Now More Than Ever: On Allyship as Absolution
Now More Than Ever: On Allyship as Absolution
Before describing a literal religious teaching, I’ll mention something even more miraculous: between my father’s Jewish upbringing and my mother’s centuries of Catholic school, they both turned to a third option—they both became Unitarian preachers. Growing up, I’d spend my weekday afternoons in their church, lurking in pews and sifting through hymnals as I waited to go home. I passed the time however I could, playing with prayer beads and reading whatever I scrounged up.
Often, my reading material was Biblical parables. Parables are like a Christian version of Aesop’s fables: they’re short stories told by Jesus, meant to impart a lesson. As a child, however, parables didn't teach me so much as bewilder me. In the Parable of the Workers in the Vineyard, for instance, a landowner sets out at dawn to find daylaborers, promising a silver coin if they work until the day’s end. The landowner goes back out, though, setting off at 9:00, 12:00, 3:00, and 5:00 to strike the same deal with more workers: work until the day’s end, and I’ll pay you in full.
As a child, I found this story exceedingly frustrating—I wanted to go home, and to eat dinner; I agreed with the initial workers, who asked why the late-comers should receive the same pay. The landowner’s answer, a reminder that he’d paid every worker what was right and settled upon, didn’t help.
…
It’s been a while since grammar school, when I spent my afternoons wandering a cathedral, but I still think about the parable. Historians and theologians, of which I am neither, have a lot to say about it—their ideas range from concluding that the “last shall be first” to creating commentary on Judean labor organizing.
I’m 17: I don’t know exactly what Jesus meant. What I do know is that I’m watching our government pay for my neighbors to vanish—while I apply for colleges I cannot afford. I know that I worry for my teachers, who must censor their lesson plans; I worry for my friends, and I hope that this mental health day won’t be their last day. I scroll Twitter threads that suck up every last minute of my time, and I come to think that the Parable of the Workers in the Vineyard isn’t about the landowner at all.
After eleven hours of a twelve-hour workday, why would a laborer still set out in search of work? When the sun is beginning to set, the air is becoming cooler; you’re poised, distantly listening for the clamor of pots and pans cooking dinner—why begin when there are only minutes left in the day? Why press forward, anyway?
None of my religious heritages can offer an answer to this question. I can, though, find myself moved to act. As a trans community—a marginalized community, a community working towards change—we know that there’s work to be done in the vineyard. We face terrifying hostility; our community is targeted by agendas that deem our happiest lives unnatural. We witness hard-fought policies rolled back, and decades of work overturned: an hour is left in the workday. It’s 5:00, and we’ve got so much to do in the vineyard. It’s not the time to list the protests you’ve attended, nor to balk and ignore your “silly” questions—it’s the moment to resource and to gather; to ensure that each neighbor might one day ask the same questions and list the same statistics. Nothing could matter more than your being here, now
Through a pixelated screen, there are many things I cannot determine: I don’t know what algorithms bring you here, and I don’t know why ancient Palestinian laborers sought work with only an hour to do it in. But I know that in this fading sunlight, everything else is secondary. Your online likes from five years ago mean something, but not as much as you being here now; the force bringing you to this room, article, and stance is more powerful. We operate on grace, not merit; in this moment of need, whether you’re motivated by headlines or House Bills, you hold the power—regardless of your past—to work towards a world friendlier to our children, and more responsible to our ancestors.
I’m glad that you’re here.
