Evangelized Into Disbelief?

I remember the day I heard my first call into ministry and my heartbreak in knowing that I was terrified by the call. I was almost certain I would not be able to answer. 

I was probably around ten years old, attending a Vacation Bible School at my home church. We were talking about serving “the least of these.” According to the volunteer teachers I admired and wanted to emulate, Jesus would go to any lengths to save the lost. He would leave the ninety-nine for the one stray. Jesus was kind to the broken: lepers, tax collectors, drunkards, adulterers, and the like. He shunned the religious community, who thought they were better than “the sinners” he sought after. 

I, according to these giants of faith, was called to be like Jesus. There was only one problem in my childhood mind. I didn’t know anyone who fit the description of those I was supposed to help. I was surrounded by affluence and a community that confessed Jesus, down to the last person. 

I could, of course, take the tactic of many of the evangelicals around me. I could be suspicious of others’ claim to know Christ and go about asking any and all, “Do you know that you know?” In other words, I could press hard on any doubts or frustrations others had in their walk of faith and ask if they truly had that “blessed assurance.”

Even as a ten-year-old, I felt something was not quite right about that approach. Yes, it is right and good to occasionally remind others that they need to have a personal relationship with God. Yet, questioning the veracity of their faith week after week seemed to me then, even though I could not articulate it, and still seems to me now that I can articulate it, psychologically abusive. 

So, it was decided in my young heart that to be a faithful Christ follower, I would have to leave home. I would have to go into the mission field to find the lost, the broken, the oppressed, and the marginalized. I was not brave enough to leave, and I knew it. I was awash in shame. I could not answer the call. Then again, I was only ten. 

As I continued to wrestle with my calling over the next few years, I began to notice that there were, in fact, people in need right here at home. I was still not brave enough to minister to them, but maybe one day I could be. As I grew older and explored more of the world around me, I began to notice suffering, poverty, and marginalization, and I remembered the teachings of the Titans of faith from VBS. Jesus loves everyone and will go to great lengths to help anyone in need. So be it. I was scared, but it’d find a way with God’s grace. 

Many years later, I would answer the call. I searched the Scriptures myself, and what did I find? The VBS teachers were right! Jesus served the least of these. He proclaimed he was anointed for such a task (Luke 4:18-19). He was mocked as a friend of sinners (Matt 11:19). He touched lepers (Matt 8:3) and protected adulterers (John 8:7). I fell in love with his way. I felt inadequate but reluctantly decided I’d try. I was going to make my community proud. I was going to live the life they taught. 

Along the way, I met others who spoke like my VBS teachers. I accumulated many, many Christian exemplars over the years. With the advent of social media, I could follow them from wherever I found myself. What a blessing, I thought. Now, I will see their witness every day. 

Then, I was horrified by what I saw time and again. People I admired began to slander those they found to be “other.” Occasionally, I would have some of them questioning why I chose to serve the communities I felt called to serve. I was fortunate that the landslide narrowly missed me, the vitriol and distrust that seemed to grow exponentially during the pandemic and into the present. Some loose rocks came down the hill in my formative years, but I crested the summit before all hell broke loose. 

I had reached a point in my spiritual growth where I was confident I was following Christ, even if those I admired seemed to betray the lessons I learned (not so much my VBS teachers, but those persons I collected along the way who seemed to echo the lessons of my childhood). I did not come through all this unscathed. On occasion, I questioned my call and even my faith because the very people who I thought instructed me down this path now seemed disgusted by any who would walk it. I prayed. God spoke. I set my mind, and I got to work in exercising my faith through serving others. Then, things got worse. I was resolved, but what about others wrestling?

Now, I see people arguing daily about who and how we are to serve, over what is and isn’t acceptable to preach and teach, and who is doing it best (true believers) and who is doing it worst (heretics). The body of Christ is a body of broken bones, as Thomas Merton once put it, and some within do not want to mend because mending might bring them in contact with an “other.” Would I have survived the landslide with my faith intact if the vitriol was as bad in my youth as it is now?

What of the young woman who experienced the same upbringing twenty years after me who now says she can’t believe? She fell in love with the God who cares deeply and loves severely, admonishing the would-be authorities who shunned the outcast. She was told his name was Jesus. She was fully convinced, and when she graduated high school, she got involved in all she could to help. She became an activist because of her deep convictions. Then, she was told she was wrong by the very people she thought had led her here. They labeled her with all sorts of names, just not “Christian.” She was, in their judgment, unworthy of being a part of their community. 

She believed she understood who Jesus was based on the very teachings of her elders. She thought she was following Jesus by loving everyone despite the labels others might place on them. Now, they were telling her she was mistaken. Jesus, as she was now being told, only helps those who help themselves. He will only approach if you are immediately willing to conform to standards that strangely seemed cherry-picked. She agreed that Christian life means transformation and sacrifice. She knew Jesus’ call to repentance.  

The only issue was that her life of helping others had taught her that very often, being the least of these meant being someone who could not help themselves. Addictions, mental illness, trauma, and the like are significant hindrances that cannot be overcome in a single moment. Bringing others to a place of change takes a lot of time. Demanding immediate change is never helpful. Walking alongside with tremendous patience is necessary. Some never get to a place of healing. But she had always thought Jesus would want her to keep trying because some did discover the grace to heal. 

Those who did find restoration kept her going, at least for a little while. She thought that Jesus would understand what she discovered in helping the broken. Some don’t have the capacity for self-respect or dignity. She sincerely believed that sometimes, we have to be patient. We have to love the unlovable. For someone to find self-respect and dignity, another would first need to give them respect and dignity so that they could see they could have such for themselves. Despite all her good work, her community did not celebrate with her. 

She was now being told the correct approach was to give “tough love.” Demand the other immediately accept the truth; if they are unwilling to accept the demand, tough. Yet, the people telling her this never interacted with those she served. They had never tried love in the first place. Forget about tough love. Love is tough enough. Love is patient, even to the most stubborn. Love is kind, even to the cruel. Yes, love also rejoices in the truth, as did she. But love also hopes. Love hopes that when someone cannot yet grasp the truth for themselves, that love itself will one day break through. Love takes a long road of sacrifice for the sake of others—no quick solutions. 

She also knew from her own experience that she was not perfect. She struggled with her addictions. She would often discover reasons to repent. How could she demand from others what she knew she couldn’t always accomplish herself? She had Christ, and he was gracious. This was not an excuse to live however she wanted. Her life was testament enough that she was more than willing to sacrifice herself. She just recognized her own need for continued grace. So, she thought it only fair to offer the same to others. 

In the end, she knew deep down that for many to come to know and love Christ the way she did, they needed to be shown much mercy, kindness, compassion, and empathy. She would promote truth, but she truly trusted the Holy Spirit could do the work of convicting. She would gently share the truth, as much as she knew, at least because she was still learning. She could not demand others to fit a standard immediately that she was still learning to live into day by day. 

The people she looked up to and those who supported her on many missions began to rant about the people she served. Hurt, she asked them what she was supposed to think now. WWJD? The response: he would certainly not do what she was doing. She was an enabler. She was too kind. She was not bold enough to give the downtrodden the ultimatums needed to save their souls. She didn’t understand tough love. 

So, tragically, she was convinced again by her mentors about Jesus. She believed them. Whoever she fell in love with, Jesus was not his name. She wasn’t sure who Jesus Christ was anymore, but he must be like those who said they followed him. They shunned those she served, and because she was not willing to abandon them, she also allowed herself to be shunned. She was evangelized right out of the faith. They preached at her. She listened, and she was preached out of the church. The last time she was preached out of the church, it was because she was sent out to serve. Now, she felt she was no longer welcome in the community of believers. 

She still loves the idea of Love personified. She believes that if Love is not the most significant force in all of reality, it should be. She loves the call to the least of these. She hopes, but now doubts, that there is power to transform through love. She thought Jesus was the one who shaped her heart from stone to flesh, but apparently, he was not who she thought he was. So, she grieved as she let go of Christ. But could it be that this Christ she was walking away from was a false Jesus? 

Perhaps the one she loves is still Jesus. She just doesn’t know him by that name anymore. Perhaps she has never really rejected Christ, but a false god she knows deep down to be just that. She loves Love; she just doesn’t call him Jesus anymore because she was told that the one she loves was not Jesus. Some try to say to her that not all in the church are like those who attacked her, but, at least for now, she is still grieving. She doesn’t want to be angry but wrestles with what she feels was a childhood of lies. The Jesus some taught her was no more real to them than the Santa they would hire to entertain the church at Christmas. Fundamentally, she still holds her convictions; she just doesn’t know what to call them. 

Yes, we are to confess his name (Acts 4:12), but there is more to names than the words we call one another. To act in the “name of Jesus” is to act in his character. She has not betrayed that, even though she lies awake at night wondering if her detractors are correct and that she is now condemned because she doesn’t follow their Jesus. 

I wonder how many young people still love Jesus but have forgotten his name because they were told he was someone other than the one they fell in love with. There are many Christs taught today. Maybe she just rejected a false one. (Matt 24:24). 

If I could talk to her, I’d tell her not to give up on Jesus. I would say to her she’s not alone. I’d tell her you can never be too kind, gentle, or patient. There are no prohibitions or limitations, despite what you are told. Yet, you can be too judgmental, too demanding, too self-righteous. 

“…the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. There is no law against such things.” -Gal 5:22-23

Keep the faith. Love radically. Stay close to Christ, and tell the naysayers who question your mission to go kick rocks… in the name of Jesus. 

LOVE IS A MAGNET

“When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd, and he had compassion for them and cured their sick.” -Matthew 14:14

When The Well was temporarily closed for sixty-five days, the city stated the reason was that our ministry is a magnet that draws crowds of people who are homeless, which creates a nuisance for the city. 

Wherever Jesus went, he drew crowds, and they did not just follow him into the countryside but into cities as well (see Matthew 8). In the exceptional series, “The Chosen,” Jesus had drawn such a following that the crowds following Jesus to be blessed by his words and deeds began to encamp around the city of Capernaum. Quintus, the Praetor of Galilee and Roman Magistrate of the city, grew increasingly concerned about “the homeless camp.” 

While Quintus is a fictional character, he represents well the Roman position on the Jewish people of the first century, over which Rome ruled. They thought of the Jewish people as backward at best, vermin at worst. He began to have his soldiers patrol the city and tried to enact new ordinances to disperse the fledgling community. 

The Scriptures attest to Rome’s displeasure of the crowds and their response to Jesus, as the chief priests and the Pharisees worry over Rome’s response if they allow Jesus’ ministry to continue:  “If we let him go on like this, everyone will believe in him, and the Romans will come and destroy both our holy place and our nation” (John 11:48). 

Pontius Pilate, the Roman Governor who sentenced Jesus to death, for his part, had a long history of disliking Jewish crowds. History outside of Scripture records his horrific violence towards Jewish crowds. At least on one occasion, he had his soldiers draw swords on a crowd, but when they stuck their necks out in defiance, daring the soldiers to spill their blood, he realized a public massacre might cause riots, and Rome did not like uprisings. From then on, he kept his antisemitism more discrete. 

On one occasion, it is recorded that instead of publicly dispersing the crowds, he sent soldiers dressed as citizens into a crowd with clubs under their garments. In unison, they drew their clubs and began to beat others in the crowd to disperse them. His reputation got him in trouble with the Emperor, Tiberius, who told Pilate he was in danger of being deposed if he caused another riot, hence Pilate’s acquiescing to the crowds at Jesus’ trial. Regardless of his efforts to no longer cause such stirs, Pilate was eventually removed from his office. Likewise, Herod feared the crowds, as the Romans had (see Matt 14:5-14). Crowds represented the fear of the unknown, and prejudice guided the government in all its actions. 

Likewise, religious officials were scandalized by the crowds as well. Certainly, as already pointed out by John 11:48, they, too, were concerned about an uprising (see also 21:45-46, 26:5, 27:11), but, for the most part, their complaints of the people following Jesus differed from the complaints of Rome. They thought that Jesus surrounded himself with the unworthy: “ …the Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, ‘Look, a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners’” (Matthew 11:19). Matthew recorded these words not as his own description of the crowds but as they were seen by the elite. 

When Matthew described the crowds, he spoke of them as vulnerable and in need: “So his fame spread throughout all Syria, and they brought to him all the sick, those who were afflicted with various diseases and pains, people possessed by demons or having epilepsy or afflicted with paralysis, and he cured them. And great crowds followed him from Galilee, the Decapolis, Jerusalem, Judea, and from beyond the Jordan” (Matthew 4:24-25). 

Even the most undesirables, who put whole cities in jeopardy by their illnesses (think of the leaper that rushed into the crowd in Matthew 8:1-4 or the hemorrhaging woman who rushed into the crowd to touch Jesus’ garment in Mark 5:25-34), were welcomed by Christ. First-century Israel was under the thumb of Rome, overtaxed and suffering. So, the least of these among them were desperate, indeed. 

This crowd that was drawn to Jesus wherever he went sounds awfully familiar to me. The sick, the displaced, the unwanted, the outcast, the sick, the mentally ill, and the lame. I have seen this crowd myself, and it is the crowd at The Well. Not all are as broken as these named in Scripture, but all who come to The Well have need. Like the Romans and the religious elite, many fear the gathering of the needy crowd for various reasons, and many want to do whatever it takes to disperse the crowd. 

Let me be careful not to suggest that our officials are Romanesque in their response. Surely, their new ordinances and actions are heavy-handed, and I think those who feel their actions unfair should speak truth to power and demand better. I think our leaders, unlike the mad Herod or the brutal Pilate, are reasonable, compassionate people. Much of what they are doing is responding to the overwhelming demands of a citizenry who is upset. What if instead of demanding the city drive out the homeless, the people cried out to the city to come alongside The Well to provide a place for those left out in the elements at night? What good could we have done together? What if, instead of putting the city officials’ feet to the fire of harsh demands, we put the wind in their sails to offer meaningful, life-changing solutions? 

Let me also be careful not to suggest that our concerned citizens have no reason to be upset. The violent spree that took place in Brunswick recently must be addressed. What I am suggesting is that the wrong folks were punished. What we should have demanded is that the state and city help us with our mental health crisis. There is still an opportunity for that now. Despite what some officials have said, nonprofits are not inundated with money to tackle the crisis. Citizens can still direct their concerns to our officials and give them thoughtful suggestions instead of vengeful ones. 

Is The Well the magnet for vagrants and nuisances that we have been accused of being by the news media, social media, and those who accuse us from afar? The statistics do not seem to suggest so. I will not rehash all I have said in previous posts, but suffice it to say we are not drawing busloads of people from other states. We are not idling, as criminals come in to do as they will. We do see transient persons who make their way to us from other counties that kick them out, but those transients are just that, transient. They move on after a short while of receiving our hospitality. The average numbers of The Well have not changed over the years. Many, if not most, of our guests, are locals who fell on hard times. These people belong to our community, and we have no right to tell them they do not belong as our neighbors. In fact, we have a responsibility to them. They are ours. 

So, why does it seem that all of a sudden, we have so many more persons experiencing homelessness on our streets? Why, all of a sudden, did numbers of people begin showing up to congregate and sleep outside The Well? The cause might surprise some, and it might be even more surprising to hear that it is something that we at FaitWorks celebrate, even while we regret this community had no place to go other than our doorstep. Downtown Brunswick has been in the midst of a renaissance. Once empty buildings, storefronts, and homes have been revived, as the city improves with each and every day. We should have nothing but gratitude for the extraordinary efforts of our local officials, investors, and local business owners in this regard. I love working downtown. I love bringing my wife and children downtown for church, to eat, and to experience all sorts of wonderful activities. I can only hope we continue to grow. 

Yet, as with all things beneficial, save the grace of God, there is a price for us. As vacant properties began to be occupied, those places where persons experiencing homelessness stayed out of view of the public disappeared. Most of those in the crowds we now see on the streets are not new. They have always been here, but they cannot hide away anymore. They have always been our neighbors.

Jesus obviously placed heavy burdens on the cities and regions he visited by welcoming the crowds to come. I think he did this so that the public might see their neighbor in need, the neighbors the Scriptures commanded them to serve. Sure, at times, Jesus was able to take care of them on his own. He did feed the five thousand, after all, but he did not put a roof or tent over each of their heads. He did not always control the crowds. There were plenty of officials, as we have already noted, that blamed them for being a nuisance. There were even times when Christ, for his own sake, had to withdraw from the crowds so that he could rest, pray, and prepare himself for what was ahead (see Matthew 5:1, 8:18, 14:22, 15:39). 

He did not snap his fingers and fix all their problems. Surely, he was calling on The People of God to do their part as well, just as they had been commanded for thousands of years, just as we are called today. Just as Jesus did not solve all the issues for those who followed him, at least in terms of their earthly needs, The Well has not either. Like Jesus, we, too, await others to come alongside us and help. What if passers-by saw the crowds outside The Well as Christ saw the crowds that surrounded him? What if there was not just one Christ to serve them but many Christs? What if we, those who call ourselves Christians, "little Christs,” put our hands and feet into action?

We may come up with a million and one excuses not to help. Time and again, The Well has been accused of serving the wrong sort of people. Many tend to lump people experiencing homelessness into two camps: Those who need help but do not want anything but a handout and those who need help and will receive it when it is offered. People tell us we should refuse the former and receive the latter. 

Christ never turned anyone away. There were some in the crowds who heard what Jesus had to offer and left on their own. Even the magnet of love has two poles, some will be attracted to respond, and others will be repelled by what love has to offer. Christ did not say, “You saw me naked, hungry, and thirsty, then you psychoanalyzed me to see if I was worthy of help.” Christ taught grace. Pure grace is “unmerited favor.” Love and grace do not have to be earned by the other. Love and grace are to be offered freely by the giver. It is God who will work in that grace to bring healing to those ready to receive.

There are wonderful ministries that work on the model of helping those ready to move on. We cannot do without those ministries. But, we at The Well understand our calling to serve even those at ground zero, rock bottom. There are some in the crowd who will never be “ready” to move on. There are some without the mental capacity to do so. There are some so imprisoned by addiction that they cannot even muster the strength to become willing. Many have traumas that limit their capacity to think clearly about the next steps. We will not refuse them. Instead, we will await miracles. If that makes us wrong, so be it. 

No one is without hope, but our community has a long way to go before we see a systemic effort to bring about the capacity to help the severely mentally ill and traumatized. The Well, of course, helps those who are ready. We see success all the time. We are also a life raft for those who cannot seem to escape the chaotic sea of trauma. For some, the helicopter is not yet coming. Many of our guests apply to receive assistance, and it is denied for bureaucratic reasons that I do not understand. Some apply for help, such as housing, and are approved but placed on years-long waiting lists. Our goal is to be there for them, to be that life raft as we pray for rescue. That life raft has been pulled out of the waters by the powers that be for now, but we are not giving up. 

We can and have done a lot, but we cannot do it all. We can do what we are called to do, be a hospitality center for all in need. Sure, if someone commits a crime or is violent, we have to ask them not to return, but otherwise, we will have some in our midst who seem stuck, and that is okay. We have seen some of our guests show no interest in moving forward for months, but after much love, something switches, and they are off to a better life. We are not there to judge, just serve. Ministries with other models are not being judgmental, but they are doing what they are called to do. Yet, even with all the organizations working to help those in need, there are still many suffering. 

I know we should not dwell on the “what ifs,” but sometimes I wonder, what if, when people who felt disgusted saw the crowds outside our facility, they instead thought, “How can I be the hands and feet of Christ to them?” Maybe it is too late for that, at least for right now, but our friends are still out there, scattered, but out there. Let us love, and may our love draw those in need to light and life. 

The Well is not the sort of magnet we have been accused of being, but perhaps, I hope, it is a sort of magnet. Perhaps many gathered around because Christ’s love for them was present. Crowds should come to Christ. When they do, they need a lot of help, a lot of grace, a lot of mercy, a lot of healing, and a lot of love. Jesus did not do it all alone. He assigned his disciples to the care of the crowds as well. Go, therefore, and serve. 

Of Riots and Racism…

I went to the emergency care center, because I was having chest pains. That was when I was first told I might be dealing with an anxiety disorder. I first noticed the pains as I sat to read the Brunswick News and found myself engrossed by the front page story about a baby boy, Antonio Santiago, who was murdered in broad daylight, shot while the mother took him for a stroll. We were in the national spotlight then too. 

I played the scene over and over in my mind in a futile attempt to make sense of a senseless act. I tried to switch gears to my work, but try as I might, my mind was caught in this loop, every few minutes jumping back to the infanticide. 

I do remember looking out the large window pane of the coffee shop and noticing the bluest blue sky I’d seen in some time. The vibrant green leaves of the trees swayed, betraying the invisible sea breeze that swept through them. I imagined it had to be a perfect day out. I’m sure it was, but when I stepped out, my body was numb, my inner anguish occupied the whole of my senses. My body was trembling and I could not catch my breath. 

I went home and collapsed on the floor, feeling the weight of my body with each gasp of air. I do not remember how long this episode lasted, but I eventually caught my breath and my chest pain dulled.

I told my wife that, while I was only in my twenties, I feared I might be having heart issues. My paternal grandfather had passed away at fifty-three from a massive heart attack. So, I’ve always been concerned. Yet, I also have the propensity to be a worrier, a quality from my maternal roots; so, I told myself not to be a hypochondriac and just ignore the pain. It was probably just a figment of my imagination. My wife wasn’t buying the line I was feeding myself and, after seeing me grab at my chest one too many times over the next couple days, she told me to stop being so stubborn and get to a doctor immediately. So, I went. The shortness of breath seemed to worsen as soon as I made it into the waiting room. 

My heart was fine, and other than having slightly high blood pressure, I was perfectly healthy. The doctor told me to go see my primary doctor, as my issue was probably anxiety related and a more long term solution should be sought in consultation with a physician who knew my background. I was in luck. That physician was my older brother, but, realizing I was not dying, it took me a few months before I explored the issue a bit deeper. 

Yet, with every national tragedy, I’d feel my chest tighten. 

Since 2013, I have come to realize that I have been dealing with anxiety all my life. I went to see my brother, and my condition was no shock to him. He diagnosed my with panic disorder and anxiety (I am sure he would have more accurate terminology, but that is what I remember). He helped me develop an action plan, and I’m glad to say I now know how to manage my anxiety and rarely experience panic anymore. I now treat my mental health much like my dental health. Every day I choose to exercise mental hygiene and every six months to a year, I see a counselor to make sure I’m not missing any build up. I usually get the thumbs up that my regular care is working and move on. 

What happened on that beautiful September morning as I read the paper is something I know is happening again. At least I am more prepared this time around. At least I have the tools this time to prevent a panic attack, a phenomenon that used to leave me on the floor wondering if I was actually dying. As I read in horror the story of little Antonio, my sympathetic response system heightened my stress enough to uncover my lurking anxiety such that it was expressed in a tangible, physiological response. I had denied my anxiety any outlet for so long that it came out sideways. The panic attack that day shook me to the core. 

As I read about George Floyd’s final moments, I had to take quick action to not be drowned by panic. Even so, my heart hurts, or, at least my chest. I can feel it. I’m not panicked, but I’m extremely upset. 

As George Floyd struggled for breath, he cried out for his mother...his deceased mother. For a grown man to call out for his mom for rescue, he has to be desperate. For a grown man to call out for his deceased mom for rescue, he has to be broken. These officers did not just murder him. They terrorized him into fear and broke his spirit. Then they killed him in front of the world. 

I’m undone. 

But, I am no where near feeling what my black friends must feel. How so many of my black friends are still holding it together as much as they are is beyond me, not to deny their real pain and the brokenness that is hidden by the wall of social media. I can only pray that grace would carry me beyond my breaking point, as it must be for them. 

At the risk of seeming to get off topic, let’s talk about the Corona Virus for a moment in order to talk about breaking points. Trying my best to set my personal feelings aside, I must, at very least, admit my surprise at how fragile our resolve has proven to be. While this enemy does not discriminate, we have taken it upon ourselves to politicize the virus. We have protested calls for precaution. We have blamed anyone and everyone.  

Why?

For lack of a better word, people feel “oppressed” by COVID-19 or at least by those they think are responsible for not responding how they would like to the pandemic. I’m not above being upset over everything that has happened. I’m not above wishing this never happened. In fact, I do not want to invalidate what we are all feeling. I may not agree with how some respond, but I will never condemn anyone for hating our situation and mourning all the losses we have had, both of life and of livelihood. 

The virus has caused a blunt, dull, gnawing sense of fear. It has revealed our fears and has made us vulnerable. So, we tear at each other. I’m even willing to forgive irrational behavior, because we all have our breaking point. What would it be like to always feel this way? We have to move on. We cannot live in fear forever. It’s just too much of an emotional drain. Isn’t that our argument?

Y’all. 

Y’all!

Y’ALL! 

This is what the black community has said to us about racism for decades upon decades. They cannot live with the nagging fear any more. Something must give. And many white people have just said, “I’m sorry, but what can I do?” We signal for the black community to get back in their lane. We do not want to share their burden. So, we pretend we have nothing we can do. They have told us they cannot go on forever, but now that racism has caused irrational response, we act like we cannot understand why in the world some would riot. 

Hell, we think we can overcome a virus with pure American resolve or delusion. We think we can tell a virus to go away by sticking our fingers in our ears and yelling, “la, la, la, la, la” , but we cannot deal with the disease of racism? One is outside of us. One is a matter of individual and collective will. But we will tell an actual virus, “No,” before we tell a disease of the heart “no”?

One may kill our body. The other will kill our soul. 

My point is this: we have all learned recently how horrible it is to have an ongoing threat loom over our lives. We want to deny it a place, if only by the most ineffective means of ignoring its reality. The threat of COVID-19 has made us act irrationally., with protesters threatening police in front of government buildings. But, the black community is just supposed to live with the threat of racism and play nice, because “we live in an imperfect world”?  And if they act in a way we do not approve, we just say, “This won’t solve anything.” 

Come on!

We can do better than that.

Maybe we do not have to approve, but we can offer something better than parental finger wags and patronizing moral platitudes. 

I know my words are harsh. Not all will feel they are ignoring the issue. I know. I am so glad many of us are speaking out, some of us as a continuing effort and some of us for the first time. Don’t be offended if you don’t have to be. But, I’m angry, and I’m angry with my own sin. I’m not just speaking out. I’m speaking in. I have caught myself saying, “that makes no sense,” when, in fact, while it is not justifiable, it is understandable. I’m just uncomfortable. Plain and simple. I hope voices such as those of Mayor Keisha Lance Bottoms and Killer Mike find purchase for the black community in their pain. As for white people, we should leave it to those leaders. As for us, we have to ask, “Can we do better to prevent such conditions?” That is the question Dr. King asked us all those years ago. It still hangs in the air. 

Deep breath. That is a technique I use.

Let’s continue. 

I know what it is like to live with constant anxiety. Yet, my anxiety is a disorder. It has no external cause. It’s conjured by my mind that has to remain constantly disciplined to remain in tact. The fear and anxiety of the black community is real. My fear is irrational, and by telling myself such, I save myself a lot of grief. But, a black person cannot do this, lest they risk their lives by doing the very thing that saves mine. If they pretend their fears are unfounded and let their guard down at the wrong time, it is over. We have proof. 

Living in constant fear takes a toll on the body. I was told I had to get over my constant fear, lest I continue to damage my mind and body. So, I do. But, our black friends cannot. Until the external problem is resolved, the inner conflict will persist. 

Only when white people are freed from hate and prejudice will black people be freed from violence that inevitably swells from such hate and prejudice. Our salvation is their’s. Maybe you are like me and do not allow racism in your life. Or, at very least I should say, you work, like me to find it where it lays in hiding and attempt every chance you see it to root it out. That is good, but not yet good enough. I have to work to root it out of my culture as well. 

I have low grade pain in my chest today. I know why. A young black man was hunted down in my local community where I serve as a pastor and was shot with buck shot. He was rounded up by circling vehicles, one man even hopping in the bed of the truck with his weapon to get a better vantage point like I did when I would hunt rabbits growing up. Ahmaud was hunted like an animal, and I cannot imagine his human fear, realizing his life was coming to a violent end. A black woman was shot in her bed as her home was mistakenly raided in Kentucky, the only other state I have called home. A black man in New York was threatened by a white woman who used his skin color to incite conflict, putting his life on the line, because she felt called out. And, in Minnesota, a black man begged for his life, called out to his deceased mother, and was robbed of breath as he was being terrorized, and this is just another wave.

How can we tell the black community to calm down and catch their breath as the waves keep crashing in on them? My father was a lifeguard, and one lesson he taught me early on was to be wary of a drowning victim. As they struggle for their life, they will often irrationally attack those who try to aid, clawing to get to the surface. The black community is catching wave after wave. Drowning in hate is ever much drowning as is drowning in water. 

And you want to know something that breaks my heart: I get to choose to feel this pain. My anxiety has taught me that I can often choose when and where I hurt. Since I’m not black, I have the luxury of waking up each morning and choosing to care or not. That is a terrible privilege, and, make no mistake. It is privilege. 

I do not condone riots, but, if I lived in such fear every day, I might give into the fear. Some of us could not even handle masks and social distancing, and so these people threatened action, as they wore military style gear and carried rifles. But, we just scoffed at them. Oh, look at Bubba trying to act all big and bad. I am afraid that racism has taught us to be afraid of angry black people, because we do not see the anger as human, as we do Bubba's. Bubba is just being Bubba, but that black man better calm down, because he is making me uncomfortable. 

If we condemn riots, then let us act to end them. Let’s end them by tearing down the conditions that cause people to act irrationally. Deny racism its place. Protect your brothers and sisters in their distress. This is what Martin Luther King, Jr. asked of us decades ago. We have had enough time to consider his plea. Now, let’s respond. 

Listen. 

Vote. 

Demand justice.

And, do not let up. Things may seem to get back to normal for those of us who do not live in this fear all the time. It will be easy to lose our resolve. As I said, it is thin for many anyway. 

If chest pain is all I can count on to keep me focused, I do not want to be healed of my pain. I will chose to hurt and know that is not enough.