On March 10, 2025, the District of Columbia began dismantling Black Lives Matter Plaza. Black Lives Matter Plaza is a two-block-long pedestrian section of 16th Street NW in downtown Washington, DC. The plaza was renamed by Mayor Muriel Bowser on June 5, 2020, after the Department of Public Works painted the words Black Lives Matter in yellow, 35-foot-tall capital letters, along with the District of Columbia flag, during the hurt and public outcry for justice after the murder of George Floyd by a police officer. Five years later, Mayor Bowser posted on social media, “The mural inspired millions of people and helped our city through a painful period, but now we can’t afford to be distracted by meaningless congressional interference.” The plaza was removed in March 2025, due to a threat by a Republican congressman demanding its removal as a condition of future federal funding granted to DC.

Since January 20, 2025, there have been a flurry of presidential executive orders to systematically erase the personhood of persons of color, women, LGBTQIA+, and migrant residents. For the month of February, black history programs were canceled; for the month of March, women’s history programs were canceled; and this month, May, Asian American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month will not be recognized or celebrated. Where is the outcry of the church? 

The psalmist offers a balm in the midst of this hurt, possibly even refreshing water for those thirsty for justice: I will extol you, O LORD, for you have drawn me up and did not let my foes rejoice over me. O LORD my God, I cried to you for help, and you have healed me. We are reminded that in the midst of the turmoil, there is a God, to whom we can cry out. Who, in the time of trouble responds: I have observed the misery of my people who are in Egypt; I have heard their cry on account of their taskmasters. Indeed, I know their sufferings (Exodus 3:7). 

During tumultuous times of dis-embodiment, dis-membering, and disunity, we can find not only comfort but strength in knowing that the liberating God knows intimately what we are feeling. The prophetic Catholic liberation theologian, Shawn Copeland, reminds us in her seminal work, Enfleshing Freedom: Body, Race, and Being, that “Jesus of Nazareth lived and died in subjugation to the Roman Empire. His flesh, his body was and remains marked by race, gender, culture, and religion” (43). God has experienced that which we are experiencing, through God’s enfleshed presence in the personhood of Jesus Christ. “[Jesus’] incarnation, which makes the Infinite God present, disrupts every pleasure of hierarchy, economy, cultural domination, racial violence, gender oppression, and abuse of sexual others. Through his body, his flesh and blood, Jesus of Nazareth offers us a new and compelling way of being God’s people even as we reside in another imperial order” (52).

Beloved, we bear the image of God, the imago Dei in our African, Black, Latinx, female, queer, differently abled, bruised, abused, marginalized, ostracized bodies despite, no in spite of the attempted assimilation and erasure of the imperial order. In knowing this, what shall we do? One of my favorite hymns consoles me, I love the Lord, God heard my cry. As long as I live, when troubles rise, I will hasten to God’s throne (“I Love the Lord; He Heard My Cry” by Isaac Watts).

The Gospel reading in John, and the psalmist remind us of the power we hold, particularly when we feel powerless. We can proclaim as the psalmist, O LORD, you brought up my soul from Sheol, restored me to life from among those gone down to the Pit. Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning. While the night is feeling long right now in America, joy can and will come in the morning. We have a fortitude that will allow us to work toward that joy. 

In the Gospel of John, when Jesus encountered the disciples out fishing, he had conquered death and sin and was in his victorious resurrected body. Initially, the disciples were unsuccessful in their fishing efforts. However, Jesus spoke specific instructions on how and where to cast their nets. In doing so, their nets were full, in fact, overflowing with fish. 

We can cast our nets during this turmoil. Copeland’s Eucharistic Solidarity is in where we can cast our nets for new mercies made afresh each morning. Eucharistic solidarity teaches us to imagine, to hope for, and to create new possibilities. Because that solidarity enfolds us, rather than dismiss “others,” we act in love; rather than refuse “others,” we respond in acts of self-sacrifice – committing ourselves to the long labor of creation, to the enfleshment of freedom (133).

As his body – [Christ’s body] – we pulse with new life for Eucharist is the heart of Christian community (132). Rather than allow the oppressor divide and conquer, let us all draw together, those who they seek to marginalize, dis-member, and disembody. In our unity, we are even more powerful and ultimately victorious. Just as the disciples were together fishing after Jesus’s crucifixion, let us cast our nets of freedom, liberation together. Let us lift our voices together. For together, we are the embodiment of Jesus’s body. The communal meal is the pulse, the lifeline of the Christian community. We are the body of Christ and that cannot ever be denied, dis-membered, or desecrated. 

When the national narrative and the vicissitudes of life are upon you and the fear, anger, doubt or even hopelessness washes over you, read, pray and reflect on this litany. Light a candle, incense, talk a walk, breathe, breathe:

A Litany for Survival

By Audre Lorde

For those of us who live at the shoreline

standing upon the constant edges of decision

crucial and alone

for those of us who cannot indulge

the passing dreams of choice

who love in doorways coming and going

in the hours between dawns

looking inward and outward

at once before and after

seeking a now that can breed

futures

like bread in our children’s mouths

so their dreams will not reflect

the death of ours;

For those of us

who were imprinted with fear

like a faint line in the center of our foreheads

learning to be afraid with our mother’s milk

for by this weapon

this illusion of some safety to be found

the heavy footed hoped to silence us

For all of us

this instant and this triumph

We were never meant to survive.

And when the sun rises we are afraid

it might not remain

when the sun sets we are afraid

it might not rise in the morning

when our stomachs are full we are afraid

of indigestion

when our stomachs are empty we are afraid

we may never eat again

when we are loved we are afraid

love will vanquish

when we are alone we are afraid

love will never return

and when we speak we are afraid

our words will not be heard

nor welcomed

but when we are silent

we are still afraid

So it is better to speak

remembering

we were never meant to survive.

We were never meant to survive and yet you are here, still here. You have survived and we will continue to survive (Cole Arthur Riley, Black Liturgies: Prayers, Poems, and Meditations for Staying Human, 99-100).