Better Late Than Never
An Inadequete Reflection on the White Church and Race Relations in America
I was there, but I was late. If you know me, that doesn’t surprise you as punctuality is not my spiritual gift.
However, I was there as a diverse crowd gathered on the Bentonville town square to stand in solidarity with others from across the country who mourn the mistreatment of African-Americans and desire for a more just and equitable nation to emerge in the aftermath of George Floyd’s murder.
Not surprisingly, Lieutenant Berry’s perpetual stone-cold, westward gaze was unfazed by the proceedings, and yet, there was a tragic irony to the moment as hundreds gathered in his shadow to advocate for the fair treatment of minorities, a biblical vision of justice the Confederate States of America he fought to defend would never have embraced.
Since the institution of slavery was first introduced on the North American continent, the Confederacy, the Jim Crow South, unjust HUD policies, racial profiling, and mass incarceration are just a few symptoms of the racism that writer Jim Wallis has called, “America’s Original Sin.” (America’s Original Sin, 2017; See also, James Cone, The Cross and the Lynching Tree, 2011) The confederate monument in Bentonville and the others like it scattered throughout the South are vestiges of an overt racism that in a post-civil rights America remain inconspicuously woven into the fabric of the American experience.
I thought of my friend, Sheree, an African American professional who regularly takes her lunch in Lieutenant Berry’s shadow. She once dressed as Harriet Tubman and spent an afternoon on the square educating people about the Underground Railroad. I met Sheree after Charlottesville in a community group that had gathered to talk about the kinds of conversations needed to end discrimination and promote the “beloved community” our shared faith envisions. She once explained why she regularly takes her lunch in Lieutenant Berry’s presence: “I want him to know, ‘I’m still here.’” (See Austin Channing Brown’s, I’m Still Here, 2018)
I haven’t always been there with Sheree, not in the way the Black community needs me to be, but I was there Monday night. I watched hundreds of folks walked peacefully around the square, and in their own way, they were saying, “We’re still here, and something has to change.”
As long as we are still here, there is hope. Trayvon Martin, Eric Garner, Michael Brown, Clementa Pinckney, Breonna Taylor, Philando Castile, Ahmaud Arbery, George Floyd and so many others are not here. They are victims of what happens when our original sin is allowed to run its course.
The Church, however, has a message of hope for those who are still here. In Ephesians 2 we read,
For Jesus is our peace, who has made the two groups one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility…His purpose was to create in himself one new humanity out of the two, thus making peace, and in one body to reconcile both of them to God through the cross, by which he put to death their hostility. (Ephesians 2:14–16)
The Apostle Paul writes of the reconciling work of Jesus, who destroys the dividing wall of hostility between two different ethnic groups: the Jews and the Gentiles. This was a sharp divide in the First Century, not at all unlike the white/black divide in America. God’s reconciling mission was to create one new humanity in Christ, a community no longer defined as Jew or Gentile but marked by its relationship to Christ.
As we fast forward to the end of the Christian story, we see the new humanity united under the banner of Christ with its God-created diversity and beauty on full display. Not only do these distinctives remain, but they are highlighted and celebrated in eternity:
After this I looked, and there before me was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and before the Lamb. (Revelation 7:9)
This kaleidoscope of cultures that form the redeemed and victorious people of God is not a far-off dream that we long for only in the “sweet by and by.” Rather, it is a vision of who we are to become, a process that begins today through the power of the Holy Spirit. This is the miracle of Pentecost, as the Spirit that brings cultures together is now “poured out on ALL people.” (Acts 2:17, Joel 2:28)
God envisions the Church, through the power of the Spirit, being a healing, unifying, and reconciling presence in the world. I cannot speak for other faith groups, but the white, evangelical church in America (a group my church has historically held cautiously at arm’s length) has failed miserably in this calling. How often have we turned a blind eye to injustice, refusing to speak “truth to power” on behalf of our minority neighbors? How often have we “passed by on the other side,” refusing to make room for conversations that address endemic racism in our society? How often have we refused to trust the reconciling power of the Spirit to unite and heal people groups, choosing instead the way of comfort and familiarity?
Large segments of the white church sat on the sidelines during the Civil Rights movement, while the Black Church provided the moral framework and courageous leadership necessary to advance the cause of justice and equality in America, prompting Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. to lament,
“I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen’s Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice;” (Letter From a Birmingham Jail, 1963)
Dr. King and those Civil Rights pioneers understood Revelation’s kaleidoscopic vision of redeemed humanity as a goal worthy of their life’s work, refusing to settle for a delayed justice in the esoteric hereafter. They “kept their hand on the Gospel plow,” and with each painful step they sowed the prophetic seeds of justice and righteousness, some of which fell on fertile soil and has produced a harvest. Recent events demonstrate, however, many seeds have yet to take root.
Let us not think that the struggle of one minority group for equality is their struggle alone. The communal nature of the Christian faith and the very definition of what it means to be the body of Christ does not allow for such a siloed and narrow outlook. The Apostle Paul wrote, “If one part of the body suffers, every part suffers with it.” (First Corinthians 12:26), which we could translate for today as, “THIS part of the body of Christ matters!”
This is the Word of the Lord. Thanks be to God.
Yes, of course, “ALL parts of the body matter,” but this is a generic and vanilla understanding of the sanctity of human life. Jesus was not crucified for running around Israel proclaiming benign platitudes about the nature of God or making comfortable statements about His dealings in the world or affirming prejudices of who is and who is not included in the covenant community. He specifically interpreted the Law and the Prophets to say that Samaritan lives mattered, lepers mattered, women mattered, disabled lives mattered, demon-possessed lives mattered, tax collectors mattered, and sinners mattered to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Speak this kind of truth to power and you’ll receive more than a mean tweet from King Herod. This kind of talk will get you crucified.
Or lynched, or shot, or choked.
This is the Good News of Jesus Christ, a Gospel that compelled me to go to the square on Monday night.
I texted my friend who is one of the finest police officers in our community and a follower of Jesus: “Hey brother, thank you for devoting your life to public safety. I know you’re trying to be Jesus with a police uniform on. I’ll be there tonight and hope I can in some way be a calming and healing presence.” He texted me back, and I knew our community was in good hands. My confidence and support of our community’s peace officers remains, and for them I am thankful.
I was joined by my friend Paula, who serves as our church’s NMI President (Global Missions), who had contacted me earlier about handing out water at the protest. (If you’re Nazarene, you read that correctly: Our NMI president wanted to hand out water at a Black Lives Matter protest. Do we get an “Award of Excellence” for this?) We joined with a few others from our church and handed out water to the protesters who had assembled on the town square just a few hundred yards away from our building.
The early stages of this gathering were overwhelmingly positive and at times, simply beautiful. We took a knee and had a moment of silence to remember George Floyd. It was a time to mourn, a necessary step on the road to healing and change.
The sadness, however, rightfully turned towards feelings of anger. As the evening wore on, the lack of leadership to productively and redemptively channel the range of emotions became evident.
The protests of the Civil Rights era had the moral leadership of the Black Church to guide, construct, support, and direct the emotion and energy of that cultural moment. In the vacuum of such leadership and in the absence of a collective moral framework, violence becomes the channel through which that energy is expressed, a phenomenon we see playing out in our country, once described by King as the “language of the unheard.” (The Other America, 1968)
I, and other church leaders, should have been there sooner…like a few decades sooner. This moment is not exclusively a cause for our Black brothers and sisters to champion and advance. If we take Revelation 7 seriously, then Cornel West is right in describing humanity as “one garment of destiny,” a coat of many colors to adorn a people beloved by the Father. (Race Matters, 1994)
As the leader of a predominately white congregation, we have many difficult questions before us:
Who will we be in this moment?
Do we create the space to lament the unjust deaths of our minority brothers and sisters?
Have we made an effort to understand the pain of the black community on these issues?
Are we willing to take responsibility for our part in the all-too-common injustices that plague our nation?
Will we take seriously the Bible’s call to repent and restore BEFORE rushing to reconciliation with our minority neighbors?
I was there, but I should have been there sooner. There is much work to be done, and it cannot be done alone. I take great comfort in a story that Jesus told about a Great Banquet. (Luke 14) The host wasn’t really concerned with starting on time, but resolutely wanted to ensure his table was full.
The white church has run out of excuses for their absence, and we should make our way to the banquet immediately. We had the chance to come earlier, but more pressing issues have kept us away. Let’s go today, for the host is infinitely gracious and patient, “not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance.” (2 Pet. 3:9) Those we would least expect are already there and waiting on us. In fact, they remind me often, “I’m still here.”
Come…let’s go. We may be late, but better late than never.
