I regret deeply that I can share this again, unchanged in its sentiments and pain, 2 years later. I have heard so much discussion this week of privilege, systemic racism, injustice, poverty – the powers that rule the American public.
I wonder: if I could hear every sermon or homily in every American Christian gathering this Sunday, whether it would give me hope? I anticipate most churches will speak about whatever was on their schedule or in the lectionary.
In the black churches, they likely will speak about Baltimore. But in the multicultural or mostly white churches, the places where it truly matters… I wonder if it will be silent? I wonder if the pain and anger among its congregants will be silenced by the rhetoric of the pulpit? If they do, I wonder if they will truly grapple with the issues, or take the easy, sinful road of criticism and judgement? What will the church say to millions of its congregants and parishioners who need to hear good news in the midst of so much trouble?
My heart is heavy today. It is pierced with pain and filled with fear. I wore a hoodie at church out of solidarity with the lost, so he may not be the forgotten. I saw glances and disapproving eyes. I felt backs stiffen. I heard only silent pews and pulpits on this issue confronting our nation. I continue to see, hear and feel all this. I must ask you, my brother, my sister, my Church—why don’t you love me?
A man follows me, as I am on my way to a loved one’s house. I don’t know him. He asks me what I’m doing here, where I’m going, who I am. To me, he looks threatening. I don’t want him to know where I live or where I’m going. If he doesn’t let me go am I not justified to defend myself? Why should I be stripped of my masculinity…
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