On (In)justice

If I were to place a disclaimer asterisk in front of what I'm writing about tonight, I'm afraid I couldn't capture the essence of what I'm saying in an abstract and detached way. No, tonight I am emotionally compromised, and I sense the well of anger rising within me, boiling with the scald of desperate pain within, a pain shared by millions now across our country. For the sake of our collective dignity, I must be frank.

I've felt this way before on a few occasions. These are the times of grief, of shock, and tragedy. They can affect me in the most immediate and intimate sense, especially in the loss of a close friend (I've lost several to tragic accidents or violence through the years). Sometimes, however, I feel the hot tears well in my eyes simply by turning on the television, or listening to the radio. The last instance was in mid December 2012, when Adam Lanza cruelly murdered dozens in Newtown, Connecticut, sparking a national conversation on gun control. I remember sitting in my house at the large wood table in my kitchen that afternoon. Without warning, I burst into tears. The same feelings coursed through me last night as I heard the verdict of the highly publicized Zimmerman trial. A torrent of thoughts, questions, and emotions poured forth. Why do we claim that there is liberty and justice for all? Why do people of color continually have to suffer while our neighbors get away scot-free? Why are my white brothers and sisters silent? Why is the church silent? Where is God?

 I fell asleep with no answers.

Yes, the aftermath has been rife with discussion on race, gun control, and the limits of justice in our nation. I can point to tragic evidence of a deep rift in our society's sense of justice along color lines, notably in the concurrent sentencing of one black woman in Florida and one black man in New York, showcasing situations subject to the same "stand your ground" type circumstances that Zimmerman claimed in his defense.

Still, more unsettling than the current of responses cluttering my facebook and twitter feeds are two trends:

1. The difference between responses from my friends of color and my white friends are dramatically distinct.
2. The discussion is largely devoid of a positive vision for what it means to move forward. 

On the first theme: This is one that does not surprise me, and only further saddens me to see how far so many of my trusted friends and colleagues have to go in their own consciousness of race and the role it plays in their lives. One article helpfully frames the discussion in terms of privilege; as white people (yes, I do include myself in this category) we are able to 'opt out' of the race conversation by virtue of the system, or rather systems, that support and allow our lives to be maintained without relative harm. This is not the case for my brothers and sisters of color, particularly in the black community. I could go about my day without having to care about whether Zimmerman is executed by the state of Florida or volunteers for the neighborhood watch around the corner from my house. Simply put, because of my skin color, the evidence suggests that my circumstances will be favorable even if I find myself in front of a court. You see, our society imposes expectations and sets limitations for those of different skin colors. I ask my Filipina colleague, whose perfect English is still met with an older woman speaking slowly and loudly to her in a store. I ask my black colleague, who is lengthily questioned at an airport checkpoint when seen with his white spouse. They know because it has been engrained in their experience and now provides the division line in our consciousness, one that is becoming all too sadly apparent as we hear the echoes of the verdict in our own voices. And my anger is piqued by my students, friends, people who should know better continue to offer ignorant and acquiescent commentary that insofar as it perpetuates this injustice, is racist. Yet I must calm myself. This discussion is better left to those folks whose own stories hit closer to home, voices like these and these. After all, I will never know what it feels like to be so needlessly and systematically discriminated against. And for the sake of my friends who are, I weep.

The second theme is altogether a trickier one, because we have less cohesive language and less solid ground to stand on without words like reconciliation and shalom in our vocabulary. These are truly biblical concepts, ones that we don't really understand today, even if we get glimpses from time to time. We see it in a terrorizing religious fundamentalist turned culture-crossing missionary, or even a people brutally enslaved and exiled from their land over centuries by a dominant military power. They are voices of hope that can sing with hope, even under the whips of masters who will beat them for generations to support their economies of cotton and sugar cane. These are the voices that reach across with forgiveness at the Afrikaans police officer who burned her son alive and say "I forgive you." Today voices say that there can be not peace without justice, but would Zimmerman's retaliatory suffering produce what we want? Will that slake our pain and soothe the wounds left open for hundreds of years? How many more innocents will die? How many more men like Zimmerman will face the anger of society with no hope for restoration or redemption? Is this our Christian message, our hope our version of justice? I refuse to believe it. Let us take a cue from those who walked before us with that biblical vision, one that is crucicentric, as Christ accomplishes his work obliterating the division between us for all time with his own bloody work on the cross. 

This is justice.

This is truth.

This is the kingdom of heaven.

This is the dream we all long for, a reality in which a black teenager is able to buy candy from a liquor store one rainy evening and comes home safely to his loving family, picked up and given a lift by the friendly neighborhood watchman who patrols in his car each night. 

In the meantime, I refuse to opt out of the conversation and join as an Ally, not pretending to know the exact pain of many of my friends are experiencing now. I will sit, and take a cue from our own Lord, who before doing anything, sat down and wept.