A Litany of Lament for Tennessee
Photo courtesy of John Partipilo
Ash Wednesday Litany of Lament at the Tennessee State Capitol
For every immigrant family in Tennessee living in fear — afraid to drive to work, to take their children to school, to answer a knock at the door - because this state has made their presence a crime:
Hear our cry. Strengthen our hands.
For congregations across this state whose holy act of shelter may now be prosecuted as a felony - for the faith that dares to say every person belongs:
Hear our cry. Strengthen our hands.
For the ways religion has been seized and weaponized - turned from a wellspring of compassion into a cudgel of exclusion — used to justify cruelty toward the very people Jesus called blessed:
Hear our cry. Strengthen our hands.
For every person who has been handed a gospel of fear and nationalism in place of a gospel of love — and for the communities working to reclaim faith as a force for liberation:
Hear our cry. Strengthen our hands.
For our LGBTQ+ siblings — for the trans teenager whose right to exist has been debated on a legislative floor, for the queer child told by their government that who they are is wrong, for every family told their love is a threat:
Hear our cry. Strengthen our hands.
For the counselors, teachers, and affirming communities who have been forbidden from offering a simple word of support to a young person in pain:
Hear our cry. Strengthen our hands.
For Tennessee's teachers — overworked, underpaid, and now surveilled - who entered classrooms to open minds and are now handed lists of words they cannot say and histories they must not teach:
Hear our cry. Strengthen our hands.
For every student whose full story has been removed from their curriculum - whose ancestors' struggles and triumphs have been deemed too uncomfortable for those in power to allow:
Hear our cry. Strengthen our hands.
For those who see the pattern — who understand that attacks on immigrants, on LGBTQ+ people, on honest education, and on religious freedom are not separate battles but one coordinated effort to decide who belongs and who does not:
Hear our cry. Strengthen our hands.
For ourselves — for the ways we have chosen comfort over courage, stayed silent, and benefited from systems that harm our neighbors:
May love be our answer. May justice be our work.