“In wholeness differences are not eliminated; rather, they become alive.” - Peter L. Steinke

‍There are people in my life whom I don’t see often, but who shine bright in my awareness, nonetheless. Trey Lyon is one of them.

We met a decade ago at Union Theological Seminary, where his Southern charm and passion for justice were equalled only by his genuine love for everyone he met, luckily including me. He went on to become a Baptist pastor, pushing his denomination on a host of progressive issues, and though he left the church to work in higher ed, Trey still has a gift for putting wisdom into words.

Below, I share his reflections from this week. It gave exact shape to what I’ve been feeling, and I hope it resonates with you, too.

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“When I was first learning how to do trauma informed work with children, my wife Jen taught me very quickly that power struggles were pointless and that I would lose every time.

Only a fragile, entitled, white guy ego could possibly believe that “because I said so” meant anything to kids who regularly watched friends and neighbors fall to gun violence or the seemingly inescapable cradle to prison pipeline. I realized quickly how weak I truly was—and how withdrawing any reward or trying to impose any penalty for misbehavior was a battle of wills that I would—rightfully—never win.

I didn’t deserve to win it, in truth. These kids were stronger. They were hardened—of course they shouldn’t have been—no child should, but that was the reality. For a time I tried to leverage all my rage, all my privilege, on their behalf. Because until you’ve been close to people who are actually oppressed, you have no idea how easy you’ve had it.

What I learned from Jen was how to encourage agency—to affirm what power and agency those kids did have and to let them know they should have that everywhere and that no one had the right to diminish who they were. It was a tough sell, and they had reason not to believe us—and sometimes that erupted in rage and the fear of reality.

“I know imma get mine—I know it’s just a matter of time,” the 17 year-old said, after getting shot at with his brother when a meetup to buy a stereo went bad. And we tried to say—and to surround him with those who said—“It doesn’t have to be this way. You control you. It doesn’t have to be like that.”

It was hard for him to see anything more than a death sentence, he was sure, by 21. But that was our defiant hope and work—when he was angry after someone wronged him, determined to retaliate, we went back to the language of control. “Who can you control? You can’t control what someone says or thinks about you, but you can control how you react to it.”  

I keep coming back to this idea lately. Things aren’t as I would have them be. Selfish, oppressive, racist, misogynistic, homophobic, abusive, violent people sit in some of the highest places in my country. At a recent visit to the immersive Star Wars world at Disney, I watched as “First Order” officers and propagandists searched a tourist crowd trying to find out who was loyal to the order. I shouted “Long live the resistance!” and even though it was all cosplay—the shocked reactions and stern looks of others reinforced the sudden “Oh crap!” I felt inside. As the narrative played out, the stormtroopers interrogated a rebel “spy” who shrewdly lied and misdirected.

Of course that was all part of the show, but it plays because that’s what has happened—speak up, get crushed. Lay low, play smart, and live to fight or flight another day. So there’s a part of me that wants to do that right now—lay low, use the privilege I have to get through another day. There’s another part that wants to rage, to quit this place and the machine it’s fragile overlords have made it to be, even as it cowers to what it perceives to be power—forgetting, as Carl Sagan told us, that these people are but only “momentary masters of a fraction of a dot”.

Last time I spent a lot of time between both—and then a pandemic threatened all life—especially those I hold most dear. So, this time I find myself wondering, “Who can I control?” I can control what comes on my TV, or my phone. I can control what time I spend and how. I can control whether I let hate and vitriol make me hate back. I can’t blame others for what they can or can’t control—I can’t change them, but I can change me.

I can control whether I act in love or hate. I might not be able to control most legislation, but no one legislates who I love or how, and my ability to leverage my voice, body and bank account to care for and protect those threatened, exploited, or harmed by weak men riddled with fear of their actual impotence.

And while arguably, yes, there are ways to handle that, the way of nearly all spirituality—and certainly the way of Jesus—says that no one gets to control those things. That even if your life is at stake, no one can take from you what you willingly lay down for your neighbor.

Dr. King—who everyone quotes this week, said “Let us develop a kind of dangerous unselfishness”. He said that in the context of expounding on the parable of the Good Samaritan—the one who, as he wisely proclaimed, said “this Samaritan thought, not, ‘If I stop to help this man what will happen to ME?’ But ‘if I don’t stop to help this man, what will happen to HIM?”

This is something I can control, and am, indeed, confronted with. No one gets to legislate my unselfishness—but I can choose it. I can let my hatred lead me to spend more time thinking about a felonious gangster celebrity who has whipped up the fears of folks who I know are smarter and more loving but who can, and have, given into fear—or I can recognize that the time I spent just thinking of that description wasted moments that could have been better spent 500 different ways.

Recently I heard the movie director John Chu say that “stress is a misuse of creativity.” All the time I spend worrying or catastrophizing is misusing the creativity that equally could be used to problem solve, to care, to love—to make a phone call or write a letter. Dr. King also said that “Hate is too great a burden to bear.” The pursuit of love isn’t just noble, it is utilitarian—it preserves and sustains, while hatred drowns and strangles.

I’m choosing dangerous unselfishness and asking what that means and trying to commit every single moment that I would otherwise spend thinking or reading or catastrophizing about a momentary master of a fraction of a dot to instead think, “What am I doing to love and care and know and empower my neighbor?”

This is what I can control. This is what I am choosing. Please help hold me to it. And please let me know how I can help you control the things you long to control. We are, after all, “tied up in an inescapable network of mutuality.” Thanks be to God for Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., one so creatively maladjusted to injustice that he gave us those words. May we live them, love them, and write them anew.

Phewf! Thank you, Trey.