“Go throughout the city of Jerusalem and put a mark on the foreheads of those who grieve and lament over all the detestable things that are done in it.” (Ezekiel 9:4)
As the pastor of a large, predominantly white, evangelical church, I want to share my personal response to a terribly grievous week in America.
As I drove to work on Thursday, I listened on my car radio to the first-person, real-time account of the shooting death of Philando Castile in Minnesota on Wednesday night, July 6. The young African American man held a responsible job and was traveling with a mother and her four-year-old child. I could hear on the audio that he was respectful and appropriate to the police officer who had pulled him over for a broken taillight. He politely and clearly informed the officer that he had a permitted firearm in his car and was now reaching for his wallet. But the individual commissioned to “protect and serve” law-abiding citizens like Mr. Castile, shot him four times. Philando Castile died at the scene. The killing of Alton Sterling the day before in Baton Rouge bore similar marks.
I sat in the car, listening to the recording play a second time, and felt my heart ache.
We are all aware now that incidents like this are not unusual. While they have gotten heightened visibility in recent years, they have been going on for so many years and in so many places that it has left entire communities of people with trauma, wounds, and mistrust that are hard to heal. Friends of color from city and suburb alike speak of feeling afraid at the sight of a black and white vehicle behind them. Their families worry when they are out in a car and late in coming home–for reasons I never worry about concerning my loved ones.
I’m well aware that families of police officers also fear for their loved ones’ lives. The calculated killing of five officers in Dallas later on Thursday is absolutely heinous too. They are hardly the first ones to leave behind weeping families because they were simply trying to keep the peace and had their lives brutally taken alongside some highway, on a city street, or as they answered a domestic disturbance. I believe that the vast majority of police officers in this country are worthy of honor and facing an increasingly dangerous world.
I have largely been blind or willfully ignorant about events like those that played out for Philando Castile or Alton Sterling. I have tended to rationalize these incidents.
At the same, I will confess that I have largely been blind or willfully ignorant about events like those that played out for Philando Castile or Alton Sterling. I have tended to rationalize these incidents. I have excused the errant actions of authorities because of all the pressure they are certainly under. I have pointed my finger at all the black-on-black crime out there—as if this somehow justified the murder of somebody’s child or lessened the grief God must feel over the brokenness of his creation. There are all kinds of explanations for how I’ve often responded to such killings, but no real excuse. I know that because of what I feel inside of me when I imagine that this was my family in that car in Minnesota or my brother on that street in Baton Rouge.
As I turned off the radio and walked into my workplace on Thursday morning, my mind raced on to other concerns–a list of meetings and to do’s, a variety of “first world worries.” Until I met the tears of an African American co-worker. Why hadn’t I immediately sought this person or others out when I entered the building? Was it because I was already hardening my heart to what had happened this week? Was it because I feared there would be a violent backlash (as did indeed happen) to confuse my feelings further? Did I unconsciously avoid going to my black colleagues because I felt helpless to say or do anything constructive? The answer is probably, yes.
It took a black colleague coming to me to break this useless turning inward. She reminded me that there is always one thing worth doing in the face of times like ours. When confronted by the pain and wrongdoing of their societies, the biblical prophets admonished God’s people that even if they did not know how to repair all the problems, there was one constructive action they could certainly take. They could “lament all the detestable things that are done” (Ezekiel 9:4) They could mourn with those who mourn. They could cry out for wisdom to the God who sees all. They could refuse to accept “the way it is” and never stop longing for the in-breaking of a better Kingdom. They could pray and encourage others to pray for all the people caught up in the giant agony of our city and suburbs, still so much in need of a Savior.
I am sorry for my hard-heartedness and my crippling sense of helplessness. I regret that I have not done more to reach out to brothers and sisters in Christ who experience America today in a very different way than I do. I lament today and join my heart to others who sorrow. I want to work harder to build a better world.
Daniel Meyer is pastor of Christ Church of Oak Brook, Illinois.
