The Red Cotton Tree

Right now, I am taking inspiration from the red cotton tree, which flowers after its leaves fall, when it has nothing left but gray branches. I do not know what this means, or if it means anything, but Jesus said, “consider the flowers,” so here I am, looking at this big tree, driving around the valley to find the ones I love. I know it is a place to rest the eyes. I know people gather the flowers for food.

How can God observe so much and still be joyful? The red cotton tree blooms while a powerful, imperialistic man makes decisions that increase the violence within the world. At the same time, swiftlets find updrafts of warm air and swoop and dive. The koels call in the early morning. We weep because we have been given such beautiful things and they are destroyed.

God, take our grief.

Beautiful and brave things emerge out of horror and we see them in real time. Ukrainian people defend their country, defiant in spirit and heart. Surrounding countries put mattresses in their homes to take in refugees. These are beautiful, beautiful movements toward a better way.

But also, tragedy begets tragedy. (A quote from my husband that I pull out all. the. time.) We witness, again, the ever-present thread of anti-Blackness, of otherism, that runs underneath the powers of this world. African and Indian students and immigrants are turned back as they try to leave a country that has been invaded. We fail Black and brown people again with these insidious ideas that they are somehow less, last, least. Will they always be offering support while being placed last? The thought is impossible. On news coverage we hear rhetoric that these refugees are somehow different than all the refugees of the past years because of their whiteness. (I am trying to imagine all of us making space in our homes to those who have been fleeing conflict in countries to the south of us. The idea brings tears to my eyes.)

Lord, forgive us.

It is not surprising. What people really think comes out under pressure. It is why we see bravery from average people stopping tanks with their bodies and old women resisting. Their bravery is deep within them. It is what comes forth during trouble. Other things that come out during trouble are racism and fear-driven prejudice. What does God think about this story that the evil one tells? The story that somehow white refugees are more deserving, or that the darkest skin houses souls that are the least?

It is a lie and it is anathema to God. It cannot exist in the same holy space as God. By God’s grace and the sacrifice of the incarnate one, we are loved despite these sins.

What does God think of war? Of taking, stealing, breaking, hurting, terrorizing? It is anathema. It cannot exist in the same holy space as God. And by God’s grace we are loved despite these great and terrible sins.

This is our world. This is the world God loves despite itself. And in this world, we can witness the brilliance that is love against the gray tide of evil in Ukraine. And we can also mourn that with the same breath, we see that this empathy has not been there for others in the same position. We are able, with God, to witness the sorrow and beauty that is what we are, divided, lied to, manipulated, and surprisingly good and beautiful.

God, hold our grief and our fear.

It is why we have to continue the inner work of aligning with God’s ways, God’s thoughts. It means that under pressure we will offer food, open our homes, consider everyone to be the same, so that I say, “that could be me,” about a Ukrainian refugee or a Sudanese refugee or an Afghani refugee. The truth will always be the truth. Nothing can change the belovedness of God’s people. But who are we? Truth seekers? Or manipulated by politics and spicy gotchas delivered in videos that say, “here’s one thing that no one will admit…”

I feel for us. God feels for us. But here we are and this is not going away, we have to learn to hold fast to truth in a world that wants to manipulate us.

God, please remind us of the truth.

I am lighting candles and praying for those who are going through impossible challenges and fears. For Ukrainian people who have lost everything in the last days, or who are elsewhere, terrified for their family. For my Russian traveler friends who are dealing with a war they do not want, with their money suddenly being worth so much less, who don’t know how they will survive in India, or Thailand, or wherever. For all the people who are listening to the news and have been or are refugees, hearing again that their own people are somehow less deserving of support. For Black people hearing once again that they should get on the train last.

God, take our grief.

Maybe I am finding my way to the lesson of the red cotton tree, in a rambling, wandering way. It flowers when everything else is gone, when it is bare. Its flowers are from deep within, nourishing, true, created, good. They are an offering—people come and gather them up for curry or tea.

Let us not be manipulated, let us not believe lies about who we are and who others are. Let us dig out the roots of racism or otherism. Let us live love, live equality, humanity, humility, so we can flower with bravery and love when we are pressed.

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