-Tavi! Deb explains that Liz had run a lab at MIT, adding, She had a hard time with the higher-power thing, too. I stayed sober a year, but I was white-knuckling it, Liz says. It was hell, and I drank again. Second time around, I started the prayer stuff. You get miserable enough, you’ll take suggestions. Liz envisions her higher power as a sober part of herself—some saner, more adult aspect of her own psyche. She says, It’s not so different than Freud’s superego—or healthy ego. I tell her maybe I could pray easier if it was a positive-thinking exercise. From the next room, Sam says, The smart money’s on the cobra. Wanna make a gentleman’s wager? Two’ll get you four for the mongoose, Joe says. Dumb money, Sam says, but I’ll take it. I’m thinking, This doesn’t seem like a cult or a trick, there’s something—I don’t know—realistic about these women. They don’t seem misty-eyed or drippy. So I tell them how shaky I am inside, afraid my marriage is a mistake, and how I can’t even read anymore. Liz says, Try lying in bed, picturing yourself held by two giant hands. Giant hands? Liz says, I know what you’re thinking. That’s idiotic. For some reason, my eyes well up, and I find myself saying to women I just met, I’m afraid I’m not a good mom. Dev runs up to me, announcing the victory of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. While Sam is fishing bet money from his jeans, Joe says, Never mess with a mongoose. Sam drops quarters into Joe’s open palm next to a wadded-up dollar, adding—genially, it seems—Eff you, brother. Deb shoots him a look. Joe pockets the change, then pulls it back out. He offers to buy Dev a soda. Can I, Mom? Dev says, for soda is contraband in our house, and I say sure, and later in his life, Dev will remember the chesty rumble of the soda machine in the basement of that place, the faded tattoos on the bulging biceps of Joe and Sam.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  (Vis-à-vis God speaking to me, I don’t mean the voice of Charlton Heston playing Moses booming from on high, but reversals of attitude so contrary to my typical thoughts—so solidly true—as to seem divinely external. And quiet these thoughts are, strong and quiet. View it as some sane self or healthy ego taking charge, if you like. By checking in to the hospital, I’ve said in some deep way uncle, or—as they said in my old neighborhood—calf rope, referring to an animal hogtied in a rodeo arena. I’ve stopped figuring so hard and begun to wait, sometimes with increasing hope, to be shown.) Then it hits me. I’m actually kneeling before a toilet. The throne, as other drunks call it. How many drunken nights and slungover mornings did I worship at this altar, emptying myself of poison. And yet to pray to something above me, something invisible, had—before now—seemed degrading. And I start to laugh, kneeling there in a striped industrial robe—a barking laugh that devolves into a skittery madwoman’s giggle, so I have to cover my mouth before somebody comes in thinking I’ve gone off. 32The Nervous HospitalWhat fresh hell is this? —Dorothy Parker After fourteen hours sacked out in the bin, I wake to find my mouth glued together. Beside my bed are a pair of green foam slippers embossed with smiley faces, which design seems a grotesque mistake on somebody’s part. I step right into them. I tie on the striped robe they’d given me, then stump out to accept whatever I’ve signed up for. At the nurses’ station, I’m handed a paper cup with another double dose of antidepressants to toss down. In the dayroom, I find a game show blaring at two women. One’s a large woman holding a teddy bear missing both eyes. The other’s fortyish, with a flapper’s curly bob and a small, muscular frame. I’m Tina, she says, manic-depressive. I’m Mary, I say, depressive-depressive. On TV, the correct door has been chosen by a woman who bounces up and down and claps at a new bedroom set. Tina’s dressed in bike shorts and a lime-green striped athletic jersey with the Italian flag on the sleeve. She says to the other lady, Do you want to tell Mary your name? I’m Dimples, she says in a little girl voice. She’s white as parchment, with soft flesh that spills as if poured from her sleeves and shorts legs. On TV, a horn honks. The audience sighs with disappointment. Tell her your bear’s name, too, Tina prompts. But Dimples just covers her face with the eyeless animal and falls quiet. We’re supposed to engage her, but she’s no Dale Carnegie. Multiple personality disorder. Tina says, Do you work out? This starts me crying.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Barefoot on the dusty dark, they wandered near the waterfront. Nig stopped his brother with an elbow, nodded toward a doorway. Dove frowned; they exchanged looks, went over. Dove: “Hey, you all right?” Robby lifted his head and blinked away the last of a dream about . . . and blinked again. Nig: “What you doin’ there?” Robby looked between them: big bones, scrawny bellies. He shook his head and grinned. “Guess I went to sleep while I was sittin’ down.” He got his feet under him, looked about the dark street. The boys were grinning. “Say,” he went on, “you guys know where to get some pussy? I been here a whole day, but I ain’t hardly seen none.” “Shit.” The black boy grinned more broadly. “You gotta beat it off with a stick in this town.” “If you can’t get none right away,” the white boy said, “there’s a dozen little nigger boys runnin’ around the boats who’ll suck your dick for a nickel.” “I don’t got no nickel,” Robby said. “Besides, I don’t go for that shit.” The black was still grinning. “All the pussy running around this town, I don’t have to spend no more ’n’ twenty-five cents ever’ year or so. I get it two, three, four times a day.” Robby shook his head again. “I guess I just don’t have that nigger luck.” “Look,” the white one told him, “you better not sleep in the doorway. You gonna have a run in with a man named Bull. You won’t see him comin’. Everybody knows him so he don’t wear a uniform.” “Big bald-headed mother.” “You don’t see him, but then he got his gun in your neck, and there you’re all locked up.” “You go under the docks,” the black one said. “That’s where you can get some sleep.” He put his hands in his pockets. “Say, what’s your name, if you’re gonna be hangin’ around for a few days?” “Robby,” Robby said, and stuck up his hand. “I’m Dove.” They shook. “This is Nig.” Nig took his hands out of his pockets, shook. Then he squatted by the door, black toes splayed in his pool of shadow. “You fellows work the boats?” Nig nodded and Dove said, “Sometimes.” “I guess there ain’t too much more to do in this town.” Robby hugged his knees. His eyes roamed the street. “Sometimes finish was something else. I mean, I’d like to get some work that just wasn’t the easiest thing to find right off. I’d maybe even like to go to school. I know guys who go to school and they got good jobs. What I think I’d really like would be something where I could move around. That would be better than school, you know?” Nig scratched the faded part of his pants groin, bagged with the weight inside. “We got ourselves a good job, Dove and me. Make more money than on the boats.” “What you do?”

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Barefoot on the dusty dark, they wandered near the waterfront. Nig stopped his brother with an elbow, nodded toward a doorway. Dove frowned; they exchanged looks, went over. Dove: “Hey, you all right?” Robby lifted his head and blinked away the last of a dream about . . . and blinked again. Nig: “What you doin’ there?” Robby looked between them: big bones, scrawny bellies. He shook his head and grinned. “Guess I went to sleep while I was sittin’ down.” He got his feet under him, looked about the dark street. The boys were grinning. “Say,” he went on, “you guys know where to get some pussy? I been here a whole day, but I ain’t hardly seen none.” “Shit.” The black boy grinned more broadly. “You gotta beat it off with a stick in this town.” “If you can’t get none right away,” the white boy said, “there’s a dozen little nigger boys runnin’ around the boats who’ll suck your dick for a nickel.” “I don’t got no nickel,” Robby said. “Besides, I don’t go for that shit.” The black was still grinning. “All the pussy running around this town, I don’t have to spend no more ’n’ twenty-five cents ever’ year or so. I get it two, three, four times a day.” Robby shook his head again. “I guess I just don’t have that nigger luck.” “Look,” the white one told him, “you better not sleep in the doorway. You gonna have a run in with a man named Bull. You won’t see him comin’. Everybody knows him so he don’t wear a uniform.” “Big bald-headed mother.” “You don’t see him, but then he got his gun in your neck, and there you’re all locked up.” “You go under the docks,” the black one said. “That’s where you can get some sleep.” He put his hands in his pockets. “Say, what’s your name, if you’re gonna be hangin’ around for a few days?” “Robby,” Robby said, and stuck up his hand. “I’m Dove.” They shook. “This is Nig.” Nig took his hands out of his pockets, shook. Then he squatted by the door, black toes splayed in his pool of shadow. “You fellows work the boats?” Nig nodded and Dove said, “Sometimes.” “I guess there ain’t too much more to do in this town.” Robby hugged his knees. His eyes roamed the street. “Sometimes finish was something else. I mean, I’d like to get some work that just wasn’t the easiest thing to find right off. I’d maybe even like to go to school. I know guys who go to school and they got good jobs. What I think I’d really like would be something where I could move around. That would be better than school, you know?” Nig scratched the faded part of his pants groin, bagged with the weight inside. “We got ourselves a good job, Dove and me. Make more money than on the boats.” “What you do?”

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  You might as well call it the voice of the Adversary, for once I tune in to it, I’ve lost my real self—the God-made one, akin to others. The Adversary’s voice can suck me into the maelstrom of my tornado-force will, which’ll chew up anybody in its path, me included. The washcloth steams my features soft, and once the water’s cold, I oil myself up like a bodybuilder, slip on sweats, then towel-wrap my hair like a Turkish pasha. Heating up meatballs for Dev and his pals loudly playing air hockey in the basement, I do Patti’s list of what’s changed in ten years. The boys clattering downstairs are a nightly antidote to the shipwrecked household I grew up in, and we no longer have to roll coins from the sofa cushions in order to afford meatballs. Last month at Mother’s surprise birthday, I floated in the pool alongside her and Lecia while brother-in-law Tom worked the grill and Dev and his cousin did cannonballs. The night after the train debacle, I drive under a sky black as graphite to meet my new spiritual director for the Exercises—a bulky Franciscan nun named Sister Margaret, patiently going blind behind fish-tank glasses that magnify her eyes like goggles. Asked my concept of God, I mouth all the fashionable stuff—all-loving, all-powerful, etc. But as we talk, it bobs up that in periods of uncertainty or pain—forlorn childhood, this failed relationship—I often feel intentionally punished or abandoned. How’s that possible, I say, if I have no childhood experience of a punishing God? Margaret says, We often strap on to God the mask of whoever hurt us as children. If you’ve been neglected, God seems cold; if you’ve been bullied, He’s a tyrant. If you’re filled with self-hatred, then God is a monster making inventor. How do you feel sitting here with me now? I don’t know, like some slutty Catholic schoolgirl. She laughs at this and says, I see you—she peers through those lenses—what I can see of you, as my sister, God’s beloved child. The hairs on your head are numbered, and we’ve been brought together, you and me, to shine on each other a while. So you don’t judge me? I want to know. For what? she said. I don’t even know you. Well, I say, I’m not married, and I aspire to be sexually active again some day. She says, I’m not naive. But Jesus might ask: Should you be vulnerable to a man without some spiritual commitment? Is that God’s dream for you? God has a dream for me? I say. I love that idea. It sounds like a Disney movie. I know, Margaret says. Her pale round face opens up. Everybody uses the phrase God’s will or plan. That has a neo-Nazi ring to it. I like the Disney version. I feel you, she says, and I sit for a minute silently disbelieving she’s a nun. She adjusts her heavy glasses, and her eyes once again magnify.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  ὑποφαίνω, fut. -φανῶ, to bring to light from under, θρῆνυν ὑπέφηνε τραπέζης he drew the stool from under the table, Od. 17. 409. 2. to shew a little, just shew, ἰχθύες .. τὰ λευκὰ ὑποφαίνοντες Arist. H. A. 4.10, 8; αἱ παρειαὶ ὑπ. τὴν τοῦ αἰδοῦς χροίαν Poll. 2. 87: metaph. to shew just, give indications of, μικρὰν ἐλπίδα Dem. 379. I, cf. Polyb. 27. Io, 3; πρᾳότητα Id. 27. 10, 3, cf. 24.5, 5:—c. part., ὑπέφαιν᾽ ἐσο- μένη .. λαμπρὰ πάνυ (so Dobree) Anaxandr. Γεροντ. 1; bm. ὥσπερ ἐπι- θησόμενος Ael. N. A. 5. 17. 11. Pass. to be seen under, ὑπὸ τὰς πύλας πόδες πολλοὶ ὑποφαίνονται Thuc. 5. 10; bm. τι τῆς χώρας ἔρημον χιόνος Arr. An. 4. 19,1; ὑπ. ἡ σελήνη Ael. Ν. A. 4.το; ἡ ὠλένη διὰ τοῦ ἐσθῆτος Philostr. 823. 2. to appear partly, just shew one- self, be half seen, as the half-opened eyes (cf. trdpacis), Hipp. Progn. 37, Aph. 1258; of teeth, Arist. H. A. 2.7, 2; ὗπ. σωτηρία, Isocr. 60 A, 124E; [τὰ μηνυθέντα) Lys. 131. 25; ἀμφισβήτησις Arist. Eth. N. 1. 6, 8; ἀμφ. ἡμέρα, ἔαρ (v. infr. 111) Xen. Cyr. 4. 5, 14, Hell. 5. 3, Their III. the Act. is also used intr. of the dawn of day, ὑποφαίνει ἡμέρα, ἕως the day gradually breaks or just begins to break, Xen. An. 3. 2, 1., 4. 3, 9, etc. ; ἤδη ὑπέφαινέ τι ἡμέρας (impers.) Plat. Prot. 312 A: so, Umopaive. ἔαρ Xen. Hell. 3. 4, 16; cf. φαίνω A. τ, ὑποφαύσκω: then, 2. metaph., τὰ νῦν ὑποφαίνοντα the difficulties now dawn- ing upon us, Plat. Soph. 245 E; τοσαύτας ὁρῶν ὑποφαινούσας ἐλπίδας Dinarch. 92. 43; ἐὰν ὑποφαίνῃ ἀπορία μέλιτος Arist. H. A. 9. 40, 26. ὑπόφαιος, ov, somewhat gray, Phot., Erotian. Drob&Kadys, ες, (εἶδος) somewhat of a lentil colour, Hipp. 1008 H. ὑποφάλᾶἄκρος, ov, somewhat bald, Io. Malal. ὑποφαντικός, 7, dv, shewing partly, τινος Epiphan. ὑποφαρμάσσω, Att. -TTw, fut. fw, to spice or drug a little, adulterate, οἶνον Plut. 2. 614 B, cf. 672 B. ὑπόφᾶἄσις, ews, ἧ, a being half seen, ὑπ. τῶν ὀφθαλμῶν, of the eyes, when in sleep they shew through the half-opened eyelids, Hipp. Progn. 37, Aph. 1258, cf. Aretae. Caus. M. Ac. 1. 5. ὑποφᾶτις, vos, 7, v. sub ὑποφῆτις. ὑπόφαυλος, 7, ov, somewhat low, δίαιτα Hipp. Fract. 756:—on the terminations, cf. Lob. Paral. 471. ὑπόφαυσις, ἡ, (v. paivw) a light shewing through a small hole: hence, generally, a narrow opening, Hdt. 7. 30. ὑποφαύσκω, to begin to shine, ὑποφαύσκοντος at daybreak, Arist. Probl. 8.17, 13 cf. ὑποφώσκω. ὑπόφαυτις, tos, 7, ν. sub ὑποφῆτι. ὑποφείδομαι, fut. σομαι, Dep. to spare a little, Xen. An. 4. 1, 8; c. gen., Plut. 2. 707 C; ὑπ. μὴ ἕλκειν Luc. Peregr. 6. ὑποφειδομένως, Adv. somewhat sparingly, rarely, Plut. Alex. 28. ὑπ-οφείλω, fo owe, Eccl.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  τύχη [Ὁ], 7, Boeot. τούχα Keil. Inscrr. 1 : (for the Root, v. TixTw) :-— the good which man obtains (τυγχάν ει) by the favour of the gods, good fortune, luck, success, Lat. Sortuna, δὸς ἄμμι τύχην εὐδαιμονίην τε h. Hom. 1ο. 5; μοῦνον ἀνδρὶ γένοιτο τ. Theogn. 130; Ζεῦ, δίδοι τύχαν Pind. Ο. 13. 165; εἰ ἡ τ. ἐπίσποιτό τινι Hdt. 7.10, 4, cf.1. 32; ἐς τοσοῦτο τύχης ἀπικέσθαι Id. 1.124; τ. μόνον προσείη Ar. Av. 1315; σὺν τύχῃ Pind. N. 5. 88, Soph. Ph. 775; σὺν τ. τινί Aesch. Cho. 38, cf. Theb. 472, Eur. El. 588; also, τύχᾳ μολεῖν Pind. N. 10. 47 :—more explicitly, τύχᾳ δαίμονος, τύχᾳ θεῶν Id. Ο. 8. 88, P. 8.753 σὺν θεοῦ τύχᾳ, σὺν Xapi- των τ. Id. N. 6. 41., 4. 12; and in the common phrase, θείᾳ τύχῃ Lat. divinitus, Hdt. 1. 126., 4. 153, al.; so, ἐκ θείας τ. Soph. Ph. 1317; ἐὰν θεία Tis ἐυμβῇ τ. Plat. Rep. 592 A :—hence Τύχη was deified, like Lat. Fortuna, Τύχη Swrepa Pind. Ο. 12. 3; T. Σωτήρ Aesch. Ag. 664, cf. Soph. O. C. 80, 1080; but this did not prevail till later, when Τύχη τυφλή became a common phrase, Meineke Com. Fr. 3.154. 11. generally, fortune, chance, good or bad, its character being determined by the context, Archil. 14, Simon. 97, Hdt., ete. ; τῆς τύχης εὖ μετε- στεώσης Ηάϊ. 1. 118; τὸ τῆς τ. Eur. Alc. 785; τὰ τῆς τ. Soph. Ο. T. 977, Dem., Ἔξ, 9. 7 mapotca σι the present state of fortune, Aesch. Pr. 375: Thuc., etc.; and in pl., αἱ παρέουσαι 7: Hdt. 7. 236, Isocr., εἴς. ; ai παρεστῶσαι τ. Eur. Or. 1024; at ἀμφότεραι τύχαι Liban. 1.357. 2. rarely of positive 211 fortune, ἢν χρήσωνται τύχῃ. i.e. if they are killed, Eur. Heracl. 714, cf. Hec. 786, Andoc. 16. 3; τύχῃ by ill-luck, opp. to ἀδικίᾳ, Antipho 141. 21; to προνοίᾳ, Id. 130.4; 4 τ. τοῦ ἄρξαντος the casualty is ascribed to him who began the fray, Id. 128. 43. 3. the kind of fortune is often marked By a qualifying Adj., ἡ ἀναγκαία τ. Ξ- ἀνάγκη, Soph. Aj. 485, 803, etc.; ἀναγκαῖαι τ. Eur. 1. A. SIT; δού- λεῖος τ. Pind. Fr. 2443 T. παλίγκοτος Aesch. Ag. 571, etc. ; ἐπὶ ,τύχῃσι χρηστῇσι Hdt. τ. 119; ἐπ᾽ εὐμενεῖ τ. Pind. O. 14. 23; μετὰ τύχης εὐ- μενοῦς Plat. Legg. 813 A; μάκαρι σὺν τύχῃ Ar. Av. 1723. b. this was most freq. in the Att. phrase ἀγαθὴ το, OF ἡ ary. T., Aesch. Ag. 755, Ar. Pax 360, Dem. 1487. 4, etc. ; πολλὴ ay. τ. Plat. Legg. 640 D; com- mon in prayers and good wishes, εὐχώμεσθα Atl .. θεσμοῖς τοῖσδε τύχην ἀγαθὴν καὶ κῦδος ὀπάσσαι Solon 29; θεὸς τ. ἀγαθὰν (se. δότω) often i in Delph. Inscrr.; but most common in dat. ἀγαθῇ τύχῃ, ‘in God's name,’ Lat. quod bene vortat, ἀλλ᾽ ἴωμεν ἀγαθῇ τ. Plat. Legg. 625 C; ταῦτα ποιεῖτε ay. τ. Dem. 33. 143 so, τύχῃ ἀγαθῇ Andoc. 16. 6, Plat. Symp. 177E, etc.; and in Comic Poets with crasis, ἡγοῦ δὴ σὺ νῷν τύχἀγαθῇ Ar. Av. 675, cf. 435, Eccl. 131, Nicoph. Πανδρ. 2 ;—this formula was also introduced into treaties and other state-papers, like Lat. guod felix Saustumque sit, Λάχης εἶπε, τύχῃ ἀγαθῇ τῶν ᾿Αθηναίων ποιεῖσθαι τὴν ἐκεχειρίαν Decret. in Thuc. 4. 118, cf. Stallb. Plat. Crito 44D i—so also, ἐπ᾿ ἀγαθῇ τύχῃ Ατ. Vesp. 869, cf, Plat. Legg. γ57 Ἐ; mer ἀγαθῆς τύχης Ib. 8123 A; τύχῃ ἀμείνονι, ἐπ᾿ ἀμείνοσι τύχαις Ib. 856E, 878 A; μάκαρι σὺν τ. Ar. Av. 1722. 4. Adverbial usages, τύχῃ by chance, Lat. Sorte, forte fortuna, Soph. Ant. 1182, Ph. 546, Thuc., etc.; opp. to φύσει, Plat. Prot. 323 Ὁ ; ἀπὸ τύχης Lys. 162. 22, Arist. Rhet. 1. 10, 73 ano τ. ἀπροσδοκήτου Plat. Legg. 920 Ὁ ;---ἐκ τύχης Id. Phaedr. 265 C, Rep. 499 B, etc.; ἔκ Twos τ. Id. Tim. 25 E ;—&a τύχην Isocr. 67 Ἕ, 197 E,

• From Healing Our Broken Humanity: Practices for Revitalizing the Church and Renewing the World (2018)

  Here’s a way your small group can do this: Find grassroots organizations in your neighborhood or community that are seeking to bring positive change through the building of grassroots relational initiatives and actions to confront power that is authoritative, exploitative, self-serving, and so on. This is a kind of redistribution of power. Get involved with these groups (preferably over the long term), seeking to serve the communities they serve. Now, in your small group, talk together about what you are learning about power and its grassroots relational nature and redistribution. Explore self-emptying power. Sarah Coakley has written a wonderful book called Power and Submissions . In it she explores the notions of vulnerability, self-emptying, and power. Coakley argues that there is power in self-emptying (there certainly was power in Christ’s self-emptying) and that it confronts the abuse of power. Patterning our lives after Jesus’ self-emptying (kenosis ) enables us to unite human vulnerability with divine power—which confronts, subverts, and dismantles worldly and abusive visions and expressions of power. Vulnerability isn’t weakness; it is an astonishing form of human strength.15 Spend some time in your group discussing the following: How was the power of God revealed in Jesus’ self-emptying and vulnerability? How does patterning our lives after Jesus’ self-emptying (kenosis ) enable us to unite our human vulnerability with God’s divine power? Why does this “powerlessness” and vulnerability confront, subvert, and dismantle worldly and abusive visions and expressions of power? How does it do this? Together, pray for the courage to pursue a life of vulnerability, self-emptying, submission, and prayer. Pray for the strength to embrace the divine, grassroots, relational power that is found in vulnerability and that confronts the abuse of power. FiveRESTORE JUSTICEM isbah is thirteen, Shamin is seventeen, and Batol is ten. Misbah and Shamin fled Myanmar because of sexual and other violence. They are refugees, fleeing violence in the hope of safety and a better life. As of January 31, 2018, the Australian government has imprisoned Misbah on Christmas Island, and then on Nauru, for 1,648 days. Shamin has been imprisoned on Nauru for 1,559 days. Batol and her family fled Iran because of death threats and were sent by Australia to the Nauru detention center. As of January 31, 2018, Batol has been imprisoned on Nauru for 1,445 days. As of January 31, 2018, close to forty children and their families are imprisoned on Nauru. These are children that Australia and the world have forgotten. These children are trapped in limbo, worn down by detention, and often self-harming. They suffer psychological and emotional damage, and they live in fear of the violence among the island’s population. They struggle to hold on to any hope. They deserve freedom, hope, and a future. These children deserve justice. On August 23, 2014, twenty-four-year-old Iranian asylum seeker Hamid Kehazaei, housed at the Manus Island offshore refugee processing center, sought treatment for an infected wound.

• From Healing Our Broken Humanity: Practices for Revitalizing the Church and Renewing the World (2018)

  I didn’t have the agency to call out racism in the school or sexism in the church. Albert Bandura says that agency is “the human capability to exert influence over one’s functioning and the course of events by one’s actions. . . . Through cognitive self-guidance, humans can visualize futures that act on the present; construct, evaluate, and modify alternative courses of action to gain valued outcomes; and override environmental influences.”3 He adds, “To be an agent is to influence intentionally one’s functioning and life circumstances.”4 Bandura and Martin Hewson go further and specify that there are three kinds of agency, which overlap and integrate.5 These are personal agency, proxy agency, and collective agency. Personal agency is about what people can do individually to affect what they can control directly. We exercise personal agency when we seek to directly influence, control, or change our personal circumstances. Many factors influence our ability to exercise personal agency. Proxy agency occurs when people invite those with more (or different) power, knowledge, means, or influence to act on their behalf. Agency by proxy happens when we seek to advocate for others and when we empower them to act. But agency by proxy happens most effectively when those people invite us to do so. Collective agency happens when people work as a group to bring change that benefits the whole group. We live our lives in groups. Often change and action are only possible when we work together interdependently to achieve desirable outcomes. As we combine our voices, passions, skills, networks, influence, and so on, we achieve more. This has a multiplying effect on what we can achieve—our collective voice and action is often powerful. But here’s an important point. The crucial factor in people’s willingness to exercise personal or collective agency is their belief that they can make a difference. Bandura puts it this way: “Unless people believe they can produce desired effects and forestall undesired ones by their actions, they have little incentive to act or to persevere in the face of difficulties.”6 If we believe that we are powerless, then chances are we won’t act. But if we believe that we can make a difference and that we can influence the course of events by our actions, then chances are we will act, often with great resolve and courage. What Roles Do Those with Power or from the Majority Culture Play in Reinforcing Agency?We all have an important role to play in reinforcing others’ agency. No matter whether we are part of a minority group or the majority culture, and no matter whether we are a man or a woman, we can all do our part to support another person or group’s ability to exercise control, make decisions, act, speak, and pursue change. I (Grace), as a woman of color who lacked agency for much of my life, have often struggled with gaining power and agency.

• From Healing Our Broken Humanity: Practices for Revitalizing the Church and Renewing the World (2018)

  “Christ is all, and is in all” (Col 3:11 ) and has brought us together from every nation, language, and people as “one new people.” This doesn’t rid us of our Jewish or Gentile (or American, Korean, Australian, Chinese, Rwandan, Brazilian, Native American, etc.) cultures, identities, and unique contributions. But now our primary identity is in Christ and in that he has made us “one new humanity” in him (Eph 2:15 ; see Eph 2–4 ; Col 3 ; Gal 3; 6 ). The political culture has become more polarized than ever in recent years. Sadly, many American Christians participated in this culture of divisiveness and animosity. Misunderstanding, accusations, and disunity continue in the church, even after the 2016 election. It’s one thing to differ and engage in vigorous debate. But disunity, animosity, and division are another thing altogether. Much of this division is rooted in our sense of personal and corporate identities. But Jesus calls us to shape new identities as the new humanity in Christ. This new identity forges new allegiances and new social imaginations. It nurtures a deep commitment to grace, forgiveness, and love. In a world full of division and conflict, the church needs to embrace the ministry of reconciliation and peacemaking. God calls us to be a peaceable people who display unity in diversity under Christ. God commands us to show the world what it means to be a new humanity and new creation in Christ. So we are not primarily Tutsi or Hutu, German or French, British or Australian, Palestinian or Israeli, Chinese or Brazilian, Syrian or American. We are not primarily Republican or Democrat, conservative or progressive, urban or rural, rich or poor, white or a person of color. We bring all these identities and aspects of ourselves to our new humanity in Christ. We are primarily one people, united as one body in Jesus Christ. As a new creation and a new humanity, we are “a people on pilgrimage together, a mixed group, bearing witness to a new identity made possible by the Gospel.”1 God calls us to show the world what reconciled, redeemed, and restored humanity looks like. We must not root Christian identity in nationalism, ethnicity, partisan politics, sociopolitical-economic status, gender, and other such things. Instead we must root Christian identity in discipleship to Jesus Christ. This identity is formed through a vision of what it means to be a distinct people with an alternative ethic, politic, and life together. That people, formed by God for Godself—Jew and Gentile, women and men, rich and poor, black and white—shows the world an alternative way. Together as a new humanity we are made up of every tribe and ethnicity and language, valuing difference and particularity but united in our Christian identity. This new people roots its story in Israel, in Jesus, and in a vision of the new humanity and the age to come, when God will rule and reign.

• From Healing Our Broken Humanity: Practices for Revitalizing the Church and Renewing the World (2018)

  God calls the church to be a sign and herald of hope—to show the world what the world looks like in its reconciled and transformed state. The church has too often embraced a racialized imagination, a range of discriminatory practices, and a “whitened Jesus.”21 4. Practice peacemaking and nonviolence. A lot has been written on the themes of peacemaking and nonviolence. Jesus calls his church to be a nonviolent, peaceable people. “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God” (Mt 5:9 ). Peace is at the heart of the gospel. As followers of Jesus in a divided and violent world, we are committed to finding nonviolent alternatives and to learning how to make peace between individuals, within and among churches, in society, and between nations.22 Stanley Hauerwas says that nonviolence and peacemaking are the “hallmarks of the Christian moral life.” Nonviolence “is integral to the shape of Christian convictions.”23 We root our witness in the peaceable ethic of Jesus. “Nonviolence is a sign of hope that there is an alternative to war. And that alternative is called church.”24 In “Peacemaking: The Virtue of the Church,” Hauerwas unpacks the pastoral implications of nonviolence for the church. Peacemaking is a virtue, cultivated in community. Peacemaking is crucial to moral excellence and Christian witness. Christians can’t practice peacemaking in isolation. We need communities of forgiveness, peace, hospitality, and reconciliation. Christians shouldn’t despair of peace in the world. Instead we are to foster a peaceable practice and imagination. We pursue the peaceable kingdom. We embrace hope in the Prince of Peace. “Peacemaking among Christians, therefore, is not simply one activity among others but rather is the very form of the church insofar as the church is the form of the one who ‘is our peace.’”25 Peacemaking isn’t passive. It’s the active, courageous, and public exercise of forgiveness, love, and reconciliation.26 Martin Luther King Jr. preached nonviolence and peacemaking. He wrote, “World peace through non-violent means is neither absurd nor unattainable. All other methods have failed. Thus we must begin anew. Non-violence is a good starting point. Those of us who believe in this method can be voices of reason, sanity and understanding amid the voices of violence, hatred and emotion.”27 Yes, we all indeed need to be voices of reason and to engage in peacemaking and nonviolent acts of resistance toward justice. Practices, Challenges, and Activities for Small GroupsHere are some practices and activities for your small group. These will help you explore and experience reconciled relationships. Consider and respond to biblical passages. Reconciliation is at the heart of the gospel and of the Christian faith. Read the following passages closely as a group, and reflect on what they mean for your ministry of reconciliation: Romans 5:10-11; 11:15; 2 Corinthians 5:18-20; Ephesians 2:14-17; Colossians 1:19-22. Brainstorm ways that you can respond to these passages practically in your community and your neighborhood. Work through Roadmap to Reconciliation. Read Brenda Salter McNeil’s book Roadmap to Reconciliation over eight weeks.

• From Healing Our Broken Humanity: Practices for Revitalizing the Church and Renewing the World (2018)

  Discipleship involves learning a myriad of skills through personal discipline and by immersion in community. We also learn a language—words such as faith and hope and love take form in our mouths and shape our hearts and minds. And, so, discipleship practices and new ways of conceiving and speaking about God and the world shape our life together. Together, we learn fresh discipleship practices and vocabularies. Nine Transforming PracticesThis book shows what it means to be the church, the new humanity in Jesus Christ, as Paul writes about in Ephesians 2:15. This is the biblical basis for our understanding of what it means to become new in Christ. The church shows the world God’s perfect design for humanity, which is a reconciled, unified, whole, multiethnic, peaceful, loving life together. As a beacon to the world, the church shows the world what God calls it to be. The church shows the world its destiny and future. In an era where Christian identities seem so enmeshed with race, politics, nationalism, and material goods, we need to imagine a different reality.8 In The Christian Imagination , Willie James Jennings has shown how the Christian social imagination is often diseased and disfigured. It’s wedded to racialized, individualistic, privatized, and rootless identities. We find ourselves in this place because of historical events. We need to confront this situation head-on and theologically if we are going to demonstrate a compelling witness and life together in the world. The church needs a compelling vision of a healed and whole Christian community (and a redeemed Christian social imagination). The church needs fresh practices before a watching world. Too often our theological or intellectual posture is one of power and control. We expect others (e.g., indigenes, marginalized groups, and outsiders) to be adaptable, but we refuse to be so ourselves. In our attachment to power and control, rigidity, superiority, and staleness grow. This diseased posture stops Christians from forming habits of humility, fluidity, embodiment, and engagement, which lead to transformation. Yet, as Jennings says, we live in hope: Christianity marks the spot where, if noble dream joins hands with God-inspired hope and presses with great impatience against the insularities of life, for example, national, cultural, ethnic, economic, sexual, and racial, seeking the deeper ground upon which to seed a new way of belonging and living together, then we will find together not simply a new ground, not simply a new seed, but a life already prepared and offered to us.9 Race relations is one area where the church and Christianity can offer hope and a new way of life together. Race is a modern construct and problem, and such disciplines as biology, genetics, philosophy, history, political science, economics, feminism, cultural and postcolonial studies, and more are examining it. We need to understand “whiteness” and how whiteness is a construct to subordinate others. Yet, strangely, Christian theologians have been largely silent about race. A theological account of race is profoundly absent.