By Angel Udofia
There is something strange about knowing that something you have spent so much of your life inside is coming to an end. Our final week as Young Religious Leadership Fellows began at West Covina Buddhist Temple, where we were invited into a tradition that was different from my own but somehow felt deeply familiar. We learned from Rev. Nobuko Miyoshi about a form of Buddhism rooted in community, and, most importantly, interconnectedness.
I was struck by the idea that Buddhism does not ask us to divide the world so simply between good and bad or right and wrong, but instead asks us to consider our responsibility to one another. We talked about how the person and the land they live on are inseparable, how morality is rooted in interconnectedness, and how what is truly good should ultimately bring benefit to everyone. We learned that Buddhism does not ask you to be the best person or even necessarily the right person, but to do what is best.
That idea stayed with me. After everything I had learned throughout this summer about faith, justice, and organizing, I realized how many of the traditions we encountered were ultimately asking the same question in different ways: What are we going to do with the lives we have been given, and how are we going to use them in relation to other people?
The following day, I had the opportunity to lead a court observation training at the federal building for volunteers, teaching people how they can accompany migrant community members and observe proceedings. Afterward came one of the actions that had become familiar throughout my summer: the weekly Godmothers of the Disappeared Vigil and our Solidarity Occupation outside the United States Courthouse. But this time, the space felt different because my cohort members, Xavier, Jacob, and I took a moment to share some of the work we had been doing throughout the summer and to reflect on how much this fellowship had changed us. We had spent so much of the summer learning from other people, listening to their stories, and walking alongside them that it felt meaningful to finally turn inward and recognize our own growth.
Wednesday & Thursday felt especially meaningful. I worked on making an end-of-summer video, which started as a silly little idea and became something much more personal. So much of what I had been collecting over the summer, whether it was photos, videos, notes, conversations, or moments from community actions, was finally coming together. I did not want the video to simply document the fellows and what we had done, even though our experiences mattered. I wanted it to place us within something much larger.
Throughout this summer, I had been reminded again and again that we are not alone in this work. There are people across California, across this country, and across the world who are trying to build something better in their own communities. They are praying, organizing, protesting, teaching, feeding people, accompanying people, making art, telling stories, and taking care of one another. I wanted the video to capture that. I wanted it to say: we are not the only ones trying. There are people everywhere who are still choosing to believe that something better is possible. Then came our final day together as a cohort.
We gathered with our organizers, CLUE staff, and friends. We sang songs led by cohort member Lily, including some of her original songs. We ate together. We laughed. The fellows shared what we had learned, what we had done, and where we hoped to go next. We were not the same people who walked into YRLF at the beginning of the summer. Rob gave each of us a word that he felt represented who we had become over the summer: Xavier was “calling.” Claire was “relational.” Henry was “competent.” Julianna was “grateful.” Jacob was “reflective.” I was “joy.” Lily was “curious.” Jeannette was “liberation.” Those words meant a lot to me, but more than anything, they made me think about how different we all were and how beautifully those differences had fit together. And then, suddenly, it was over.
Except it wasn’t.
Because what I learned this summer does not belong to a fellowship. It does not belong to a job description or a summer calendar or a group of people who happened to meet at the right time. It belongs to me now.
From every faith community I visited, every clergy member I spoke with, every worker who trusted us enough to stand beside them, every detained person who allowed me even a brief glimpse into what they were experiencing, every young person who shared what was happening in their school, and every organizer who showed us how to turn conviction into action, I learned something about what community actually means. I learned that a community is not simply the people who live around you. It is the people you are responsible for. It is the people you advocate for when they are not in the room. It is the people you make space for. It is the people you continue to care about even when caring becomes difficult.
One of the ideas I heard most often throughout the summer was Tikkun Olam, the Jewish idea of repairing the world. I keep returning to it because I think that is what we have been doing all summer. Not fixing everything. Not solving every problem. Not pretending that ten weeks of organizing could dismantle systems that took generations to build. But planting seeds. Small ones. In our own communities. In our churches and mosques and synagogues and temples. In courtrooms and hotel lobbies. On picket lines and sidewalks. Through teaching. Through theater. Through prayer. Through conversations. Through simply showing up. At one of our cohort meetings, Jeannette said something that I have found myself repeating throughout this fellowship and even before it began:
“I believe in people.”
I have an immense amount of faith. Faith is what guides me through this work. But people are what keep me going. People remind me that I do not have to carry all of this by myself. People remind me that I am allowed to be tired, but I am not allowed to stop caring. People remind me that even when the world feels unbearable, there are still others willing to stand beside me. That, to me, is the embodiment of Matthew 25. When we feed the hungry, welcome the stranger, care for the sick, visit the imprisoned, and stand beside the people society has pushed aside, we are not simply helping someone else. We are participating in something sacred. We are recognizing that our lives are connected; the person you are helping is also you. The Buddhist idea of interconnectedness. The Muslim idea of jama’ah. The Jewish call of Tikkun Olam. The Christian command to care for “the least of these.” Different traditions, different languages, different practices, yet somehow, again and again, I found myself hearing the same message: You are not separate from one another. That is the greatest thing this fellowship has given me. Freedom is not singular. It is communal.
So now that YRLF is over, what do I do?
I keep showing up. Even after the fellowship ended, I found myself still doing the work. I showed up in Anaheim to support workers with UniteHere Local 11 in their fight against Disney. I wrote a theater piece for our weekly courthouse occupation in one of my favorite ways: turning art into action again. I keep putting myself in communities that are different from my own because I have learned that if I only stay where I am comfortable, I will never understand the fullness of the world I am trying to change. The fellowship may be over, but the work is not. There will always be something to change, and I pray for the day there doesn’t have to be.
I want to leave you with a verse from my Christian tradition that has been sitting with me as this chapter closes. Psalm 34:14 says, “Turn from evil and do good; seek peace and pursue it.” Sometimes we can dream of something good, fair, just, and righteous and still fail. I do not know if I will see true peace in my lifetime. I do not know if I will ever see the wall that holds us back completely torn down. I do not know if I will live long enough to see the world become the place I believe it can be.
But I also know this:
I do not have to tear down the entire wall today. I just have to remove the first brick and then the next person can remove another and another and another. Until one day, we look back and realize the wall that once seemed impossible to move is no longer standing where it used to. I realize that the thing we thought we were doing alone was never meant to be done alone in the first place. I have faith that we will get there. Not because the world has made it easy to believe. Not because injustice is small. Not because change happens quickly.
I believe because I have seen people pursue it. I have walked alongside people who pursue it. I have watched people pray for it, organize for it, sing for it, march for it, fight for it, create art for it, and love one another through it. I have seen ordinary people do extraordinary things simply because they decided that someone else’s life mattered.
So here is my little piece of that belief.
Here is the video I made from this summer, not just to remember what we did, but to remember the people who showed up, the communities that welcomed us, the people who taught us, and the people all over this country and this world who are still trying to make something better.
I hope it inspires you and helps you remember that a change will come.
I believe and sometimes, I think, that is enough to begin.