In the deluge of news and commentary regarding the chaos and cruelty of the Trump administration, Eliza Doolittle’s lyrical exclamation from “My Fair Lady”captures my mood right now: “Words, words, words! I’m so sick of words!”
As a writer, this is an uncomfortable place to be. But last week, Senator Cory Booker delivered his record-breaking, 25-hour-and-five-minute “filibuster,” having fasted for days beforehand to avoid being pulled away by “bodily urgencies,” and then last Saturday hundreds of thousands (perhaps millions) of people gathered around the country to protest the destructiveness of the current administration. These events reminded me of the power of words, when they are embodied, to bear witness to suffering, to counter erasure and to prophetically acknowledge the reality of what is while imagining what could be.
In his speech, which disrupted the narrative of normalcy around the Trump administration’s actions, Mr. Booker objected to the dismantling of democracy and the efforts to defund departments and programs upon which people’s lives depend. Protesters took up these themes, too, demanding that the administration keep its “Hands Off” our human and civil rights. In my hometown in Maryland, a speaker who had fled East Germany as a teenager in 1958 after speaking out against the communist regime said that “it is happening here” and warned against normalizing authoritarianism.
We are indeed seeing efforts to silence those who resist, and to obscure the realities of the most vulnerable and marginalized of our neighbors. Examples of such behavior abound: students and faculty on college campuses being abducted by masked federal agents in retaliation for their participation in political protests; deportations that disproportionately affect people of color, regardless of legal status and without due process; million-dollar checks cut by Elon Musk to influence voters in Wisconsin.
There is also the attempted erasure of those whose very existence is deemed troublesome. This is evident in actions such as the removal of “D.E.I.” words from federal documents (words such as women, Native American, Black, and L.G.B.T.Q.); the removal of the Black Lives Matter mural in Washington, D.C.; and the removal of content from the websites of Arlington National Cemetery and other federal agencies highlighting the heroism of women and other historically marginalized groups. The erasure of species due to ecological destruction is also an ongoing crisis exacerbated by this administration; indeed, “climate science” is now a banned term. The erasure of these words corresponds to the oppression of their subjects. This is why “silence is violence,” as the saying goes.
Our words may seem to fall flat in the face of such violence. As Mr. Booker acknowledged, “My voice is inadequate.… My efforts today are inadequate to stop what they’re trying to do.” Still, he pressed on. And on Saturday, protesters braved adverse weather conditions to show up, waving signs emblazoned with “banned” words in affirmation of their subjects’ existence and dignity. I am convinced that whether or not protests move the needle on actual outcomes, we are responsible for showing up and bearing witness. Even when our words seem to have no instrumental effect, they are necessary in their acknowledgement of the dignity of those deemed disposable by the transactional systems of power that shape our lives.
Mr. Booker added a confessional element to his speech, as well, acknowledging his own shortcomings and participation in these systems: “I confess that I have been imperfect.… I confess that the Democratic Party has made terrible mistakes—that it gave a lane to this demagogue.” And in the Hands Off Protests, there was a sense of collective lament among some participants mourning the destruction of our democratic institutions and the ways we’ve all been implicated in the divisiveness of our political system.
The Lenten character of speaking up
The integration of confession, lamentation, fasting and prophetic witness gave these moments a very Lenten character.
As Catholics reflect on the silence of the tomb, Lent prepares us for the transformative power of the eternal word, which can never be silenced, even in death. In the eternal word, all that has ever existed “lives and moves and has its being.” No one is ever erased. And Jesus, the Word made flesh, affirmed the reality and dignity of all he encountered, beckoning them into the fullness of life and community. He refused to allow anyone to be relegated to the margins, or to be silent in the face of oppression. Jesus stopped and spoke with the hemorrhaging woman who grabbed his cloak; he called Zaccheus down from the tree; he conversed with the Samaritan woman at the well; he sent Mary Magdalene to preach his resurrection to the Apostles. Through his example, Jesus shows us the transformative power of countering oppression by empowering speech.
Speaking up, of course, requires us to back up our words with action. Just as Mr. Booker’s speech entailed physical sacrifice, and many protesters gave up their time and comfort, it is not enough for us simply to voice our solidarity with those threatened with erasure. The word must be made flesh.
This will look different for each of us. Maybe it looks like showing up at a protest rally; maybe it looks like speaking up in your parish to raise awareness. Perhaps it will involve nonviolent civil disobedience, or participation in an economic boycott, or having hard conversations with neighbors and loved ones. Consider making a plan to join the #PublicWitness campaign that Georgetown’s Center on Faith and Justice (where I teach) and others are organizing for Holy Week. Examine where you hold privileges that might empower you in areas where others are marginalized or endangered; ask yourself what role you have to play in lifting up and empowering the voices of those who are more vulnerable and targeted for erasure. Then do it.
No one of us, alone, can stop the onslaught of harms perpetuated by this administration. But as former Vice President Kamala Harris reminded us recently, “courage is contagious.” The Roman Empire continued after Jesus’ death and resurrection, but his witness nevertheless gave hope to those who were oppressed by it and offered a paradigm of power that flipped the narrative. When we stand together and speak up for the sake of justice, leaning into the sacrificial solidarity of Lent, “we the people,” to quote Mr. Booker, “are powerful.”
We can take inspiration from the words of Mary’s Magnificat: God “looked upon [my] lowliness; behold, from now on will all ages call me blessed.… He has thrown down the rulers from their thrones but lifted up the lowly.The hungry he has filled with good things; the rich he has sent away empty.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry when I think of what this canticle would look like if all of the currently banned “D.E.I.” words were redacted, but I do know that Mary invites us to keep singing it. As Catholics, we have a moral responsibility to “bless the lowly,” bearing witness to the suffering of those experiencing the violence of erasure, lifting up those who are marginalized, and demanding good things for and with those who are made poor. Our words hold meaning. Let’s put flesh on them.
