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racial justice

As I alluded to in this post, my blog writing was interrupted for a time this Summer. This was initially an unintentional pause given the chaotic nature of a move, new city, new job context, our engagement, etc. etc. But it soon became a mindful moment to stop and listen, as highly mediatized injustices precipitated a moment of cultural reckoning about racism and racial oppression. The horrific killings of George Floyd (Minnesota), Ahmaud Arbery (Georgia), and Breonna Taylor (Kentucky) spurred an international conversation about the marginalization of people of color in the United States, soon, in the Global North as a whole. Creating new content felt depthless and wrong as I watched in horror the unfolding pain of an entire people. It was a time for me to pause, and make room for the voices of my brothers and sisters of color to be amplified. 

Some might call this cultural moment as a "season of upheaval". They see discourse and diatribes online, continued protests on the news and in their cities, and they think to themselves that this is unconscionable chaos. 

Just a couple months ago, as flames engulfed Minneapolis and people of color cried out for justice and news anchors wept and government officials condemned and people I loved marched in city streets in the name of reform while others scoffed and others grieved and many more were utterly confused, I pulled out Martin Luther King Jr.'s Letter from a Birmingham Jail. And I read it through tears. 

These words, especially, struck me:
I must make two honest confessions to you, my Christian and Jewish brothers. First, I must confess that over the past few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro's great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen's Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to "order" than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: "I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action"; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man's freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a "more convenient season." Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection.

I had hoped that the white moderate would understand that law and order exist for the purpose of establishing justice and that when they fail in this purpose they become the dangerously structured dams that block the flow of social progress. I had hoped that the white moderate would understand that the present tension in the South is a necessary phase of the transition from an obnoxious negative peace, in which the Negro passively accepted his unjust plight, to a substantive and positive peace, in which all men will respect the dignity and worth of human personality. Actually, we who engage in nonviolent direct action are not the creators of tension. We merely bring to the surface the hidden tension that is already alive. We bring it out in the open, where it can be seen and dealt with. Like a boil that can never be cured so long as it is covered up but must be opened with all its ugliness to the natural medicines of air and light, injustice must be exposed, with all the tension its exposure creates, to the light of human conscience and the air of national opinion before it can be cured.

To be honest, I hesitated to write this post now. I did not get around to it in the past couple months, although I meant to. I wondered, as I sat down to write today, whether such a post was too late. I was immediately jolted by this train of thought: how could I think I was "too late to the game" in talking about racial justice? 

This is exactly the problem. Our social media feeds, our conversations, our thought processes have largely "moved on" since the initial shock and despair at the forefront of public consciousness this summer. The white moderate, however, cannot allow this to happen. 

Here are some reasons I will continue to bring up racial justice. 

Artwork by Scott Erickson, @scottthepainter on Instagram

1. My theology requires me to speak

White Christians especially have the moral responsibility to pull this conversation back into the limelight, again and again, until justice prevails, on Earth as it is in Heaven. 

One thing that continues to weigh heavily on my heart is the reminder that, wherever Christ went, people were given hope and were reminded of their belovedness. This occurs over and over in the gospels, but perhaps the story I mull over most is that of the bleeding woman who walked through the crowd to touch the fringe of Christ's garment (Luke 8: 43-48). When I read this passage, I see that Christ paused, and ensured that the woman was seen, recognized, healed. I see that her burden was named, and that peace was spoken over her as she went on her way, free of her pain. Are we not called to do the same? Are we not, as image bearers of the living God, empowered by the His Spirit, called to uncover the way of Jesus in the way we address racism? I'm utterly frustrated (and saddened) that so many Christians consider the pursuit of racial justice to be a political agenda, rather than understanding it is the call of the Christian to be a peacemaker. 

Matthew 5:9 reads: "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God." Note that Jesus did not say "peacekeepers" but makers. A proper exegesis of biblical texts demonstrates God's desire for His people to be people of justice, equality and peace. When we water down these conversations to being a question of mere popular politics, we trivialize the theological case for racial justice - and how aligned it is with the heart and Kingdom vision of God. 

2. I have biases and presumptions to confront within myself 

In recent months, I have especially recognized the need for me to confess and confront my own biases and presumptions. I had began this process in the past couple years, but recent discourse reignited this process, and highlighted its dire need and urgency. 

On May 29th, I wrote this on Facebook: 

Too many of us have consistently failed to roll up our sleeves and do the work of confronting the racism, bias and bigotry that festers within ourselves, and both uproot & dispel it. Too many of us have chosen not to acknowledge our generational and/or lived privilege (whether visible or invisible), thus trivializing people of color’s generational trauma of being systematically and structurally marginalized.
Complacency is comfortable, but if this past month (and, admittedly, all of time) has shown anything, it’s that complacency is an act of violence and brutality. Don’t be fooled: peace-making is not passive. Claiming “I’m not a racist” isn’t enough to bring about racial justice.
Black people’s lives should not be systematically threatened or brutalized by individual or state violence. Our apathy in view of modern-day lynching & slavery is appalling. What are you and I going to do about it?
Many resist the notion of “white privilege” because they think, “But what about white people who struggle and suffer? Not all white people are ‘privileged’! My ancestors struggled!” but please understand this (and I’m borrowing the words of many scholars and activists here): ‘white privilege’ doesn’t mean you don’t suffer, it just means that your skin tone isn’t one of the parts of your identity that causes your suffering. The commentary needs to change; we need to get uncomfortable. Too much (human life) is at stake, and we can’t be content with complacency, silence, or dismissal.
To my Canadian and European friends in this space- do not think this is but an American problem. It might look different, but it’s pervasive. Here, too, we need loud & proactive & consistent resistance to issues that run generations deep.
To my white Christian friends- our silence and our complacency is sinful. Amos 5:23-24 says “Take away from me the noise of your songs. But let justice roll down like waters…” (Amos 5:23-24). David Platt said it well this week- we are foolish to think God delights in our worship when we stand silently before injustice. The very first person to whom Christ introduced himself as Messiah was a woman in a marginalized racial/ethnic group. The cross symbolizes reconciliation- but it is narrow to think the gospel is just about me and God. It’s *also* about God ushering in His Kingdom on earth- one in which humans are reconciled with Him, Creation, and EACH OTHER. When we turn a blind eye to the racial injustice faced by black image-bearers of the holy God, we spit on the very justice of God.
In the social media age we are in, many of us (myself included) have acted as though a mere “like” or “retweet” or pithy quote means we are an ally. We need to do better. I want my actions, my money and my rights as a citizen to be where my words are: I want to spend my privilege on disrupting systemic racism, by listening to my black brothers and sisters & by following their lead in creating an inclusive word that *sustains* justice.
To my brothers and sisters of color, I ask for forgiveness for my oversights, for not naming the ways I have benefitted from structural racism & the systems/cultures set up to support those of my skin color, for avoiding uncomfortable conversations instead of wading into them with you, for not noticing white-only leadership at events nor recognizing the consolidation of power in the hands of white people, for failing to call out the minimization of racism (or worse: for minimizing it myself), for being shocked when hearing about racial violence on the news yet not informing myself on the oppression and abuse faced daily by the black community, for not speaking up when I’ve witnessed appropriation or racist jokes “because it’s not my place, I don’t know enough about racism,” for uttering such colorblind nonsense as “I don’t see color” and thus ignoring your distinct histories/ realities/ experiences/struggles, for building an illusion of inclusivity yet not actively fighting to dismantle the virulent setbacks and attacks you face. I want to do better.
Today I’m reading the book “White Fragility”, authored by Robin Diangelo, about why white people are (perpetually, sensationally, historically) bad at confronting racism. It’s about time. I suggest you pick up a copy if you want to get started on understanding anti-racism.
I suppose one could remain comfortable at the sight of the headlines highlighting more terror & at the sound of the cries of the black community. But aren’t we called to greater love than this?

I ended up reading White Fragility over the Summer, and worked through it in a group setting. I recognize the book is worth analyzing critically and I indeed had some pronounced disagreements with many points made by the author. That said, I found her thesis to be of fundamental importance, and I was left with a deep conviction that active listening and introspection are essential to sustained racial justice.

In sum, I will continue to bring up racial justice because such conversations, albeit uncomfortable, will further challenge my prejudiced oversights than silence or complacency will. Hopefully, such discourse will also encourage others to look inwardly and accost their own racist biases. We need ongoing exchanges and feedback in order to address and, ultimately, dismantle discriminatory behaviors and thought processes.

3. I need to challenge segregated social networks and celebrate diversity

In all of this, I'm cognizant of the fact that it is all too easy to claim you're void of prejudice when in a bubble. Too, it is easy to pontificate on the importance of racial justice when you’ve never been aware of your own skin pigmentation. These past few months, I have been thinking a lot about my time in the Bronx just a year ago. I remember  those long subway rides every day, when I took the 4 train home from Grand Central after work. Three stops in, halfway through Harlem, I was the only white person left on the subway cart. Other than the occasional Summer nights when there was a baseball game at Yankee Stadium, I was the lone white person. I remember the double-takes on those subway rides and whenever I walked around my neighborhood. I remember the oft-asked "What are you doing living there?" question from friends and acquaintances in Manhattan. 

But I also remember noticing behaviors within myself that I find myself ashamed by- how my body tensed up when the doorbell rang, how I assumed the worst when someone on the street walked in my direction, how I hastened my steps when I walked home from Fordham Road Station, how I would only exhale once I was back inside my apartment after going grocery shopping. Of course, this was especially true in my first weeks living there, before the Bronx found a tender place in my heart. But these reactions were undeniable. Recognizing and naming these reactions was the beginning of my journey toward racial consciousness, as discussed in point 2 above. I wrote about this process in this blogpost. 

Being part of the white collective means I’ve rarely -if ever- felt as though I didn’t belong. I had to enter into a largely black space to understand that whiteness means something. Moving to the Bronx bolstered me into confronting my racist and classist prejudice. And I have much work to do, still. 

Now, in my new city, I find myself in a primarily white context. Without falling into patterns such as tokenism, I recognize more than ever the need for me to continue to diversify my friendships, my perspectives, my conversations. When you're in a homogeneous bubble, it is dangerously easy to forget about the suffering outside beyond your network. 

So, in sum, I bring up racial justice to forcefully remember that my lived experiences as a white woman are different than that of my brothers and sisters of color. 

To many, having a vastly homogenous circle appears like a non-issue."I gravitate who I gravitate toward" or "My circle is mostly white but I don't care about color -the homogeneity just happened" they quip. But I would argue that diversity is something we must intentionally and ruthlessly fight for. I don't want to content myself with living within a white bubble and merely discussing racial justice within this bubble. The white bubble itself can be a problematic scenario. 

The sociologist Miller McPherson explains: "Homophily [people's natural affinity to gravitate to other people who are like themselves] limits people’s social worlds in a way that has powerful implications for the information they receive, the attitudes they form, and the interactions they experience." In failing to intentionally diversify our social networks, we all too easily resort to patterns such as generalizing, stereotyping, categorizing and, in more extreme cases, discriminating. 

When we have little firsthand experience with diversity, we end up 'othering' what is different than us. This cognitive pattern can dangerously lead people to become a mere concept ('the other') instead of  multi-faceted human beings with a variety and complexity of experiences. I have found this to be very apparent in the response of the white collective to the Black Lives Matter outcries this year. Conversations about protests, especially, seem to entirely miss the public lament spurring the protests and riots in the first place. We don't bother to humbly look into the human experience that led these protests and riots to occur. We instead we clutch our pearls in disbelief over the commotion perceived. As MLK said, riots do not develop out of thin air. Let us think about this. When we fail to humanize a collective public outcry, the status quo remains unchanged and unchallenged. 

Ultimately, there is no better way to humanize another than by pulling a chair up to our table and inviting people of various ethnic groups to break bread with us, thus diversifying our social networks. By making the time and space in our lives to better grasp the conditions other humans exist within, we develop an ability to empathize with what we used to view as a theoretical 'other'. 

So I bring up questions of race, equality and justice because one cannot avoid such concepts when endeavoring to espouse a life of inclusion and celebration of diversity. How can we think people of color would be comfortable in a space where their lived experiences are overlooked? I would argue that, in failing to ever bring up racial justice, we are implicitly communicating to visible minorities that their pain, their tears, their heartache, their grief and (as harsh as this may seem) their lives don't matter to us.

We are called to uncover the abundant, rich and at times uncomfortable beauty of diversity, even if it means difficult conversations will and must arise. 

4. I want to resist the convenience of performative activism and virtue-signalling 

I am hopeful about sustainable change since this Summer, but I am also weary of some of the trends and vitriol I have seen online. And I want to be held accountable. Anyone can post a black square, share a pithy quote, and use a trending hashtag. But will I keep the conversations going even when it is not longer trendy? And will I do this whilst amplifying black voices, not centering my own feelings? 

At the end of the day, it is a problem if our Instagram feeds have changed but not our posture, nor speech. It is a problem if we’re retweeting but not bothering to enter into hard conversations with those around us - even the ones we wholly disagree with. It is a problem when we pat ourselves on the back for performative activism online yet fail to advocate when it comes to our bank accounts, our votes, our day to day. 

Lest we be people who know the language of justice and who build illusions of inclusivity, only to be passive. Lest we claim to be allies only to stay comfortable. 

Virtue signalling is a temptation for many of us. But we need to fight the urge to try to "prove" that we are not racist through trivial Instagram likes and Twitter retweets and so many things that fall under the umbrella of "woke culture". May our words and choices and actions speak louder than any online performance. 

By nature, the road to justice is unglamorous and self-sacrificial. It involves awkward and painful conversations with people we love. It denotes money dispensed, votes casted, letters written to political representatives, time given up. 

So I will talk about racial justice, because by bringing it to the forefront of my mind over and over and by discussing it despite the risk of annoying (or God forbid offending), I trust that it will propel me to live out the convictions I speak of. I want to embody the ways of justice, because I deeply care about justice. And we talk about what we care about. 

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Hence, the conversation continues. But I want to conclude by emphasizing that we all must also remember when not to speak, to instead amplify resources shared by professionals and people of color, to withhold our thoughts and take a step back and just listen in humility. 

So I thought I would end this post by sharing the books and resources that were helpful to me in this season, or that I plan on reading/ watching in upcoming months. 

Books/reads
Online resources
Podcasts/ Sermons
Movies/ Documentaries 
I hope these resources are helpful to you. Please feel free to share what you have been learning - I am always open to recommendations! 

Let us roll up our sleeves and do the work, friends. Over and over, let us affirm the Imago Dei -the inherent value of every image bearer of God- until we see justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream. 

Let it be so now. 
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