This is My Fault; An Overdue Apology

(photo courtesy CNS/Reuters/Tom Brenner)

If you are reading this, I owe you an apology. As a priest, as a father, and as a human being I have failed each and every one of you. I’m very sorry to say that a great deal of what is happening in the world right now is my fault. What happened to George Floyd in Minneapolis on May 25th is my fault. Well over 100,000 Americans have died because of Covid-19, and that is my fault, too. Many people can’t attend Church services or hug their friends, and I am responsible for that. By the end of this year, some experts predict that nearly one quarter of Americans will be living in poverty, and I’m to blame for that as well. In 2019, there were 417 mass shootings across the U.S. and I’m liable for every one of them. For most of my life I’ve been aware of any number of trends and statistics that show just how dark and dangerous our world can be, especially for people of limited means or people whose ethnicity is systemically devalued. I’ve been aware that we have built a society that yearns to divide and marginalize individuals and groups so that power and opportunity can be hoarded and weaponized. I’ve seen and experienced that the single most trafficked commodity in our culture is fear and that everyone from businesses to administrations to romantic partners will wield that fear to keep people under their thumb. Unfortunately, the entire situation is my fault.

I often say in sermons or counseling that there is a difference between “fault” and “responsibility.” I point out that “fault” means you are the one who made the thing happen, but “responsibility” means that you are capable of making it better, so you have an obligation to do so. In short, if something is broken it doesn’t matter if you were the one who broke it, you still may be responsible for cleaning it up. This dichotomy has served me well in preaching and teaching both as a priest and as a father. And I thought is was not only true, but also quite accurate. Then I watched the president stand in front of St. John’s Episcopal Church and realized that I have been utterly and completely wrong.

Mea Culpa. I’m sorry.

When I saw the video of the president’s photo-op, I was angry and confused. I thought “That isn’t his church. He looks like he’s never seen, much less held, a Bible before. Why would anyone view this moment as genuine?” I didn’t think many people would see it as authentic. It is an unabashed attempt to use images, symbols, and spaces to infer his connection to the people and ideas those things represent. Except that his words and actions (especially those immediately surrounding that moment) are clearly in opposition to the ideals held by the people he was imitating in that photo. Over the next few days I was irritated by the absurdity of the event. I could not understand why he would think that he could speak and behave as he does (and has for so long) and still think that he has any connection to the Church and the people who hold those images, symbols, and spaces so dear. But then I was struck by the simple and unfortunate truth: we’ve given him no reason to think differently. As a Church we have watched these distorted representations of the Faith growing . As a corporate humanity, we have allowed inhumanity to fester. As individuals, we have sought to find our own safe groove within this horrific and distorted manifestation of God’s Creation while others are trampled alongside us. The state of our shared existence has been grossly corrupted. And it is the Church’s fault. And it is humanity’s fault. And each and every one of us is at fault as well.

It is all my fault.

It doesn’t take an advanced degree in Theology to know that you can’t use tear gas and guns to make a positive affirmation of the Christian Faith. It doesn’t take ordination vows to know that it is wrong to asphyxiate a defenseless man over a counterfeit bill. It doesn’t take teams of experts to know that the responsibility of fighting a pandemic disease (literally, “of all people”) rests on the shoulders of everyone, and that whatever precautions or actions are prescribed by experts are the absolute obligation of each of us, regardless of how uncomfortable they make us feel. These are truths that ought to be clear to each and every one of us. Yet somehow, the one truth that is clear is that those truths simply aren’t. And the fault lies with me.

I have no defense.

Over the course of my life, I’ve let so many opportunities to change things slip past. I’ve watched individuals describe their Christianity while wearing symbols of division and hatred. I’ve watched leaders commend the marginalization of minorities. I’ve watched people struggle in unhealthy relationships. I’ve seen videos of people being trampled over sales on flat screen TVs. I’ve been complicit in a culture that commends the consumption and waste of products and people. I’ve gone about my business as countless black and brown people have been treated as though they have no value in this world or in the next. I watched a subculture flourish that centers on violence against minorities, women, and the weak. I’ve bought more than I can use. I’ve accepted (and at times engaged) in a society that condemns people for being born exactly as God created them. In each of these atrocities (and so many more) I am complicit, not because I never pushed back, but because in each instance, at some point, I stopped pushing back. Every time I’ve sighed, or grumbled, or rolled my eyes, and decided it wasn’t worth the effort to try to correct those at the center of the issue, I became complicit in that issue.

I’m ashamed.

I am truly ashamed for each time I didn’t find the voice to speak up and speak out. I’m ashamed for each moment I willingly accepted my privilege at the expense of someone else. I’m ashamed that I haven’t represented our humanity sufficiently to be a corrective by example. I’m ashamed that I haven’t seen and commended the full value of people to those who see so little value in them. I’m ashamed that anyone, even the president himself, would find the photo representative of the Church to which and from which I have given and received such an incredible amount. I am ashamed that in so many tiny and enormous moments I have utterly forsaken our shared existence. I am ashamed of many things that I’ve done and so many more that I have left undone.

I don’t think I could be more sorry.

I hope it means something to you that I am sorry. I hope it means something that I am acknowledging my fault, but I don’t expect you to forgive me. As I said, “fault” and “responsibility” are two very different things. Recognizing my complicity is important, but not nearly as important as doing something about it. Not only have I helped make this mess, I am also very responsible for cleaning it up. As difficult as it might be, I have an obligation to start making things right. I can’t promise that I won’t stumble. And I can’t promise that I’ll never make a mistake. What I can promise is that I’ll look for any opportunity I can to change things. I can promise to find a loud and strong voice to speak out against a culture that devalues people and compassion and simple joys. I can promise to be vigilant about not allowing dark things to happen without being called into the light. I can promise that I’ll try to see people through God’s eyes and to try to be His hands and heart in the world. I can promise to do what I can to at long last help make this world look a bit more like the next world.