I don’t actually have a fully developed idea here, I’ll be honest. I’m not sure how coherent or helpful or correct or whatever this post will be. But I’m going to write it anyway because I need to think out loud, and this is as close to that as I can get right now.
It all started a couple of days ago, when I made a barely-conscious choice NOT to read the stories just surfacing about Trayvon Martin. I just didn’t have the chutzpah to try to dig into the whole story, so I read a couple of headlines and let it go because it didn’t really impact me anyway, right? But then, it wouldn’t go away. A couple of days later, a friend, a guy I knew from college, posted a FB comment about the situation. He is black. And his response shattered my illusions of separation. It impacts him, even though he lives no where near Florida, and he is my friend. So it does impact me.
Because what would I say to him? If the debate got started, what stand would I take?
Then another friend put up this post on her blog this morning (after a FB discussion from yesterday). I read the quotes about racism and white privilege and empathy. I read the hypothetical situations she was using to try to understand. And I’m processing them. But it was the poem at the end that hit me between the eyes. A mother’s heart’s cry for her little boy whose “mountain is unjustly steeper” because of the color of his skin.
And I suddenly realized why I am not absolved from this topic. I may not get into debates about what actually happened in the last minutes of Trayvon Martin’s life. And I certainly don’t have the historical understanding to break down and offer significant solutions to the complex and highly emotional topic of racism. But I cannot stand apart.
Because I have a little boy, too. One whose mountain is not sown with unseen land mines of hatred and prejudice. He will have his own battles, to be sure, and his tender little heart will be badly bruised along the way, but in all likelihood, he will not be suspected, followed, talked down to, or treated as “less” because he’s blond, blue-eyed, and fair. By sheer genetics, my little boy is already starting from a higher rung on the ladder of opportunity.
That momma who wrote that poem wrestles with the desire to protect her son by teaching him to be weak, all the while knowing she will, she must, teach him to be strong. One who can and will hold his head high and shoulders straight. To be a real man, even if that will make him “ominous” to those around him.
And I think of my little boy. I want him to be strong, too. But what does strength look like for the privileged ones?
And I hope it looks like Jesus, who modeled true strength. I want my son, my kids, to know Him…to know Him enough to follow the path He walked. The path that lead the Strong One to a place of suffering, of weakness…so that He could save others. It is what Paul Miller called the Gospel Story. And we are called to live out gospel stories, too. To live in such a way that we reflect what Jesus did by willingly taking on suffering so that someone else can experience grace, rest, protection, hope. As Miller says, “Whenever you love, you reenact Jesus’ death.”
That is true strength. That one day, my son might willingly choose to suffer so that this other momma’s son might know hope. And grace. And healing.
But how do I teach that?
Miller continues, “Living in a gospel story exposes our idols, our false sources of love…When our idols are exposed, we often give up in despair – overwhelmed by both the other person’s sin and our own. But by simply staying in the story, continuing to show up for life, even if it seems pointless, the kingdom comes. Poverty of spirit is no longer a belief. We own it. It describes us…When we remove our false selves, repentance creates integrity. We return to the real source of love — our heavenly Father. We become authentic.”
And of all the things I long to be, THAT is the word that sums it all up. Authentic. So that my kids see my life and hear my words and know they are the same. So that the people whose lives intersect with mine, no matter their color, situation or level of perfection, see Jesus’ story lived out before them.
So what does that mean? Well…here’s where my thoughts are right now…
It means I must be wary of my assumptions. The unexamined belief is a dangerous one — because beliefs that are taken for granted, ideas that are automatically “right” and so are left unquestioned, are the fertile ground for racism, elitism — hatred in all its forms — to take root. It is from that place that we act and react based on hidden assumptions about a person or group of people. We refuse to see, to consider the other side, to allow that, just maybe, our way of being and thinking might be flawed. We do lack empathy because we refuse to look men and women in the eyes and SEE them as real people who need a Savior, who need hope, who long for real life.
It means understanding that a position of privilege means having a choice. Where others cannot, I can choose. And what is my choice? To celebrate my privilege or willingly shoulder another’s burdens. Because that is what Jesus did for me. He is my advocate, the truly strong standing up for the weakest of the weak. He defends me before the Father. He protects me from the accusations of the Wicked One (accusations which, to be fair, are true — I am sinful and unChristlike well more often than I am not). And then I am called to love “as Christ has loved me.” He was willing to trade places with me. I must learn to choose the same, to stand in the gap, stand up for what’s right, stand in front of those being assaulted and take their pain, even for only a moment. To “lay myself down” on their behalf, as Christ did on my behalf.
And it means action. The truth is, I have almost no friends who don’t look like, live like, see life like me. What message does that send to my children? Where are the children who look different or are differently-abled for them to play with? No. I cannot remain comfortable in my obliviousness anymore. I have to intentionally introduce myself and my children to people and situations where we all must confront differences, what makes us uncomfortable, what makes us afraid. According to the research, many people assume that not discussing race lets a child decide for himself, but it doesn’t really work that way. To make a difference, I must point out the differences and talk about them to bring our assumptions into the light where they can be addressed or modified or repented of. And that means actively behaving differently — going out of my way to make new friends, find new situations, and create new opportunities for my family so that we can be part of bringing Jesus to this world, one person, one interaction at a time. (Though, in all honesty, none of what I just wrote sounds at all fun to me.)
And of course, it means prayer. Lots and lots of prayer. Prayer for wisdom. For grace. For open eyes. For a heart of mercy. For opportunities. For more of Jesus in my own life so that more of Jesus can spill over into others’ lives through me.
Boy…that’s enough for now. I’m already kicking myself for writing all of this out because now I’m responsible for doing it. And frankly, I have no idea how to start. But there it is…what I’ve been thinking all day. God only knows where it will lead…pray for me!
