Here I am

Also, concerning slavery, the call of Moses is illuminating. The burning bush, from which Moses hides his face, reminds us that the revelations about slavery today continuing to be frightening; but God is present in them, calling us to respond. This God also recalls history, reminding us of the divine presence with the people of the ages - God was there, and connects us all together. So Moses responds, saying, 'Here I am.' This is the God who makes us realise 'where we are at'. We cannot ignore the present moment or place, the lives of others. This is, after all, also the God who hears the cries of the oppressed (see Exodues 3: 1-12). We too must hear ... and respond.

Unbind them, and let them go

It wasn't necessarily the most obvious Bible text for the subject in question. But actually the story of the raising of Lazarus ended up feeling surprisingly pertinent to the theme of slavery. It is, as we ought to know by now, the 200th anniversary of the abolition of the British slave trade - though obviously slavery continues, trafficking is increasing, and there is still a long way to go since that memorable milestone. But what of Lazarus? Jesus was late. Religious leaders are often late to the crime scene. There are always other things to do, other lessons to teach, which seem more important at the time. But Lazarus died. If Jesus had been earlier, Martha and Mary say, he might not have died. But he comes, and he asks to see where the body is laid. Even if we are late, we must nevertheless dare to ask, 'Can we see the things of death? Take us to the heart of the matter. Show us the reality - in all its awfulness. Where is the body?' So it is with slavery. Many would rather consign it to history, as a terrible chapter in an appalling saga. But no, we must dare to face it, to see it, to witness it, past and present, because history lingers, like the stench of Lazarus. And there is weeping ... so we are told 'Jesus began to weep'. We must weep with those who weep, in solidarity with the stories we would rather not hear. It is our duty. Next, he says 'Take away the stone'. There can be no reconciliation if we do not name and confront and remove the stones which stand in the way: every obstacle to justice which persists. Take it away! And then he speaks to Lazarus, the sinister memory and stench, 'Lazarus, come out!' We must name the forgotten nameless; we must call the enslaved to freedom. And finally, Jesus says to the gathered crowd, 'Unbind him and let him go.' It is our responsibility, too, to play our part. To 'unbind' those burdened by the past, those who dare not remember, those who are enslaved, and ourselves, bound up with the systems of slavery. Unbind us all!

People of simultaneous dusk & dawn

I have a photo of the inside of South Africa's Constitutional Court - a relatively new building, partly built out of the bricks from the old prison where Nelson Mandela and others were held prior to their trials. Inside, the designers have incorporated images of traditional African justice - pillars representing trees, since the traditional judges would sit under trees; high-up skylights, slithers of glass, representing transparency (as opposed to the opaque "justice" under apartheid) and the 'light' breaking in; and so on. I have another photo outside the court, taken when I visited Johannesburg as part of a Global Youth Convention, which captures a red sunset. A sunset and a new dawn, together. Which is how we are called to be - we who are people of faith; we who see, for example, in the person and partnerships of Jesus a new dawn ... we are called to point to the dusk of an old world, right here and now, often hard to spot, but present nonetheless, and to point to the dawn of a new world, right here and now, often hard to spot, but present nonetheless. The practice of faith consists of the art of identifying dusk and dawn, how they occur simultaneously: for whenever the old world crumbles, something new is born. We are called to see where the light is breaking in, how it exposes the old world for its hollowness and inhumanity, how it makes possible the subversion of such things, and the building of hope. We are called simultaneously to be people of the dusk, people who know when "the powers of domination" have had their day, and people of the dawn, celebrating the rising of the sun ...