The Curse of Cain: Genesis 4:1-17

Recent surveys have shown that violence is the top concern in our society. We have seen too any homes cordoned off by yellow police tape, red puddles on the asphalt, and handcuffed suspects being led to the courthouse. The proliferation of handguns and assault weapons is one evidence that violence is increasing in our society. The easy access to handguns and assault weapons has been challenged by some and celebrated by others. I remember reading a newspaper article on gun control in which a gun lobbyist said that the Bible not only permits but blesses assault weapons. Larry Pratt, a church elder and executive director of Gun Owners of America said, "Consider that when Cain killed Abel, God did not ban (or register or impose a waiting period on) the ownership of whatever it was that Cain used to kill his brother." Of course, God did not impose modern gun control legislation on Cain. The argument is ridiculous. But, God knows, violence is a problem as old as Cain and Abel.

When did human violence begin? What was the original impetus to violence? If we look at the story of Cain and Abel, everything seems to have started off on the right foot. Cain and Abel were brothers. Cain was a farmer and Abel was a shepherd. No reason for conflict so far. Well, some who read this story see in it an ancient rivalry that existed between shepherds and farmers. But, the original conflict didn't begin because God preferred cowboys to farmers. The ancient shepherd/farmer conflict may well be in the background of the story, but there is something else going on here.

Maybe the problem began with the offering. Cain brought an offering of the fruit of the field to God, while Abel brought the first of his flock. What else would you expect? Some would have us think that Abel's meat offering was preferable to Cain's grain or vegetable offering. Did God really prefer blood to beet juice? Or was there was something else inferior about Cain's offering? Probably not. They both sought to worship God with their best, the fruit of their labors. They both should have expected God's blessing on their gifts.

Could it be that violence began with an inner attitude? Maybe Cain gave his offering half- heartedly, begrudgingly, or with a bad attitude. Is that indicated by God's comment to Cain: "If you do well, will you not be accepted "? Some have thought that there was something not well with Cain when he made his offering to God. But, the text doesn't support such an interpretation. To be honest, there appears to be nothing in Cain or his offering that would warrant what happens next.

God accepts Abel's sacrifice and rejects Cain's. It's that simple. And that complicated. It would seem like we should lay the blame for the first act of violence at God's doorstep. God rejects Cain's offering, causing his red hot anger and his face to fall. If you were a kid and your dad accepted your brother's gift but rejected yours, wouldn't you be pissed off? It's unfair. God asks why Cain is angry and his face is on the floor. The answer is obvious. The problem lies with God, not with Cain. It comes down to God's capricious freedom. God chose Jacob over Esau. God chose Israel among all the nations. God chose to accept Abel's sacrifice over Cain's. This is the God who says, "I will be gracious to whom I will be gracious, and I will show mercy on whom I will show mercy" (Exodus 33: 19). We may not like it. It seems unfair. It makes no sense. Yet, in this story we are dealing with a God who is free and a life that is unfair.

But, isn't our experience something like that? Life is unfair. And violence seems to arise out of life's inequities and unfairness. Some kill to obtain what they don't have. Others use violence to redress economic and political injustices. That's life. And our human predicament cannot be easily separated from the God question. Why was Abel's offering accepted and Cain's rejected? Why does it seem like some of us are accepted and others rejected? By all appearances that seems to be the case. Some live in luxury, while others live in poverty. Some live an easy life, while others struggle to make it through another day. Some of us are born into stable families, while others are born in dysfunctional families which scar them for life. All this inequity and unfairness set us up for angry, aggressive, violent behavior. Of all the possible world's God could have created, God created one where violence was not only possible, but probable. No. Practically inevitable. So, is God totally innocent or somehow a part of the human situation that breeds violence? Whether or not we blame God, we may at least wonder if the One who is in charge of the universe is somehow behind the way things are. Life makes us wonder. The story of Cain and Abel makes us wonder. Must we, as we have often done in our interpretation of this story, lay all the blame on Cain for his anger and aggression? Our text gives no final answers, just a story that indicates life is unfair and God is free.

What we can say is that violence has been with us from the beginning. Violence is around and within all of us. We must master it. Otherwise, it will pounce on us. Cain was angry and feeling rejected. God asked him, "Why are you angry and look so sad?" As if God didn't know. "Do good and you will be accepted. If you don't do good, sin is standing at the door waiting to get in. It is a lion ready to pounce upon you." Jealousy of Abel already stands at the door of Cain's heart. Envy waits behind the bushes ready to leap on him and cause him to commit a beastly act. So, Cain invites Abel out into the field, maybe under the pretense of showing him how well his grain is growing. In a fit of rage, Cain grabs a rock or instrument to till the earth and slays Abel. His blood has forever stained the earth. The first murder has been committed.

"Oh, but we would never commit such a heinous act," we say. "That kind of evil takes a monster. It's probably from bad parenting or something." Cain's parents are our parents. We are all part of Cain's violent legacy. Like Cain's Land of Nod, our society was built upon the foundations of violence from the murderous theft of native lands to slavery. It's walls are reinforced with violence from gang drive-bys to Mortal Kombat videos. Doctor Deborah Prothrow-Smith, with Harvard School of Public Health, says, "We are a country that's infatuated with violence ... We celebrate it. We're entertained by it. We run to read about it and see it ... As I travel across the country, one thing I see pretty universally among American children is an admiration for violence." We live in the violent legacy of Cain. If we are nurtured on violence, what would you expect? We are not immune from Cain's curse.

Besides, we don't know what we might do under circumstances similar to those who committed violent acts. What if you were in Cain's sandals. What would you have done? What if you were in a situation that constantly caused you to be frustrated and angry? What if your basic human rights were denied you? Psychologist Rollo May says, "When a person has been denied over a period of time what he feels are his legitimate rights ... violence is the predictable end result." What might we be capable of if we were the ones constantly rejected, frustrated, or denied basic human respect?

I am a pacifist, who doesn't believe in corporal or capital punishment. I think of myself as pretty patient. mild tempered, and peace loving. Yet, I know that violence lurks ready to leap upon me. I have raised two children from violent homes, who in their early years knew how to frustrate the hell out of you, and I don't use the word "hell" lightly. But, I don't blame them. That's was their family legacy. I recall feeling the urge to physically abuse my wounded children out of extreme anger and frustration over their uncontrollable behavior. At times my face reddened, veins bulged, fists tightened and teeth clenched. Only by God's grace was I spared from inflicting bodily harm. But, let me tell you, the violence was within me. Overcoming it was not easy. During that time I remember having the most bloody, murderous dream. I interpreted rnv dream as my own violence within that I had to master. Haven't you ever been angry enough to want to "strangle someone" or at least want the worse to happen to them. Well, didn't I read somewhere that such anger at a brother or sister is tantamount to murder?

We are our brother's and sister's keeper. We have a responsibility for the care and well being of the human family. God's question to Cain is a question to us all: "Where is your brother? Where is your sister?" Though Cain's response is a denial. ... "Am I my brother's keeper?" .... we understand the statement as implying a classic affirmation. Yes. We are our brother's and sister's keeper. We are responsible to share our resources with those less advantaged in this life, reducing the possibility of violence. We are responsible to protect and care for those wounded by the violence of rape, abuse, and war. We are responsible to work at reducing violence and waging peace in this world. We are responsible for being reconciled. Jesus said that, if like Cain, you bring your gift to the altar and there remember that you have something against a brother, or sister, first go and be reconciled, then come and offer your gift. Reconciliation comes before worship. If only Cain had known that. If only he had believed he was his brother's keeper. But, am I really my brother and sister's keeper? There are those who seem beyond our compassion and efforts at reconciliation.

If anyone seemed worth murdering, or at least someone to reject as worthless, it was Larry Trapp. By all appearances and practices, Larry was a despicable creature. He was the grand dragon of the White Knights of the Ku Klux Klan of Nebraska. Sitting in his apartment in a wheel chair dressed in frayed jeans, gold swastika, Hell's Angel's tattoo, red t-shirt with "White Power," and surrounded by guns and klan robe, Larry distributed racist, bigoted, anti-Semitic, white supremacist literature. Hatred seeped from the pores of his skin. For years he led a campaign of terror with death threats, assassination plans, and threatening phone calls to Blacks and Jews. One of those who received a call was Jewish Cantor Michael Weisser. But, Michael was not going to be intimidated. He had learned that the heart of Jewish faith was loving your neighbor, tolerance, and non-harmful behavior. But, what he did with Larry Trapp was a shock. He not only confronted Larry during a hate call on the phone, he called back later to talk with him. Michael said to Larry, "Well, I was thinking you might need a hand with something. And I wondered if I could help. I know you're in a wheelchair and I thought maybe I could take you to the grocery store or something." Michael and his wife, Julie, took dinner to Larry. Now, this is carrying that brother's keeper stuff a bit too far!

Larry was stunned, as were Michael's congregation and many African-Americans in the community, at this Jewish cantor's unconditional care and compassion. Like Cain, Larry's sin was greater than he could bear. It was a sore that needed lancing. The shell on Larry's heart eventually cracked open spilling out the thick hate and violence. It happened when Michael and Julie brought him a meal. They all ended up weeping and embracing. What he had needed all his life was someone who really cared for him and accepted him. Not only would Larry toss aside his klan robe, but he apologized to his victims and campaigned against racism and bigotry. Larry not only renounced his anti-Semitic past, but converted to the Jewish faith. Later, Larry was diagnosed with a terminal illness and the Weisser family took him into their home to care for him the last days of his life. Amazing grace! You see, Michael saw Larry as his brother. God had taught Michael that he was his brother's keeper.

What we have in the end is the maddening mercy of God. This is the staggering grace revealed in Michael Weisser and his family's care for one who did not deserve it. It is the mercy seen in God placing a mark on Cain, who did not deserve it. You see, after murdering Abel, Cain was a literally a marked man. As a murderer and fugitive, he would have been a target of vengeance and retaliation. The never ending cycle of violence had been initiated. So, God placed a mark on Cain. Many have speculated what that mark might have been. How utterly horrible and tragic that Cain's mark has been interpreted as the color of the African-American slave and as the star of David used by the Nazi's to mark Jews. Such interpretations are hateful and murderous. Really, Cain's mark was a sign of protection.

Why would God want to protect Cain? He wasn't worth it. He committed an unspeakable crime. Murder deserves murder. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A life for a life. Capital punishment is what Cain deserved. Not protection. Inject those criminals. Gas those murderers. Enough of this liberal nonsense that protects the perpetrator and forgets the victim. What about the Abels in this world? Their blood cries from the ground to be heard. Who speaks for the Abels? Protect the murderer? It's enough to make you want to take the law into your own hands. It's enough to make you want to kill those murderers. God's mercy is maddening. It's a curse upon humanity! Why protect Cain?

Remember God's capricious freedom? God will have mercy on whom God will have mercy. God's freedom was there at the beginning of the story of Cain and Abel. It was there in the story of Larry Trapp. Here it is again. In God's protective mark on Cain. The mark points toward the gospel of grace. We have seen the mark of Cain. It appears to us as unmerited favor, undeserved goodness. God's capricious compassion. God's maddening mercy toward us. In the midst of a world that seems cruel, unfair, and unjust, we are all Abel. In the midst of a world where, though undeservedly we are recipients of God's odd goodness, we are Cain. And we are forever marked with the curse of God's grace.

Elle Shaddai: A divine feminine icon

El Shaddai is a Hebrew name for God. It is translated as "God Almighty." A more literal translation would be "God of the mountains." Shadayim, the root word for mountains, means "breasts." Thus, OT feminist scholar Phyllis Trible translates El Shaddai as "The Breasted One."

This icon originated as a divine feminine tattoo design for an African-American woman friend. I used the name of God "El Shaddai" as a feminist African divine image and feminized the "El" to "Elle." In the image the divine Elle merges into the mountains or emerges from the mountains as One with creation. The design is in an egg form to symbolize creation, new life, rebirth.

God so Loved: a divine feminine tattoo design

God is neither male nor female. God is Spirit. Therefore, we cannot create an image of God that adequately reflects God's spiritual essence. And yet, the images we have made of God throughout history have been male images (For example, Michelangelo's Creation image on the Sistine Chapel). Since we, male and female, were made in the image of God (Genesis), then if we are going to make an image of God we should be able to image God as both male and female.

Here is a feminine image of God I created for a friend, who wants such a tattoo for her next birthday, using the well known text from John 3:16: "For God so loved the world..."

The Prodigal Mother: A Parable Retold

*This original story was told in a suburban Lancaster, PA church on the fourth Sunday of Lent

Before we get to the biblical text for today, I need to tell you a story. It's a story about a mother and her daughter. Possibly you may recognize them. They may be connected to this church. You'll have to let me know. That's why I want to tell you their story. There was once a mother and daughter. Their family moved to Lancaster quite a few years ago from New York. The reason they moved was because the father had died from cancer. With the mounting hospital bills, they were struggling to make ends meet living in the city. So, the mother moved back to Lancaster with her daughter, where they could be close to relatives.

The move was hard on the daughter. She had grown up in New York, with its fast pace lifestyle, bright lights, night life, plenty of things to do, a world away from Lancaster. Plus, moving while you're in high school is no piece of cake. You have to leave friends and familiar places. It's tough. When they got settled into Lancaster, they became part of a Mennonite congregation. It may have been was this one. I don't know. But, let me continue. The daughter was bored to death going to church. She whined every Sunday her mother told her it was time to leave. She never forced her daughter to go. Her mother was pretty lenient. Some say too lenient. Their relatives said the mother wasn't much of a disciplinarian. At times it seemed as if this mother let her daughter walk all over; treat her as if she wasn't even alive.

That particularly seemed to be the case when her daughter came to her one day and asked her if she could have her college savings. She wanted to leave Lancaster and move back to New York and live on her own. Most parents would have put their foot down and forbidden her to leave. But, her mom knew that she'd just run away. She'd rather give her daughter the money. At least she'd know her daughter would have a place to stay, instead of living on the streets. That would have killed her mother, and maybe the daughter as well.

Can you believe it? She went to the bank and drew out every last penny she had worked so hard for and saved, including what she got from her husband's retirement after he died. She withdrew all the money and handed over a stack of crisp, new bills to her daughter. It wouldn't be stretching the truth if we described this mother as "prodigal," if we understand its dictionary definition as "recklessly wasteful." Who of usfrugal Mennonites that we are, would do such an extravagant, act of squandering? We reuse copy paper! Who would give their child a big wad of money to run off to New York City? If your wondering how kids today got so messed up, just look at their parents!

The daughter caught a Greyhound and headed for the Big Apple. Her mom cried when the door of the bus closed. The daughter couldn't wait to take a big bite out of the city. On her first day back in New York, she found a one room apartment, if you could call it that, in a run down part of the city. There were broken bottles and old syringes laying on the sidewalk. Her apartment was a bed, bathroom, and bare walls. Cockroaches dined on the crumbs lying on the wood floor. The building had a faint smell of urine. But, she didn't want to spend all her money on rent. It was just going to be a place to crash. She had partyin' on her mind.

Her first night in the city and she was trying to hit all the clubs. She paid someone to make her a fake ID, even though she looked and dressed a lot older than she was. She loved the night life, the club scene. The stars of the night found her gyrating beneath the colored lights on the dance floor and sniffing something up her nose. Before the first rays of sun hit the tall buildings downtown, she had wallowed in pleasure and had a tattoo of a Porky Pig etched on her arm. This was the time of her life, free from all the restraints and rules of her mom. At about 6:00 am in the morning she flopped down on her bed and didn't get up all the next day. When the sun peeked through the cracks in the blinds the following day, she awoke to find her head on a pillow of warm flesh. As she focused her eyes she could see clearly the silver ring of a pierced navel.

The party scene went on for a few weeks before she noticed that her money was quickly slipping through her fingers. After only one month of club hopping, she couldn't pay her rent. Her landlord threw her out on the street. All she had was a tattered suitcase tied together with a piece of rope. The next few nights she slept in a cardboard box under an overpass. She was afraid of what might happen to her, but she had nowhere else to go. The third day, she woke to a homeless man searching through her pockets. She jumped up and yelled at him, scaring him away. The odor of stale beer floating through the morning air like a smelling salt woke her up. She headed downtown. Maybe she could panhandle enough to get a meal. She hadn't eaten in days. With no handouts after five or six hours of panhandling, she was hungry and desperate. Her belly growled to the rhythm of the passing taxis. She spotted a McDonald's and went behind the building to rummage through the trash bins. Near the bottom of one was a half-eaten burger and a watered-down coke. As unappetizing as it was, her stomach was in no mood for being picky. Her arms weren't long enough to reach inside. As she leaned into the bin, she lost her balance and fell inside with a loud crash. The smell was enough to make her gag, but she gobbled down the piece of burger and washed it down with the watery coke. With a crumpled napkin she wiped every trace of dignity from her face.

Sitting at the bottom of the trash bin, it hit her. She didn't have to live like this. There were young women selling their bodies on the street that made enough to survive. She had seen some of them eating in the better restaurants downtown. As she was thinking about food, she flashed back to the Thanksgiving meals she used to have when she was young. Mom and dad at the table. Smiling. Cornucopia centerpiece on the table. Their finest crystal china neatly set flanked by an array of spoons, forks, and knives. Tall glasses of sparkling grape juice. In the middle of the table a plump, steaming turkey stuffed with dressing. Mashed potatoes drenched in butter. Pumpkin pie with whipped cream .... mmmmmmmmm!

That's when she came to her senses. She didn't have to dine in a dumpster. She could hitchhike home to her mom. Crawling out of the bin, she began rehearsing what she was going to say. "Mom, I'm sorry I ran off. If you just give me a room to live in for a while, I'll work it off for you." She took a quarter she found in the alley and dropped it into a pay phone. "Yes, I want to make a collect call to Lancaster ... " As she waited on the phone she caught sight of a bag lady out of the corner of her eye. The woman looked a little like her mom. "Mom?" There was silence on the other end of the line. "Mom, I want to come home."

On the day her daughter was coming home from New York, the mother waited on her front porch all day long, pacing back and forth, looking both ways down the block. Her daughter was supposed to get dropped off near their brick row house. Every few minutes the mother would walk out onto the sidewalk and look both ways for any sign of a lost teenager. Her neighbor waved and she waved back, but returned to her vigil on the porch.

Just as the sun was setting and the shadows of the trees fell on the houses, this mother saw someone get out of a car and start walking down the block. She put her hand over her brow to shade the sun and strained to see if she recognized the approaching figure. The next thing you know, she's in a full sprint down the sidewalk. She doesn't care what the neighbors might think seeing her, a grown woman, running as fast as she can down the street in Lancaster. Mother and daughter come together in a big bear hug in the middle of the street. A car honks at them, but they just stand in the middle of the street hugging each other. Tears are streaming down their cheeks. "I thought you were dead, or lost in the city," her mother sobs. "Mom, I'm sorry I left home. I'f you just give me a room ... " "Hush," cries her mother, "Honey, you're alive! I thought you were dead or lost, but I've found you. All that matters now is that you're home. You're home!"

Imagine this...I get a call early this morning as I'm going over my sermon. It's this mother. She says this is her church. She claims to be one of us. Do any of you remember her? How about her daughter? You should have heard her on the phone. It would have made you either cry or shout for joy or both. This mother was bubbling over with pure joy over her daughter coming home. Now, here's the deal. This is why I told you the story. I need to know what you think. You won't believe this. Imagine. She'd like to know if she could use our church building to hold a party tonight. It's going to be a catered affair. Steaks. Caviar. Champagne. Balloons. Party horns. Streamers. A Rock band. Dancing. It's probably going to be a loud, raucous party. And get this. She's blowing her whole paycheck on this party! She doesn't sound like she's Mennonite to me. Like I told you, she's a prodigal mother, "recklessly wasteful." As reckless as a shepherd leaving his ninety-nine sheep alone in the wilderness to go after one stray. As wasteful as a woman throwing a shindig because she found her lost coin while sweeping.

I thought I should also tell you, the mother's invited a bunch of her daughter's "questionable" friends in from New York. Purple hair. Pierced tongues. Tight leather miniskirts. A real freak show. Now, I can understand if you don't want them in our building. Who knows what the neighbor's would think? We're a traditional, suburban church with an image to maintain. Besides, it wouldn't be good stewardship of our building, letting a bunch of outsiders use it. And a party just doesn't seem appropriate for a church. All that noise and music and dancing. Maybe we could handle something a bit more subdued and proper. I know for a fact, that neither the daughter nor her mother have been faithfully attending church like most of us here. Before we consider having outsiders come into our church and taking over what we've worked so hard to keep a certain way, maybe we ought to first have a congregational meeting and discuss it or process it through a council or write a policy or do something formal and organized. Come to think of it, we haven't even had that kind of party for ourselves, let alone for some .... some .... well, anyway. Besides, what kind of message would we be sending our children if we allowed such a recklessly wasteful mother to have a party in our church?

There's something else I forgot to ask you. Hold on to your pews. The mother wants all of us to come to the party. So, I told her I'd ask. Be honest now. Who's going to come to this party?

In Memory of Gene Stoltzfus: Founder of Christian Peacemaker Teams (1940-2010)

Gene Stoltzfus was a model peacemaker and founder of Christian Peacemaker Teams, a well known, innovative, risk-taking organization that has placed itself in the midst of conflictual situations and militarized zones around the world to bring peace and reconciliation (http://www.cpt.org/speakers/gene_stoltzfus. CPT grew from roots in an Anabaptist vision of active peacemaking into a worldwide ecumenical peacemaking ministry.

The Peace and Justice Support Network, which I staffed as Minister of Peace and Justice for Mennonite Church USA, honored Gene in 2003 with a Peace Pitcher award for his lifetime of work in peace and justice (http://peace.mennolink.org/articles/newsgene.html)

This prophet of peace will be sorely missed within the ecumenical peace community.

Death Angel: Tattoo Design

Watched a series of LA Ink on TV and was inspired to create my own tattoo design. Here is my "Death Angel" tattoo design.

Hindu Holi-ness: the festival of colors

Holi, the Hindu festival of colors, is a celebration of the beginning of Spring observed in India. Celebrants splash each other with powdered colors and water like God, the divine artist, splashes the world with the amazing colors of Spring. This is an artist's way of celebrating the beginning of spring!

For a fuller description of the religious background of Holi go to: http://www.sankalpindia.net/drupal/festivals/holi-festival-colors

Healing Racism: A contemporary reflection on an old story

American society has tried to rid itself of blatantly racist attitudes toward people of color. And that's a good thing. We don't like it when the KKK flaunts their racist attitudes and stirs up trouble. We have moved beyond blatant bigotry. We don't burn crosses, wear hoods, and spit out hate speech. We have put away many of or old stereotypical images like Aunt Jemima, Watermelon-eating Negroes, blackfaced images like Al Jolson and Amos and Andy. We've laid to rest characters like the Lone Ranger's sidekick, Tonto (which, by the way, means "stupid" in Spanish), and Hopsing, the loyal cook for the Cartwrights on Bonanza. We don't tell racial jokes that we once told to our white friends. We wouldn't dare refer to Brazil nuts as someone's toes using the "N" word. We have taught our children creative new ways to make choices besides one old form of, "eeny, meeny, miny, moe ... " We have lauded the civil rights movement and its strides toward equal opportunity for all races. It's nice to have a day off on Martin Luther King, Jr.'s birthday. We watch Oprah and cheer on the Lakers. Why, we even elected a black president of the United States. We are a post-racial nation, right? Some of us can even say, "You can't say I'm racist. I have a Black friend" or "Hey, I work with Mexicans. I can't be racist."

While we exempt ourselves from racism, we, white, Euro-Americans, were shocked at how the African- American community responded to the outcome of the OJ Simpson trial. The L.A. riots made us scratch our heads. We don't quite understand why people of color don't trust the police or public officials like we do. To us the disproportionate number of people of color in prison and on death row seems to indicate, from our enlightened perspective, that they are just involved more in crime than whites are. Segregation of people of color from whites in many of our cities has nothing to do with racism. Birds of a feather just seem to flock together. We don't seem to get it. And there's a reason.

Racism is alive and well. Whether or not we are prejudiced against people of color, racism is a reality that permeates North American society. In this post-civil rights era we are encountering a more ingrained, deeply rooted, subtle form of racism that is more difficult to recognize and to heal. The story of Naaman and his healing can serve as a metaphor to address another kind of healing needed today----the healing of racism.

The story of Naaman begins in the land of Aram. Naaman was the commander of the Aramean army, a mighty warrior held in high honor and esteem. He was afflicted a skin problem; leprosv. Even though his "leprosy" was probably only a mild form of skin disease, it must have caused him untold moments of social embarrassment Naaman's wife heard through her slave girl of a prophet in Samaria, who can cure him. She told her husband. Naaman decided to send a letter to the prophet through the official royal channel of King Hazael of Aram. Naaman was able to use his power and privilege to get what he wanted. I won't comment on how that works for whites in American society. Upon receiving an official communique from the king of Syria, asking that Naaman be healed, the King Joram of Israel, ripped his clothes. He couldn't heal Naaman of leprosy any more than having an African-American president can heal our nation’s racism. Elisha informed the king that Naaman needed to come to him. Surely this bruised Naaman's ethnic ego.

Naaman's skin problem was bad enough to cause him to take the risk of stepping over to the other side of the tracks. Naaman gathered his entourage and headed south of the border. As he halted his chariots in front of Elisha's house the coins he brought jingled. Still wrapped up-in a garment of ethnic pride, Naaman didn't even get down from his chariot to speak directly to Elisha. Elisha, who was a dignitary in his own right, must have considered this an ethnic slap in the face. So, he responded in kind by sending out a messenger to Naaman to tell him a thing or two. Elisha's messenger told Naaman that he must go and wash himself seven times in the muddy Jordan river, another big blow to Naaman's ethic ego. This demand raised the hackles on Naaman's skin and he stormed away infuriated.

In our story we find Naaman infected with an ethnocentric worldview. Admittedly, he did have to eat a slice of humble pie in order to cross the border into a foreign land and to stand before a foreign prophet of a foreign God. Naaman wasn't looking for any long term relationship with another ethnic group. He wanted to do his deed and get the heck out of there. This kind of like the hit-and-run approach of short-term mission work. Go to some ethic community, do your thing, and then go back to right side of the tracks, with no long term commitments. Naaman figured his healing would not take too long. He expected Elisha to come out to him, like one of the priests of his own religion. The prophet was supposed to call on his god's name, magically wave his hand over Naaman's spotted skin, and abracadabra, he would be healed. Then, he would be on his merry way. Instead, Elisha told him to go and wash himself in Israel's Jordan river. "What? Are you nuts? Aren't the Arbana and Pharpar rivers, the rivers of my land and people, better than the waters of the Jordan? Why can't I be healed in my own land, among my own people?" What did Elisha's Jewish land and rivers have that were so special? Naaman didn't get it. He had trouble understanding how washing in a foreign, inferior river was going to heal him. Naaman, the river is not the issue here. It's your ethnocentric attitude.

Our process for healing racism may begin with overcoming our ethnocentricity. Ethnocentricity is a viewpoint and attitude which says, "My race, my ethnic group is superior to others." In order to understand Naaman's actions and attitude toward another people we need to understand his actions in collective terms more than as an individual attitude. Let's think of Naaman as part of a larger social system of a people displaying prejudiced attitudes toward another people group. Ethnocentricity says, "My people, my nation, my ethnic group is better than yours." Ethnocentricity keeps us from healing relationships. As long as we cling to white superiority and privilege, we will not be able to nurture those relationships which can be healing balm to our lives. Dealing with our ethnocentricity can become the first step on the road to healing racism.

Ethnocentricity blocks the power of God's healing streams that flow through all races and nations. To consider our race, our people, our land as better than everyone else's fosters xenophobia, the fear or hatred of the stranger or foreigner. Ethnocentrism has dominated our white, European culture and history. It has resulted in a nation wounded by imperialism, colonialism, slavery, genocide, racism, and violence. Ethnocentrism is, in reality, one of the first words that must be written on the pages of American history. As European Americans we need to be reminded that the land on which we live was not our land to begin with. The death of millions of Native Americans, their ghettoization, and the destruction of many indigenous cultures in the process was fed by ethnocentrism. There is no record that any of the intruders into these native lands looked positively upon the Native American peoples, their religion, or culture. The Naamans who took this land of America thought, "What do the streams of Native American life have to offer to us Europeans? Aren't the cultural streams of our native land much cleaner?"

In our own day ethnocentrism still permeates the land founded upon "liberty and justice for all." It has resulted in systemic white racism. One of the ways we blind ourselves to the presence of racism is by thinking of it only in individual terms as racial prejudice. Racism is not about personal prejudice. When we say, "Well, Black people can be just as racist as white people," we are thinking of racism in individualistic terms. Racism is not just a matter of personal prejudice. Mennonite Central Committee's Damascus Road Antiracism training defines racism with this formula: Racism= prejudice + systemic power. Trainers are adamant upon this analysis in understanding racism, even when white people don't get it. No other ethnic group in our society has the power to enforce its prejudices upon another group, no matter how manner individual exceptions we might propose. Therefore, with this definition racism is a white problem. If anyone still doesn't get it, I suggest that they take the Damascus Road training.

The disease of racism causes us to break out in a skin condition called "white supremacy." I'm not talking about white supremicists like the KKK marching down the streets in white sheets unashamedly yelling "white power!" I talking about the pervasive, but unrecognized situation in white American society. White people, white culture, and white religious expression are seen by the majority of people in our society to be the norm. Our ways are superior and define what is normal. As a collective group white, European Americans with the most power and privilege in our society. Whites hold economic, judicial, educational, political, and social power. Whether or not we are overtly prejudice or racist in intent, all whites, including myself, participate in and benefit from a racist system, which subordinates and oppresses people of color.

White racism is still with us. Racism is not exclusive to the KKK, the Aryan Nations, and the Skinheads. That's why electing a black president has very little to do with systemic racism. Systemic racism exists in the systems and institutions of our whole society. Racism shows up in pocketbooks, politics, and perceptions. Take, for instance, these findings from some recent surveys and studies. A Census Bureau study from ten years ago revealed that the average college-educated African American man earned less than the average college-educated European man by $10,000 a year. That fee is most likely the same or higher today. Another survey revealed different perceptions among whites and blacks about work among the races. Two-thirds of the whites surveyed believed that African-Americans get "equal pay for equal work," while two-thirds of blacks believed just the opposite.

In another study, for whites an integrated neighborhood is a community with at least one Black household out of fifteen, while for African Americans it is a fifty-fifty ratio. Also concerning housing, another survey showed that 55 percent of whites said blacks are not worse off concerning their homes than other groups with comparable education and income, but 64 per cent of the blacks surveyed believe they are worse off. One survey showed that more than one-third of whites still think blacks tend to be "less ambitious," "breed crime," and "have less native intelligence than whites." Naaman had a skin problem. Racism is, in a real sense, a skin problem; the problem of power and privilege the comes with having white skin and judging other based upon the amount of melanin in their skin. It is disease that has infected our institutions and infected our social arrangements, including education, housing, job opportunities, economics, legal and judicial systems. Ethnocentrism, white supremacy, and racism block the healing streams of God's power that flows out to all nations, races, and peoples.

Healing racism will require that we step into God's healing streams. It will require a religious and social conversion; a baptism against the strong currents of racism. Naaman was cured of his leprosy only as he obeyed the word of God from the foreign prophet, Elisha, and washed himself in the Jordan river. He was not only healed physically from his leprosy, but also personally and spiritually from his egocentricity, and socially from his ethnocentricity. He stood face to face with Elisha and confessed his faith in the God of Israel. A religious and social conversion took place within Naaman's life. His new perspective caused him to act in a rather strange way. He asked to take some dirt from the land of Israel to worship on! Naaman even asked to be pardoned when he bowed within the house of worship of his former god, Rimmon. Naaman missed the point by focusing on the land, like some who wake up to racism and advocate "cultural awareness" or "multicultural training" as a solution to racism. They are missing the point.

The story of Naaman can point us to the healing waters. Our own spiritual and social healing from the disease of racism will require that we listen to the Word of our universal God that comes from the prophets of other races. We will be called upon to bathe in the living streams of other races and peoples. In order to be healed of our racism we will need to listen to and take seriously the prophetic voices among African Americans, Native Americans, Hispanic Americans, and Asian Americans. Their word may open blind eyes and set captives of racism free. We will need to trust the leadership of people of color to show us the way to the healing streams and not think our ways of doing things is always the right or only way. But, be prepared. Our white communities will probably be far more resistant to following the word and leadership of people of color than Naaman was in following Elisha's advice. Yet, the word of our brothers and sisters may be just the Word from God's that we so desperately need to hear for our own healing. The streams of lives and communities different from ours may be the water we need that cleanses us of America's original sin.

To be healed of our skin problem will require stepping into God's healing streams. We can put our toes into the stream by educating ourselves and our children about racism and the cultures of people of color. One of our white privileges is that we don't have to know anything about other cultures or think about race or racism, which is a daily reality of people of color. We can step into healing waters by making long term relations with people of color in our communities. We can go waist deep by dealing with racism on a congregational level. I'm proud that my wife, Iris, was deeply involved in antiracism work through Mennonite Central Committee US and was present at a UN conference in South Africa that addressed racism and xenophobia on a global level.

In its formative years Mennonite Church USA decided to be an antiracist institution, due in great part to the work of Damascus Road. The healing of our denomination will involve including people of color into positions of power and influence. This means that persons of color will be involved in positions of church leadership, policy and decision making, program planning, and mission prioritizing for our denomination and its institutions. There is much, much more to be done to open the doors to qualified persons of color and to change attitudes, policies, and practices. Each step forward is going to be a real struggle. The opinions and suggestions of people of color will need to more than token representation, but rather be given equal weight to that of the white majority of church leaders. As an antiracist institution the Mennonite Church will take the concerns about racism that are raised by people of color seriously. Their concerns will not be written off as "reactionary," "overly sensitive," or "too race conscious." Only as we listen for the prophetic Word of God in other voices and dip ourselves into their streams will we be spiritually and socially healed of racism.

Some of us may still be wondering what in the world the story of Naaman has to do with racial issues. Isn't this stretching the application a bit? Well, a precedent for applying the story of Naaman to ethnic issues was once set by a well known preacher. When he was in his early thirties, just starting his ministry, he preached his first sermon in his home church. He read the scripture text for the morning service and started to preach. The congregation was amazed at the eloquence of his sermon. That was until he got to the part where he applied the Scripture text to their lives. He apply the scriptures to some unrecognized ethnic viewpoints and attitudes of his audience. The preacher took the familiar of the story of Naaman and gave it a contemporary application. He said, "There were also many lepers in Israel in the time of the prophet Elisha, and none of them was cleansed except Naaman the Syrian.” The congregation shifted in their pews and tugged at their collars. The implication was right there in their own Holy Scripture. God is free to chose another race and people, above their own, through which to act and to bring healing. When the sermon was over the congregation didn't come up to the preacher after the service, smile, and say, "Nice sermon, preacher." Instead, they went into a rage, drove him out of town, and were ready to throw him of the edge of a cliff! Who was that young preacher? Jesus!

If we are to be healed of our disease of racism, like Naaman we will need to listen to the Word of God coming from unexpected sources and strange sounding requests. Today's prophets are telling us to go and dip ourselves in God's healing waters, however foreign and unfamiliar the streams. It’s time to step into the healing waters.