For the citizens of Charlottesville, Virginia, the hot months of 2017 are better known as the “Summer of Hate.”
The previous year’s election had emboldened white supremacist groups to step out of their anonymous chat rooms into the public square. And they had chosen Charlottesville for their debut. On the evening of August 11, I was locked inside my church with 500 other people, among them Katie Couric and Cornell West.
As the interfaith prayer service began to wind down, the worship leader suddenly walked to the back of the church. He spoke quietly with someone, then headed back up to the front. That’s when he told us: “The Nazis are outside.”
The next few moments are hazy in my memory. But, someone must have told us we were in lockdown. It wasn’t safe to leave. Then the worship leader spoke again: “So, we’re going to sing loud enough to drown out their hate.”
We started to sing: This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine…
Time seemed to stand still. As we drummed on the backs of the hardwood pews and stomped our feet to the rhythm, the candle flames danced on the altar.
Meanwhile, back in the narthex, unarmed priests, pastors, rabbis, and imams were guarding the doors. The Nazis had called in dozens of false emergencies to deploy the Charlottesville Police away from their tiki torches and hateful chanting, as they marched through the University of Virginia’s campus across the street from the church.
The only things separating us from terror that night was our clergy, the big red doors of the church, and “This Little Light of Mine.” In spite of it all, it felt like the Kingdom of God.
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Last Friday, I led chapel at the day school, as I do every month.
The theme this month was Pentecost. We talked about the connection between God’s love for each one of us, and the love we share with others, as a response to that love.
Pentecost makes rich use of metaphors of wind and fire, and here in the sanctuary, candles are one of the best tools we have to talk about those things. So, I asked the kids to watch carefully as I lit the candlelighter, and then walked to each candle and lit a new flame. We counted the flames together: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6!
I asked them to notice how each time a new flame was lit, it didn’t take away the light from the first one. Every time light was shared, all it did was make even more light. At the cusp of having abstract reasoning skills, maybe the kids didn’t totally understand the metaphor.
But they understood this: We are loved by the God of the universe, and we can share that love with others. And when we share it, it doesn’t take anything away from us. All it does is make even more love.
Then we got to the good part…
We sang This Little Light of Mine, and the kids waved their hands in the air and stomped their feet. A group of girls joined hands and twirled around in a circle like contra dancers. And at the end of the song, a raucous cheer rang up to the rafters.
I am not exaggerating when I say it felt like a revival. It felt like the Holy Spirit had blown through the place and filled us with so much light, we couldn’t hold it in any longer.
We were safe and loved here in the sanctuary. And it felt like the Kingdom of God.
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There’s just something about that song…
I asked the Head of School why the kids like it so much, and she thinks it’s because it offers rare permission for little ones to claim their own humanity, in a world that doesn’t give them much power. They get to move and shout, and they are encouraged to claim that something is “mine, and I have the power to share it.”
In the candlelight of that locked-down prayer vigil and the morning light of chapel, we sang This Little Light of Mine, and we became the church: the people of God, together in God’s kingdom.
Because we understood that we had been found by God, and made into light by God, we just had to let it shine.
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It should be said that This Little Light of Mine isn’t a children’s song. It is an African American spiritual.
It was composed in the context of brutality and indignity worse than most of us can imagine. It was first sung in a place where hope had no business showing up, where God could have easily been mistaken as dead.
But, as God often does, and as hope often does, it did show up… and it wasn’t just a pining or passive kind of hope.
It was defiant hope – a refusal to take the oppressor at their word. To claim that something is “mine” and I have the power to share it is to reclaim your own humanity, to claim your own belovedness in the eyes of God, and to claim, further, that only the God who created you has a right to make those judgments about your worth.
With a clarity that pierces the heart and stirs the soul, the song captures the truth of the Gospel, and reveals the ultimate power of Pentecost.
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When the Holy Spirit rushed in like wind and fire on that first Pentecost, the faithful began to speak in the languages of the world. And when they poured into the streets, it was the same as Christ reaching out his hand to diverse humanity and saying, “you all are mine and I love you.” And when they prophesied and announced the good news, it was the same as God calling every race, nation, and tongue “good.”
The Spirit of Truth announced that day: “all are welcome, no exceptions.”
In the presence of the Spirit, the Divine Advocate, every dichotomy by which the powerful retain control was made meaningless. And everyone – every class, age, gender, culture, language, and identity – was boldly affirmed as beloved by God. And everyone, hearing the good news in their own language, was welcomed into the Kingdom of God.
Those who heard the good news couldn’t help but share it. They were empowered to become advocates themselves: they cared for people in such a way that they could reclaim their God-given dignity. They cared for people without suggesting that something about them was too far gone.
There was light enough for everyone. And nothing was lost in sharing it.
If, for any reason, you have never been sure that you were deserving of light; and if, for any reason, you were told you were wrong to want it…
The church, on Pentecost, says otherwise. The good news is good news for everyone. The Spirit of God advocates for you. The Kingdom of God is here, and you’re a part of it.
On this Pentecost, Christ reaches out and hands you a candle.
This light is yours. And you have the power to share it. You’re already shining. Amen.
Leah Wise 