Make Yourself an Offering

On letting your light shine

Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.— Howard Thurman

I’ve been thinking about home this week. And offerings. And being of service to the world.

Japanese punk florist Azuma Makoto

Bernice Johnson Reagon died this past Tuesday. For those unfamiliar, Dr. Reagon founded Sweet Honey in the Rock, an acapella singing group whose repertoire arose from the Black American musical tradition— spirituals, gospel, blues, and jazz.

Reagon got her start in her native Georgia as a Freedom Singer for the Student Non-violent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) in the early 60s, then settled in D.C. in the early ‘70s with her two children, Toshi and Kwan, to pursue her Ph.D. from Howard University. She founded Sweet Honey in 1973, the same year my family moved to the house in D.C. my mom still lives in today. In the 51 years that Sweet Honey has been performing, they have become a worldwide phenomenon, but for me, they are simply the sound of home.

So, the loss of Bernice feels personal, like some piece of who I am, of where my spirit comes from, has gone. I hope you’ll receive these videos, therefore, as a grief offering and a celebration of her light. Both/and.

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Like Bernice Johnson Reagon, I was raised in a religious household to be of service to the world. As we become an increasingly secular society, I wonder sometimes if we’re losing this expectation for ourselves. Or maybe we’re just developing a different relationship to it, expanding our idea of what serving the world looks like. I know I am, and it’s good for my soul.

Despite witnessing the creative joy in how Bernice offered Sweet Honey to the world, I focused more on the struggle aspect when I was young. There was injustice to be fought and if I suffered while serving in that struggle, then so be it. Service and self-sacrifice were synonymous, to my mind.

I’m not particularly self-sacrificing these days, so it’s hard to inhabit that position again, gazing around with enough awareness to see how I got there. Patriarchy, for sure. A good woman is, by definition in patriarchy, one who sacrifices herself in service to her man, family, and community. Religion, specifically Protestant Christianity in my case, also played its part. I mean, if Jesus went so far as to die for you, who are you to complain about a little self-sacrifice?

The martyr gene passed from mother to daughter down my matrilineal line as well, which is another way of saying the women in my family are enablers, often for men addicted to alcohol, drugs, or in my grandfather’s case, gambling. Both my parents, not because they were villains, only humans, also reserved their enthusiasm for those choices that made sense to them given who they were. Wanting to be a good girl and make them proud, I followed their lead whether or not it made sense given who I am (conformity being the shadowy side of belonging), which led to burnout, depression, and cynicism.

I know they read Khalil Gibran’s passage On Children from his book, The Prophet, but as a parent, myself, now, I can attest that believing in his words is easier than living them. To do that requires constant self-reflection and correction, an open curiosity about your children as separate people from you, and a willingness to release fear in the face of what you don’t understand— intense integrity practice, in other words.

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If there is a music that rages against conformity, though, it’s not Sweet Honey. It’s punk rock— the other music of my childhood. I spent as much time dancing on church steps outside Fugazi shows, sneaking into clubs to fan girl over the bands of the boys I had crushes on, and moshing alone in my bedroom to Bad Brains as I did listening to Sweet Honey in the Rock. An odd juxtaposition, I know, but that was D.C. in the late ‘70s and ‘80s.

If Sweet Honey taught me about the struggle for justice, punk gave me a place to voice my anger and disillusionment. Even punk rockers grow up, though, and if we’re lucky our anger gets replaced by something deeper, softer, more introspective, and complex. That’s what happened to Azuma Makoto, a Japanese punk rock star turned florist, featured in the following short documentary from the New Yorker. His work carries his prayers for the world as he grapples with mortality, human destruction, and environmental devastation. Listening to him I found myself considering the same questions Sweet Honey has always prompted me to ask: Given all the work there is to do, where and how do I offer myself?

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I’m finally learning that offering myself in service to the world can be creative and joyful, expressing my particular gifts and temperament. Though I’m sure Bernice would have told me so if I’d ever had the chance to ask her directly. And then she would have asked me where I planned to shine that light of mine because she believed the world needs every one of us to act. She said as much explaining the song This Little Light of Mine to Bill Moyers, way back in 1991:

A lot of these Black, old songs are “I” songs… A lot of times I find when people say “we” they're giving you a cover to not say whether they're going to be there or not. So, the “I” songs are very important.

So, this is a light of mine. I'm gonna let it shine means that when the march goes, I am going to be there. So, it really is a way of saying the life that I have I will offer to this thing… Everywhere I go, I'm gonna let it shine.

I think Azuma would agree. He told a story about monks arranging flowers to carry their prayers, and then distributing the flowers while caring for the wounded after a great disaster in Kyoto, just like he and his team did after the earthquake and tsunami in Fukushima in 2011. “That spirit is my goal,” he said. “I really feel it’s a punk spirit.”

The life that I have I will offer to this thing is punk AF.

Rest in power, Bernice. Thank you for shining your light so brightly.

How do you offer yourself in service to the world? Where are you shining your light?