Jesus reconciles all things; on privilege and injustice in light of the murder of George Floyd

This post is for my white brothers and sisters, and for myself to come back to, when I need to be
reminded of my calling as a follower of Jesus.

“And I charged your Judges at that time, ‘Hear the cases between your brothers, and judge
righteously between a man and his brother or the alien who is with him. You shall not be partial in
judgement. You shall hear the small and the great alike. You shall not be intimidated by anyone,
for the judgement is God’s. And the case that is too hard for you, you shall bring to me, and I will
hear it."

Deuteronomy 1:16-17

I read this passage yesterday morning, and was struck by the direct and unwavering commands of
God in regards to justice. We are not the Judges of the people of Israel, but we are the people of God.
God’s justice is unwavering, and therefore these verses give us a glimpse at the kind of justice our
God upholds. 

He cares for the alien, the small, and commands impartiality because He knows how
bad at that we are as sinful humans. Where white individuals and communities have not been
impartial to Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, George Floyd, and countless others, God is.
Dear God, have mercy.

We see what we choose to see, we make our judgments based on what feels most comfortable;
often, we’re unaware that this is our posture. That doesn’t change the fact that our posture is broken
and bent, and actually damages the most vulnerable around us. 

I am not a police officer or a judge. But I am a white woman, and I am aware of the power that I
wield by virtue of my race. 

My words have power. They can testify against or for my neighbors. They can create bridges of hope
when I use them well, and caverns of discrimination when I choose to remain silent. 

My resources have power. Do I choose to support black artists, business owners, and community
leaders? Or do I brush off my socioeconomic status and say that one purchase won’t make a difference? 

My ears have power. Do I listen? Or do I fast forward through the Instagram stories of my
African American friends, because all of the laments are “too biased” or “too hard” to process? 

My eyes have power. Do I choose to read books about injustice, slavery, police brutality,
and mass incarceration, by African American authors?
Do I choose to read fiction, memoir, poetry, fashion blogs, or cookbooks by African American authors? 

Do I look at the black individual in the grocery store with the same respect that I look at the
white individual? Do I repent when I do question motives, character, or morality, based on the
way an African American man or woman is dressed, or speaks? 

Do I understand that my emotions and emotional sharing contain a level of immunity that many
black brothers and sisters do not have? Do I share my laments accordingly, and honestly, with the
knowledge that my white friends and family will listen to me much more willingly than to a
black individual?

Do I consider the way that I consume images of African American men and women in the media?
Do I educate myself consistently on the way that my visual archive (the images I consume through
visual culture; i.e. magazines, social media, movies, art) either encourages or dismantles stereotypes
and caricatures of African Americans?

My relationships have power. Do I own the fact that by virtue of my race and class, I have immense
social capital? In many senses, I am a bridge-builder. Especially in my home town, I know the right
people, and I have a voice that will be heard in a variety of arenas. When I move to another small
town in Georgia in just one month, it won’t take me long to maneuver those new social dynamics.
I have access to social mobility wherever I go. 

Do I take that power and extend it through relationships to those who need those connections, just to
have a chance at being heard? Or do I sequester myself within places of privilege, because it just feels
so good to be comfortable? 

Conversely, do I understand that my place is not to speak for or give a handout to African Americans?
Do I believe that my way is the best way, and that the help that I give will cure the issue once and for
all? Or do I humbly recognize my often paternalistic posture, and then work to dismantle it?

I have recently heard the argument that all Christians can’t possibly be expected to care about and
work towards racial justice in the same ways, because we have different callings. The argument
went on to say that Jesus didn’t spend time setting up justice initiatives for Samaritans, just because
he knew they needed help. He had other things to do. 

It's true that many of us aren’t called to vocationally work in full time racial justice and reconciliation
roles. Thank goodness, then, that God has given us higher callings than our 9-5 vocations! 

God has built in to the life of every one of His children a calling that supersedes vocation.
It is rooted in Christ, and it goes like this. 

“He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation. For by him all things were
created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or
authorities—all things were created through him and for him. And he is before all things, and in
him all things hold together. And he is the head of the body, the church. He is the beginning, the
firstborn from the dead, that in everything he might be preeminent. For in him all the fullness of
God was pleased to dwell, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or
in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross.”

Colossians 1:15-20 

All. Things. 

Jesus Christ came to reconcile all things to himself. Your salvation is included in that, yes.
But so is your black neighbor’s right to life. Your occupation as a nurse or teacher or real estate
agent is included in that reconciliation, yes. But so is your responsibility to carry out justice in the
classroom, in the healthcare that your African American patients receive, and to educate yourself
on segregated neighborhoods and redlining practices that began in the 1930s. 

To say that we aren’t all called to seek racial justice is to fool yourself, because racism permeates
every system you find yourself in. If you don’t see it, ask a black friend (friend, not stranger) if they
see it, and then listen without firing excuses. 

Thank goodness that God’s salvation and redemption is comprehensive. To believe in Colossians 1
should necessitate care for all neighbors, all systemic injustice, and all sordid American history;
not just what your textbooks said in high school. 

The list of privileges and subsequent responsibilities can feel overwhelming. But with great power
comes great responsibility. If you are a Christian, rejoice that you are not alone. Jesus is big enough
to redeem your greatest biases and your most horrific racist thoughts. He is not too small for the
racism you are learning to recognize. He is not afraid that racial justice will overshadow evangelism
or church worship; the Gospel and justice are made to go hand in hand. If you’re unsure of that
statement, scroll up to read the Deuteronomy passage again. 

The posts and anger I am seeing from so many in my community is encouraging. It shows me
Christ’s love working in the hearts of His people.
If you’ve already shared your words, your anger, and your repentance,
solid resources could be a good next step. This is a huge topic that none of us can pretend to know
everything about, which is why the books I’ve listed below have been lifelines for me over these last
few years of seeking to educate myself and love my neighbors rightly.

Resources

Books I recommend;

Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, by Harriet Jacobs. A beautifully written, true, and extremely
important narrative on the life of Harriet Jacobs. Full of helpful building blocks for understanding
the horrific effects of slavery in the church, among white and black women, sexual abuse between
masters and female slaves, and the road to freedom.

The Price for their Pound of Flesh, by Daina Ramey Berry. A somewhat academic and technical read,
this book is extremely helpful for understanding how slave auctions and the slave trade worked.
Sickening accounts of how exactly black bodies were devalued and reduced to mere dollars on the
auction block.

Barracoon, by Zora Neale Hurston. A narrative account of the last shipment of African slaves to the
American coast. 

Darkroom, by Lila Quintero Weaver. A delightfully illustrated and narrated graphic novel. If you’ve
never read a graphic novel before, this would be a great starting place. A helpful perspective on the
Civil Rights Movement in Alabama, told from the experience of a young Argentinian immigrant.

The Good Food Revolution, by Will Allen. - This is a book about sustainable urban agriculture, but
provided a surprisingly helpful history of slavery, agriculture, and the personal story of Allen’s
redemptive “homecoming” to southern land. 

Our America, by LeAlan Jones. A brutal and short read, detailing the life of two children in the
(since demolished) Ida B. Wells housing project on the south side of Chicago. I read this one a
number of years ago, and had to read it with great caution. It spares no details on the trauma of
growing up in this neighborhood, and the way it affected the very youngest of the community.
Extremely important for understanding systemic poverty, racism, and how “pulling yourself up by
your bootstraps” isn’t always an option. 

His Testimonies, My Heritage, edited by Kristie Anyabwile. A beautiful collection of theologically
robust devotionals (and some poems!) on Psalm 119. This study made me fall in love with Psalm 119,
and helped me develop a deeper theology of God’s law and how my relationship with Him should be
affected by that. This book is written by Christian women of color. You don’t have to be a person of
color or a woman to read and learn from this though!

On my to-read list

The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness, by Michelle Alexander. 

Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehesi Coates. 

The Color of Law, by Richard Rothstein.

Letters to a Birmingham Jail, by Byran Lorrits.

Stamped from the Beginning, Ibram X. Kendi. 

Beautifully Distinct, Trillia J. Newbell. 

The Color of Compromise, by Jemar Tisby. 

Unsettling Truths, by Mark Charles and Soong-Chan Rah

The Beautiful Community, Irwyn L. Ince Jr. 

Be the Bridge, by Latasha Morrison.

Heal Us, Emmanuel, edited by Doug Serven.