Rivers and Rage
Writer, Benjamin Faye, reflects on the role of the Church in the wake of George Floyd's murder.
I don't want to write today.
As I sit here with my laptop, I keep glancing over at my wife. She's staring into space, seemingly unsure which of a million emotions to feel. On any other day, I might be inclined to offer a kind word or encouragement, but the words don't come today because I feel the exact same way. All I can feel is my heart in my throat. The entire world has broken its silence.
Nearly every street in the United States is filled with echoes of righteous indignation. Every sidewalk, avenue, and public square has become a megaphone for unheard voices in the wake of George Floyd's murder at the hands of a police officer. It's as Dr. King said, "A riot is the language of the unheard." There are peaceful protests, riots, and there is vandalism. Though the violence is hard to condone, it's even harder to condemn, especially when many of the rioters come from a long line of righteous, Jesus-imitating, table flippers who have been told to "wait just a little while longer" for justice, freedom, and peace. As hard as this may be to understand or stomach, racial injustice has been laid before the Body of Christ time and time again, often with little to no response in return. That's not to say the Church has never spoken up. Certainly, the figurehead of the Civil Rights Movement, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr, was himself a preacher who could no longer tolerate the oppressive treatment of God's people. But somewhere down the line, we lost it. Whether it be apathy or ignorance, we spent many years seemingly content with washing our hands of a national conversation that one of our own started. However, that doesn't mean we can't start again.
To be black in America is to be like Joni Mitchell in December, wishing in perpetuity for a river to skate on. Let me explain. I grew up where it snowed every winter. I was never far away from images of people innocently skating on large frozen-over bodies of water with no regard for time or surroundings, looking to get as far away from whatever trouble had befallen them. But for me, and for many who look like me, such peace and respite exist only in fables. For years, black people have spoken about the things we've gone through only to be met by rooms and pews full of deaf ears. Now, my phone goes off every few hours with friends new and old, all suddenly asking questions about racial inequality, which didn't have an audience a month ago. And all the while, even though I know something this monstrous, complicated, and evil cannot simply be skated away from, I hope that one day there will be a river of peace for people with my skin tone.
I can only imagine that, for my fairer skinned friends, the last few weeks have felt a bit seismic, as they should. The stories of George Floyd, Brionna Taylor, and Ahmaud Arbery have shot around the world, sending shockwaves through every possible idea some had about the America they had come to know. The idea that the very people assigned to protect lives could be complicit in taking them is such a foreign thought that the outrage so many non-black and white folks feel makes so much sense. At the same time, there is a part of me that finds all of this outrage in itself outrageous, given how many times people like me have tried to have this conversation through the years. More to the point, I most clearly recall the silence from my beloved local Church.
Jesus first entered my heart as a 14-year-old in 2002 in the basement of my then Church, a 10,000 plus congregation situated just outside my native Philadelphia. Because the Church was mostly black, I never had to wonder about the sanctity of my life or any need to defend it. At least, not until years later, when I moved away and began attending multicultural assemblies of my own volition. I knew that if I wanted to engage with Jesus, I needed to worship with His people. All of His people. And I couldn't do that in a congregation where everyone looked exactly like me.
Now, by and large, that decision was a good one. Something incredible happens when you stand in a room listening to the sound of all nations and tongues crying out to their Father. It feels otherworldly to know that you have brothers and sisters in every shade under the sun. But having six biological siblings of my own, I can tell you that every now and again, there comes a moment when brother and sister become less of a title and more of a decision.
“. . .every now and again, there comes a moment when “brother” and “sister” become less of a title and more of a decision.”
I've tried to share my fears as a black man with my white brothers and sisters, many who are followers of Jesus. I share how police brutality scares me, given how little recourse black people have had historically. I share the fear in my wife's eyes any time I have to go anywhere after 8:30 at night. I share how hard it is in those moments to tell her, "I'll be right back," and mean it, given how many black husbands across America have said the same and, through no fault of their own, could not deliver on an otherwise simple promise to return after grabbing a gallon of milk.
And almost every time, the responses have looked something like this:
"Well, if you just do the right thing, you won't have a problem."
"Well then, maybe black people should just act better."
"Well, the Jews had it worse, so…"
And every time, I sat there silent and despondent, wondering why I don't see the tears of Jesus in the people of Jesus.
“I sat there. . .wondering why I don’t see the tears of Jesus in the people of Jesus.”
John 11 tells us the story of Lazarus and his sisters, Mary and Martha. Now, these three were people that Jesus knew and loved deeply. Lazarus was sick, and his sisters drew that to Jesus' attention. He responded, "This sickness is not to end in death, but for the glory of God, so that the Son of God may be glorified by it." (v. 4) You may recall that Jesus said something similar to his disciples just two chapters earlier in John's Gospel regarding a man born blind. No matter what, God would get the glory.
Jesus knew that Lazarus would die. Only, He referred to it as his friend "falling asleep." (v. 11) You'll notice that Jesus never said that Lazarus wouldn't die, only that the story wouldn't end in death. And when Jesus returned to see Lazarus, four days after he'd been laid to rest, He found his sisters deep in the throes of grief, both saying, "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died." (v. 21 and 32). Then the Son of Man did the unthinkable.
He wept.
Mind you, Jesus knew how this was going to end, to the point that He told it to Lazarus' sisters days earlier, when the problem had only been illness. Jesus knew his dear friend would not die, and still, He wept. Because while He was God, He was also a man. John 1 says that he dwelled among us in the flesh, thus lowering Himself to be like us. He took the time to understand our frame, knowing that the only way to do that was for the Creator to put Himself in the shoes of Creation and bear the burdens of life in a fallen world.
This is the narrative that Jesus calls the Church into, to put on another's shoes and weep. Perhaps we need a broader definition of justice? A definition which not only holds police and politicians accountable but one that holds wounded people too. Justice that, in solidarity, weeps when others weep (Romans 12:15) knowing that they bear the image of God and are themselves, the holy ground in which his Spirit has chosen to dwell. Black families still have to bury their loved ones, a feat now complicated by social distancing guidelines. Black fathers are still having to have talks with their sons about how to avoid dying in police custody. Even I have a great fear of bringing a black child into the world, continually unsure of what world will greet them when they arrive. We spend hours at the pulpit pontificating about the persecuted Church abroad when the persecuted Church lived inside our congregations all along. If you are reading this as a white person who loves Jesus and has black friends, know that those friends are hurting and weeping right now. If asked, they may be willing to share their shoes and tears with you.
“This is the narrative that Jesus calls the Church into, to put on another’s shoes and weep.”
We are the Church. We are loving, and we are strong. And though we lift up our King in word and prayer, we're supposed to bring down his kingdom through hands and feet. Prayer is critical, but so is being vigilant with our time and resources. If there is a place for all to sit at the table with Jesus, there is a place for all to stand at the frontlines with him too. You don't need a knife. You don't need a gun. All you need are eyes to see, ears to listen, and a mouth slow to speak. If you wish to respond well, go back to the start. Begin by loving the God that created your black brothers and sisters with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength.
“If there is a place for all to sit at the table with Jesus, there is a place for all to stand at the frontlines with him too.”
Let not these deaths of unarmed, innocent black lives be merely the end of racism but rather the start of a revival, first in our hearts and then in our cities. And then, with any hope, there might be fewer people out there looking for a river to skate away on.
"To the angel of the Church in Ephesus write: The One who holds the seven stars in His right hand, the One who walks among the seven golden lampstands, says this: 'I know your deeds and your toil and perseverance, and that you cannot tolerate evil men, and you put to the test those who call themselves apostles, and they are not, and you found them to be false; and you have perseverance and have endured for My name's sake, and have not grown weary. But I have this against you, that you have left your first love. Therefore remember from where you have fallen, and repent and do the deeds you did at first; or else I am coming to you and will remove your lampstand out of its place—unless you repent."
-Revelation 2:1-5 NASB
Benjamin Faye is a writer, musician, speaker, and activist from Philadelphia. Drawing from personal experiences, he has dedicated his life to giving language and Biblical context for social activism to non-believers and believers alike. He currently lives in Orlando, FL, with his wife, Carole.