“Please pray for my husband, he has a broken taillight.”
These words were spoken by a woman at a bible study. A black woman. It sounds like a strange prayer request to a pair of white ears. But every pair of black ears in the room understood. That her husband might be pulled over, at the wrong time, in the wrong neighborhood, by the wrong cop. That a minor mechanical infraction could develop into a nightmarish scenario, simply because of the color of her husbands’ skin. Gods’ skin.
Our youngest daughter is black, she will be eleven in July. She is beautiful and wonderful; and also just as annoying and frustrating as any other ten-year old. I would face down battalions of orcs to protect her. Not long after she became legally our daughter, at age six, we began to notice that she had a fear of the police. She saw them as something to threaten you with. Something to be afraid of. Something to hide from. We did not teach her this. she picked it up along the way before she became “ours”. We were puzzled and grieved. We set up a tour of our local police department. We took her down there and a wonderful officer, who understood our dilemma, took her through the station. He explained that the police are there to help; that she should wave to them when she sees them. That she can trust them. He let her sit behind the steering wheel of a police car, we took a picture. She loved it. We did the right thing; all of my friends, both white and black, would agree. My white friends would say it because her fears were unfounded. But were they? (let me stipulate here that our local police department is fantastic. The fact that they were willing to take the time to do such a thing, for one child, speaks volumes to their character.) But were her fears invalid?
Every day, when I look in the mirror, I see a white guy looking back at me. An extremely handsome white guy, but a white guy. I cannot really know what it is like to be a black man walking down the sidewalk, in Phoenixville, or Philadelphia. I cannot step into their skin. I live without caution, I always have. Part of this is my personality; but part of it is also because I am immune. I am immune from a lot of suspicion that my black brothers are not. I am immune from the fear of a broken taillight. When I was teaching my blond-haired, blue-eyed sons to drive, it never occurred to me to worry about what might happen to them if they were pulled over for a broken taillight. But that is reality for far too much of our population.
“Recognize that just because you do not feel the pain does not mean it does not exist…ignoring the struggles of others does not make them disappear. It simply leaves you blind and the American family very vulnerable.”
Those are the words of U.S. Senator Tim Scott, a black Republican from South Carolina. He has been pulled over multiple times on Capitol Hill, usually for nothing more than driving a new car in the wrong neighborhood. He has felt the “humiliation that comes with feeling like you’re being targeted for nothing more than being just yourself.” He goes on, “I do not know many African-American men who do not have a very similar story to tell, no matter their profession, no matter their income, no matter their disposition in life.”
Human conflict is not a result of race. It comes from our hearts. If we all woke up tomorrow, and we all looked the same, and we all had the same income; we would be fighting and killing each other within a week over something else. This is what the story of Cain and Able is there to teach us. This is a human problem, not a racial problem. It will never be fixed by governments, or sociology, or psychology. We need new hearts. Hearts that can see the image of God in every face, of every color.
So what would I say to the white guy in the mirror?
I would remind him that, because of this country’s ugly past on this issue, he has a greater burden of empathy. That we are commanded to bear one another’s burdens. That he is commanded to weep with those who weep. That he is commanded to love his neighbor as he loves himself.
I would tell him that if he cannot post something helpful on social media then he should post nothing at all. That if all he has are snarky memes that do nothing but add to the shrillness, he should stay away from the keyboard.
I would tell him to stop saying “all lives matter” because it is oafish and insensitive. Of course all lives matter, no one is claiming otherwise. Would you go to another family’s funeral and tell them they should stop grieving their loved one because, after all, lots of other people died today? Of course not.
I would tell him to pray every day for this land. Because heaven is the only place that is giving out new hearts. Because the Gospel is the only thing that can show people their own poverty before God. It is the great leveler. Because when a dozen different people, who are a dozen different colors, are all kneeling at the cross of the crucified Son of God, confessing their sins; they are all the same there. So they must be all the same everywhere else.
Skin is God’s idea. All skin is God’s skin. When I was a kid, I remember some of my black friends’ parents would have a picture of a black Jesus at home. Of course the white Jesus always looked fairly Norwegian, like a surfer or something; long light hair, blue eyes. Today I call this the Allman Brothers Jesus. But all of our images are inadequate. When God stepped across time and eternity, and into our world. When God stepped into our skin; he was not black, or white.
“He had no form or majesty that we should look at him, and no beauty that we should desire him.” We are told.
If you went to the middle east today, to a Palestinian slum in Nazareth for example, and you wandered onto a construction site. And your eyes fell on the grimy kid pushing a wheelbarrow; you would be looking at Jesus. Not black, definitely not white. Dark skin, dark eyes, dark hair. He would look suspicious in our culture. He would be set aside for extra scrutiny by the TSA. His parents might worry about him being pulled over for a broken taillight.
When the Romans put a sign up on the cross, proclaiming Jesus “the king of the Jews”, they were not honoring him. The Romans held the Jews in contempt. They considered them ignorant, backwards, and beneath Roman dignity and civilization. So calling Jesus the king of the Jews was not a compliment, it was an insult; like calling him the king of the cockroaches.
God knows what it is like to be despised because of his race. Because of his family, because of his skin. God knows what it is like to be falsely accused. God knows what it is like to be innocent and executed. God knows what it is like to die a violent, unjust death.
The Son of God came to save sinners. That includes thieves, whores, and murderers. That includes politicians, and philanderers. That includes rioters and looters, and even bigots. That includes me, and that includes you. Because it is not the healthy who need a physician, but the sick.
“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the sons of God.”