Today is widely recognized in faith communities as Peace Sunday, and I
had the privilege of delivering the sermon with a good friend of mine this
morning at Slate Hill Mennonite Church. It's funny, because although as a
Mennonite "peace" has always been a core value of mine, I don't often
think of myself as a "peacemaker". In fact, I believe many times - in both our churches and our broader
society - the pursuit of "peace" apart from justice makes us complicit in preserving unjust systems and allowing oppression to continue.
We saw this during the Civil Rights Movement, when there were those who sought
to preserve a fragile “peace” without addressing the gross injustices that were
causing people to take to the streets, and at times, resort to violence. We see
it today across the country, where people lament the “rioting” that has
occurred in Ferguson, Baltimore and elsewhere – yet refuse to acknowledge the
deep-seated injustices imbedded in our criminal justice system, and the ways
that communities of color are systemically marginalized. We cannot hope for peace – nor should we – unless we first acknowledge the realities of systemic racism in our society, and take intentional, ongoing action to dismantle this system of oppression.
For many of us who are white, these are uncomfortable truths to hear.
Yet these are the realities that the #BlackLivesMatter movement is calling
attention to. Many white people question the name #BlackLivesMatter, asking don’t #AllLivesMatter? And of course, they do – but the purpose in adopting the
#BlackLivesMatter slogan is to point out that although all lives should be
equally valued, it is clear that black lives are
not. There is a consistent pattern of unarmed black people being killed, which can no longer be ignored. This idea that “black” equals
“dangerous” or “criminal” is so deeply ingrained in the psyche of our society
and our criminal justice system that it has deadly results. #BlackLivesMatter
does not exclude white lives - rather, it invites us to really listen to the
hurt, anger and frustration that communities of color are expressing, and join
together to call for racial justice.
We saw this during the Civil Rights Movement, when white people marched side-by-side with people of color. I would venture to say that
the Civil Rights Movement was the original #BlackLivesMatter movement –
advocating for black people to be equally valued under the law and by white
Americans. When Dr. King led the sanitation workers on strike, they wore signs
that said “I Am a Man” – directly challenging the status quo, in which a black
man was not recognized as equal to a white man; where the basic humanity of
people of color was denied.
Listening to the voices of #BlackLivesMatter, what many would say is
today’s civil rights movement, can be challenging because it forces white
people to acknowledge our own privilege. I often think about how I have the
privilege of turning "off" when I leave the office. I don't have to
think about racism once I’m off the clock - I don’t have to be aware of my race
when I walk down the street. My whiteness will never have the same kind of
negative impact on me that blackness or brownness has on people of color.
Because of that, I must continually challenge myself to keep my awareness
turned "on" - to critically observe, listen and engage even when I
don't have to, or I don't want to.
As a white person, I must choose to be an ally every single day. It is not a word that I use lightly - and as my friends at the Women of Color Network recently reminded me, being an ally is not a state of being but something that I must continually aspire to. I must turn in my ally "card" each night, and earn it all over the again the next day. Racial justice work is a constant process of examining myself for those unconscious attitudes and behaviors that contribute to racism; educating myself by reading, talking with and listening to others; and taking opportunities to speak up and take action.
One of
the most powerful articles I have read recently is "I, Racist" by John Metta. Published shortly after the
Charleston massacre, the author writes about why it is difficult for him - as a black man - to talk with white people about race. Please read it. He closes the article with this challenge: “All the Black voices in the world speaking about racism all the time do
not move White people to think about it – but one White John Stewart talking about Charleston has a whole lot of White people talking about it. That’s the
world we live in. Black people can't change it while White people are silent
and deaf to our words.... White people are in a position of power in this country because of
racism. The question is: Are they brave enough to use that power to speak
against the system that gave it to them?"
That is our challenge, my challenge. To speak up even when it is uncomfortable, unpopular or risky. To use my voice even when I am unsure of what to say or how to say it. To interrupt someone who is using their position of power to perpetuate racism. To challenge the ways that racism is imbedded in the institutions and systems that I am a part of. To not let my desire for preserving "peace" supercede my charge to eliminate racism.
