As a white teen living in an all-white neighborhood, attending a predominantly white private school with a white faculty and staff, and faithfully participating in a white Southern Baptist youth group, I had no experiential knowledge of racial injustice. With the exception of my brother who is Latino and a handful of black friends from various sports teams, I had very few meaningful connections with people of color in my hometown. Like most white Americans, I was aware of the obvious forms of racism like slavery, the KKK, the horror of lynchings, and segregation, but I thought those were dark chapters in The Book of America that had long ago been slammed shut.
But I’ve always had a keen interest in the intersection of the Gospel and justice, so when my high school speech teacher encouraged our class to participate in the local Daughters of the American Revolution writing contest that offered cash prizes, I jumped at the opportunity. (I get to write and possibly win some cash? Please and thank you.) My paper, entitled “Ebony and Ivory,” centered on racial disunity, using piano keys as a metaphor to prove the necessity of black and white people working together to make beautiful music and create a more peaceful world.
Consistent use of metaphor? Check!
Coherent and easy to read? Check!
Thought-provoking without offending any white people? Check!
What my white speech teacher and the all-white DAR judges didn’t seem to notice was that my paper was riddled with oversimplified thoughts on acknowledging our racial differences, being kind, and working together. Though I placed third in our county and won $100, I cringe when I remember how my sentimental words were carefully woven between layers of white privilege and a call for shallow peace with no real understanding of the historical context of systemic racism.
Twenty-five years have passed since I wrote that naive and sentimental paper. I’m grateful for the racially diverse, meaningful friendships in college, where I began to see the pain of racial injustice in nearly every space we occupied, especially in restaurants and in police interactions. I was shocked to discover our country’s racial disparities from the cradle to the classroom to the criminal justice system.
Over the years, my knowledge has expanded and deepened through hours of reading and research on the history of systemic racism and white supremacy. I began (and continue) to listen to the stories of others, to lament, to confess my own complicity in a system built for my benefit, and to trust the deep, lifelong work of the Holy Spirit to keep revealing the layers of bias in me.
Last month, I sat outside under the sun on a tiny patch of grass behind my house. The stark difference between my Memorial Day and Mr. George Floyd’s still disturbs me. It is sobering to live in a nation where I, as an affluent white woman, can safely exist without my motives being questioned and I can call the police because I feel threatened by a black man bird watching. Whether exercising or sleeping or breathing, my skin color has never been a reason for someone to fear me, follow me, or hunt me down and make me a hashtag.
For the past several months, I have been mulling over the words of the prophet Micah, “He has shown you, O man, what is good. What does the Lord require of you? To do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly.” In this context, the Israelites were seeking God’s approval through grand religious gestures and sacrifices, as if they didn’t already know what God had asked of them. They knew that God wanted more than mere sentiment and performative acts. To do justice required a move beyond external sacrifices and applause. To do justice required them to identify with the oppressed and to protect the innocent. To do justice would cost them time, reputation, and resources--more than their religiosity ever would. For the Israelites to be with the disenfranchised, to let mercy change their hearts, and to walk humbly with those in need was to acknowledge their privilege and their need for God to help them stand in solidarity with divine image bearers who did not share those privileges.
I wonder what ‘doing justice, loving mercy, and walking humbly’ looks like in the wake of the recent (though not new) police brutality against our unarmed black and brown brothers and sisters? Are we who are white content with this kind of treatment for ourselves? For our white kids? What does it mean to love our black and brown communities as ourselves? To do justice now?
As we continue to live out the words of Scripture, I believe that part of doing justice, loving mercy, and walking humbly requires a lifelong commitment to the holy work of dismantling the sin of racism in our hearts, in our communities, and yes, even in our church. May we not buy into the scheme of ‘we just need more of Jesus for unity,’ without acknowledging the pain and devastating effects of systemic injustice.
The truth of Scripture has the power to guide us in this. It has the power to move us beyond mere sentiment. As white people who follow Jesus, may our response to racism be one of confession and repentance as we take time to examine our own hearts in light of the Gospel. May we listen to the lived experiences and perspectives of our black and brown brothers and sisters. May we be willing to hear hard truths that can help us grow in our understanding and empathy so we can more effectively love our neighbors as ourselves. And may we continue to pray to the God of all hope who longs to reconcile and restore us to himself and to one another as we ‘seek justice, love mercy, and walk humbly.’
ABOUT OUR BLOGGER
In the midst of writing and maintaining the trifecta of marriage, home and community, Katie Carper is grateful for strong coffee, belly laughs, good books, and loyal friends. She and her husband of 17 years -- her co-warrior and confidant -- have four children. Two came to them through adoption and one has the gift of Down syndrome.
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