Tucson – Southwest Conference Blog

guest post from a pastoral letter by Rev. Seth Wispelwey, Interim Pastor at Rincon Congregational UCC in Tucson

“Nana, ayudame.”

Grandmother, help me.

These were the last words of Carlos “Adrian” Ingram Lopez, the Latino man who was killed by Tucson police while in their custody. Our police department, which recently tried to claim “we’re not Minneapolis,” hid his death for two months from Tucson officials (including our mayor) and the general public.  The horrific 12-minute video of his final moments Earth-side has now been released.

Beloved, the great global reckoning we are living through and acting in is now profoundly, specifically, alarmingly here. This is our city. These are our tax dollars. Carlos was our neighbor. Carlos’ family are our neighbors.

Beloved, I know so much is overwhelming and stressful and hard right now. This pandemic and its disconnections from full life and presence with one another. The stresses of managing home, work, parenting, and more amidst so much uncertainty. The fires blazing across our Catalina mountains. The would-be fascist regime operating out of the White House. The righteous uprising compelling so many of us to interrogate and deconstruct the poisonous DNA of white supremacy & patriarchy in ourselves and our communities.

And now this.

Walking is where we find hope and resist defeat. We make the road by walking. Together. Linked in Spirit and the beloved spirits you each possess that our still-speaking God imbues with strength to envision and embody a new Way.  Strength and vision we can only arrive at together.  Remember our scripture this past week?  In-between spitting a lot of righteous fire, Jesus encourages the disciples three times to “have no fear,” to “not be afraid,” and to “fear not.”

It’s ok if you’re afraid of the reckoning on our doorstep. That is a natural reaction. The body of togetherness that we call “church” is a hospital for fear. A medical ward for reaffirming hope. A rehab facility for building up the muscles to respond to others’ fear with the power and actions of love.

We are called for such a moment as this. We are called to be the church we emblazon on our banners.

Beloved, I am here for it. Like each of you, I cannot do it alone. Let us grieve, let us rage, let us pray, let us talk, let us walk.

And Carlos “Adrian” Ingram Lopez.  Say his name.  Share his story. Speak up. Act out. His family has asked that in any online sharing you also include #NanaAyudame.

Like George Floyd, Carlos couldn’t breathe. He let them know. He cried out for his parent figures while the police let him suffocate.  Just like Jesus on the cross.

This hurts, beloved. Let us hold it and walk it together. Let justice come. Resurrection is the insurrection they thought they crucified.

Resurrection is tearing down the idols.

Resurrection is liberating the captives.

Resurrection is abolishing ICE.

Resurrection is defunding and dismantling the police.

Resurrection is living the truth that Black Lives Matter, that women’s bodies and choices belong to them, that queer folx are fiercely beloved & affirmed by God, that border walls be demolished, that properties become “re-wilded,” and more.

Resurrection lives in you.

Bring forth reparations, for the kin-dom of God is at hand.

Grandmothering God…Help us.

Onward,
Rev. Seth

by Karen MacDonald

His arm is lovingly draped over her shoulders, his fingers holding a cigarette away from her skin. She stands close to him with a comfortable smile, holding their cute Chihuahua dog. A handsome pit bull/terrier mix dog stands between them looking at the camera, one ear flopped over. John and Pepper, Chico and Deuce posed for this portrait in the parking lot of a church where they’re spending part of the day.

Pepper and John met a year ago at a methadone clinic and have been inseparable since. She says she’s never been cared for like this before. By the time each of them was six years old, they’d been started on the road of harsh knocks in their dysfunctional and/or abusive families. He spent many years in jail, she spent many years selling her body, both of them hooked on drugs. Now their addictions are cigarettes and state-sponsored methadone. They each have multiple serious health issues, they have survived living on the streets–and they have each other and their canine companions.

The money they manage to panhandle goes to the dogs’ food, bus passes, and cigs. Their food stamps go mostly to support the woman who invites them to spend the nights at her apartment. John hopes to land a job at a pizza joint near where they’re staying, though his felony record doesn’t help. They’ve been attacked (with the scars to show), they’re ignored by individuals and the system, they’re sick, they’re tired.

And still Pepper says she loves life. And they love each other and Chico and Deuce. They’re a family. They’re astute and compassionate. The dogs are sleeping on the strip of grass between the parking lot and Wetmore Road. Looking at Deuce, Pepper says, “’This dog is so judged. It’s because he’s part pit-bull….He’s not judged by the content of his character, but by his species….’”

In a different, though related development, there’s a push to prohibit (homeless) people from selling papers or panhandling on street medians in Pima County. This would go along with a similar law in the city of Tucson. The judging goes on, individually and societally. Our work of compassion goes on.

(The story of John and Pepper and the quote is found in the Tucson Weekly, May 5, 2016, article entitled “The ballad of John and Pepper, hurting and homeless” by Brian Smith.