I just returned from a prayer vigil
at Baber AME Church on Meigs St. where a couple hundred of us gathered together,
Black and White, to mourn the loss of nine sisters and brothers in Christ at
Mother Emanuel AME Church in Charleston.
We were told by their pastor that no liturgy was planned; that we just
needed to come together in prayer and let the Spirit lead us; and lead us she
did.
We heard the call of the prophet to
let justice roll down like a mighty stream; we heard the words of Paul
reminding us that Christ breaks down all barriers; and that if we don’t have
love, we have nothing. We heard a
story of Jesus calming storms with a word; and we joined our voices in prayer
and in song proclaiming God’s unstoppable and mighty acts of love. To say that it was a powerful experience
to worship with my Black sisters and brothers in Christ is an understatement.
And yet in the midst of that kairos-time,
the “elephant” of racism was still in the room. Despite the feeling of being in solidarity with my Black
sisters and brothers by hugs shared and hands held, the fact remains that I am
not. I am not in solidarity
because I am a White, Anglo-Saxon male with all the racist privileges that come
with it. Unlike the young Black
man helping lead us in worship, I can go into any department store assured that
I will not be followed by security for fear that I might steal something. I can walk down Main St. in Rochester
and will probably never see women clutching their pocketbooks or crossing to the
other side of the street fearing for their safety when they see me coming. I can be assured that a routine traffic
stop by police will not result in my being shot to death by those whose job it
is to protect me.
Unlike Pastor Simmons at Baber AME
Church, I don’t have to worry about copycat killers coming into my church to
kill because of my skin color. I
don’t have to wonder if I’ll come home alive tonight because of a Bible Study
I’m leading. And unlike my Black
siblings in Christ who live in South Carolina, I don’t have to drive down
streets named after Confederate generals who fought a war to keep me
enslaved. I don’t have to wonder
why a Confederate flag , a symbol of racial oppression, flies over the very
building in which lawmakers are entrusted with every citizen’s well-being; and
even then why that flag continues to fly at full mast in the midst of the
Charleston massacre. I don’t have
to listen to the viral hatred spewed by those who claim to be “losing their
country” to people like me.
So, though I may stand with my
Black brothers and sisters in the struggle against racism, I must also
acknowledge that I will never be able to know what it’s like to walk in their
oppressed shoes. I must come to
grips with and confess my own comfort with White privilege. I must confess my own tendencies to
stereotype and categorize those who seem different from me. I must confess my default mode of doing
nothing to curb racism by convincing myself that everything is okay. Only when I have repented of these
sins can I come clean and truly stand beside my sisters and brothers who are
oppressed.
I will continue to pray ceaselessly
for the friends and family of those who were brutally slaughtered just because
they showed up for prayer and Bible Study, offering hospitality to the stranger.
I’ll pray for peace and justice in
our land; I’ll pray for healing and reconciliation among races; I’ll keep God’s
prophetic mandate of doing justice, loving kindness, and walking with God
before me as I strive for systemic justice and equality. I will repent of my own racist
tendencies as I continue to follow the One who himself died an innocent victim
of brutal violence. And I will
give thanks to God that because violence didn’t ultimately have the last word
in Jesus’ life it won’t have the final word in ours.
And may we all be reminded of the
gospel proclamation found in the very name of the church in which this
unimaginable violence took place:
Emanuel. “God with us”.
Peace and Love,
Pastor Doug
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