Why it's so important for me to say Black Lives Matter

A Facebook friend posted an article about the Black Lives Matter Organization. The article is pretty strongly opinionated about Christians using the hashtag #blacklivesmatter. Reading it made me think, research, grieve and pray.

I've been grieving and praying since the beginning of June, since I first learned about George Floyd's death. I can't remember how I heard about it, actually. Maybe it was the news. Maybe Facebook. All I know is that I began to hear his name, that there was a video (which I haven't been able to bring myself to watch), followed by protests and outrage, riots and looting, and a maelstrom of public opinion. I've read some amazing pieces- facebook posts, poetry, cries to action, calls to repentance. I've listened to podcasts and music. I've had conversations- with my husband, my pastor, my "quaranteam" friends, and probably most importantly, my black Christian friends.

As I considered my own culpability in the system- as a sinner, and a white female, but also a redeemed and beloved child of God, I wrote a few things down here in the blog to help me process those thoughts.  I haven't written anything profound or that hundreds of people aren't saying with better words than mine. I've even thought- "Why write about it at all? So much is already being said." I guess that part of the answer to that question is that writing forces me to be just a little bit brave. It's not that my words are going to convince someone of a different mindset to change their convictions. I think we're all witnessing the reality that people become more and more entrenched in their own ideas, no matter what is said. But maybe my words will make my own convictions sink deeper into my heart- that jagged mess that keeps crying out for attention and healing. And maybe someone else whose heart aches the way that mine does will hear the same hopeful message that I've received, and will be comforted.

Why has George Floyd's death caused me to grieve? Clearly he is not the first black man whose life was brutally taken by a white person manifesting their power in violence (just writing that sentence makes me feel sick). So why his death particularly? I'm sure there are a lot of factors that come into play for those of us who are grief-stricken and motivated to speak and act in the wake of his death- but for me, a lot of it has to do with timing. Some of George's last words were "I can't breathe." I've spent the past two and a half years struggling with chronic anxiety. One of my symptoms has been chest pain. Pain so bad that it has kept me up at night, pain that I thought would never end, that couldn't be alleviated by anything (except the occasional beautiful afternoon in the garden). I spent months feeling like I couldn't breath, each chest expansion a hopeful but terrified guess at whether or not I'd be able to fill my lungs. (If you've never experienced anxiety, it's hard to imagine this, but anyone out there who has had a good old fashioned panic attack, you know exactly what I'm talking about). It could be that my struggle for breath has made me connect with George's cry. All I know is that anything I read or hear someone mention these last words of his, I fall to pieces.

My struggle with anxiety can't be boiled down to any one reason- that's one thing that I've learned since starting to recover from it! It's been a mixture of postpartum physiology, emotional and physical exhaustion and spiritual bemusement- but a MAJOR factor has been that I have been spiritually abused. If you don't know what spiritual abuse is (I didn't), then I have two tips for you- read Educated by Tara Westover and listen to these podcasts on spiritual abuse from the Allender Center. Spiritual abuse distorts the victim's view of God. And for someone like me, whose life is wrapped around the idea of God and what it means to be in relationship with God- it is devastating.

The overpowering grace of God has led me to a movement of Christians who see and understand spiritual abuse (and many other forms of abuse) and are moving out into the world with a swift, beautiful message that is pure Rescue. The message is this- Your story is real. Your story is being listened to. Your brokenness matters. You do not need to fix it. You are not to blame. And you are NOT alone.  

Spiritual abuse happens when someone who claims to hear from God projects a message that ignores the cries of the downcast, blames them for their brokenness and treats them as "other" often because of the very suffering that they have, in fact, caused. Spiritual abuse has broken my heart, frayed my faith and ultimately lead to physical suffering that has made me feel like I can't breathe. Maybe the worst thing about spiritual abuse is that it alienates the victim from the Healer. They're made to feel like they are outside the circle of acceptance- a dangerous and dark place, where literally anything can happen to a mind or a body.

My emotional response to the death of George Floyd is shrouded in this experience. My heart aches because, when I read articles like that one posted on Facebook about using the Black Lives Matter hashtag, I see the shaming of people in the name of God, the calling out of "unrighteous" ideology and the classification of suffering people as the "other." There is no consideration of the myriad sin-crushed, grace-starved systemic causes of the suffering that lead to the cry in the first place... at least, not that I can see. There is no pneuma here, no life-giving grace. No hope, no healing. Just a projection of what a righteous person should be, and the shaming of those who cannot live up to the standard. (News flash- that's all of us, by the way) This article is an echo of my own experiences of shame and spiritual abuse.

As I heal, one of the things that I'm learning to do is to sit with pain. I'm reading a book about how and why Christians need to learn when and how to sit with pain. The author, K.J. Ramsey, summarizes why I need to say Black Lives Matter this way-

Sin is calling a failure what is actually the fall. It's forgetting our origin story, the sin of self-sufficiency, and the outcome of living beyond the boundaries of what God has given. It's forgetting that every part of creation cries out because of the curse. It's forgetting that broken bodies, broken stories and broken relationships are the result of ancient sin. It's personalizing what are often bigger consequences of a massive story. Disease, disorders, weakness, poverty and grief are the losing legacy of humanity, the shards of sin shattering us, from the smallest cell to the largest cultural system. The Savior came and is coming again, but our healing is in his hands, not our own. If our Savior chose to enter the human story in a human body, then we should enter one another's places of suffering remembering we carry and extend the presence of Christ. Sin is any Christian's response to pain, poverty and weakness (and Meredith Wermel wants to include suffering from systemic racism in this list) that assumes they are problems to solve rather than places to patiently embody the solidarity of Jesus. 

This is the reason that I, as a person who claims the name of Jesus Christ as an integral part of my identity, need to say that Black Lives Matter. I say it in solidarity, not just with my brothers and sisters who are telling me that they are suffering, but in solidarity with Jesus who came and suffered for and with us. This suffering Savior is the central figure of my faith, and I'm convinced that to represent Him rightly means that I must sit, listen and hurt together with those who are telling their stories. Love requires this, and suffering hearts need this. This is the Rescue. Comparing, belittling, blame-shifting, denying, ignoring and judging the crushed in spirit is not. That is spiritual abuse. And I know well how that abuse keeps us from being able to breathe.

To my black brothers and sisters- Your story is real. Your story is being listened to. Your brokenness matters. You do not need to fix it. You are not to blame. You are NOT alone. Black Lives Matter. And the Gospel is for everyone.

After getting some feedback on the blog, I want to include this comment I wrote on my Facebook page: 

One thing I wish I had written in the blog: Black Lives Matter is both an organization and a movement. When I read the article I referred to in this blog that questions Christians who use #blacklivesmatter I took my time reading and considering the statements from the Black Lives Matter organization. I cannot say that I agree with all of them. I also cannot say that I agree with each and every statement put forth by churches that I’ve been a member of. But I’ve agreed with their central tenet and that’s been enough for me (after a lot of prayerful consideration- I don’t want to minimize that process or oversimplify it) The central tenet of the Black Lives Matter organization and the movement is to demand an end to racial inequality and violence against black people. This issue is obviously HUGE and cannot be dealt with in a single article written by anyone. What concerned me about that article and made me want to write a response is that I perceived the article as something that would discourage Christians from using the hashtag or affiliating with the movement by claiming that doing so means automatic agreement with all of the tenets of the organization. Again, I’m not sure I can think of any man-made system that I agree with 100% of their tenets. But I certainly do support movements and organizations with which I agree with their central tenets. (After a lot of consideration) And, for me, the Black Lives Matter movement is something that I want to stand with and support, not in spite of being a Christian, but because I AM a Christian.

To be clear: the organization helped start the movement, but the movement is not limited to the organization. Saying "Black Lives Matter" is loaded with meaning, and in this blog, I'm telling the story of what it means to me to say this and the reasons that I choose to say it. I realize that, for some people, there are other connotations. Here, I'm making a case for why I am saying it. The fear that other people might connect me with ideologies that I do not support is not as important to me as the desire to stand with those who are suffering and need support in this hour. If you have any questions, send me a DM! 

Of Barbie dolls and deep regret

It was December 2019 and I was looking at Amazon for the 2019 Holiday Barbie. Story saw her at Wal-Mart and had practically begged for her for Christmas. The 25th wasn't too many days away, and I was trying to wrap up my shopping. But the only Barbie that I could find for sale looked like this...

I debated for a few minutes- telling myself that Story would want a Barbie that looked more like her. (This isn't true, by the way. Ever since Story was old enough to hold any sort of baby doll, she's always gravitated toward babies and Barbies with darker skin than hers. )

And then, I clicked on through the loops and swirls of the online shopping world until I found a different doll. A whiter doll. And I gave that doll to her for Christmas.

I walked with my neighbors, church family and fellow citizens in the Dunn Unity Walk yesterday evening. My children carried signs and we chanted- "No Justice, No Peace!" When we neared City Hall, I passed a woman with a megaphone. She shouted "Say his name! Say his name! I can't breathe! I can't breath!" and I wept.

I still feel like weeping. Because, deep down, I think the evil that made that man keep his knee on George Floyd's neck is the same evil that made me keep clicking that December day.

I could argue that my upbringing was filled with lessons about equality (it was) or that I've always done my best to not judge someone because of the color of their skin. Or, I could just be silent, as I usually have been, afraid to speak up because I might offend my family or my neighbors or people I want to please. I could talk about the destruction of the riots and how God wouldn't desire that much violence. All of that might even be true. But it isn't the deepest truth. The deepest truth is that I clicked on that day because there is something inside of me, something old and evil- something absorbed from the centuries of inequitable life in this Southern land that whispered to me- "the dark one isn't good enough." 

God, forgive me. I am so, so, so sorry. Maybe my skin has always been white, but my heart hasn't been. And one thing that I am sure of- George Floyd's death has convinced me that I need to pray this prayer.

Wash me clean of my iniquity and cleanse me. Psalm 51:2

p.s. I bought Story that Barbie today. Let the reparation begin.

Will it hurt us to listen?

Will it hurt us to listen? 

Yes, it will. Our ego will bleed as our narrative is shushed while the voices of the angry, exhausted, desperate and heart-broken become louder than our story that insists that our upbringing, our people, our intentions did not contribute to this problem.

Will it hurt us to listen? 

Yes, it will. Listening inflicts pain- but it is a good pain. A pain that can carve out the place where pride has rested, firm and unwavering for God knows how long, leaving room for what is Holy to dwell in its place.

Will it hurt us to listen? 

Yes, it will. But not nearly as much as the pain of not being heard. Is there a worse pain than that?

Let us be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry. 

God's Dream

Yesterday, I held my son on my lap. I looked at his beautiful eyes- blue, with yellow around the pupils- and stroked his yellow hair. I kissed his pink cheeks. And never once did I worry about his falling victim to a crime like the murder of George Floyd. Such is the privilege of having a blue-eyed, pink-skinned son.

Last night, I saw a friend's post on Facebook. It said "I am the mother of an African American male. My son matters." My heart is breaking for the mothers in our country who hold their sons on their laps, look at their beautiful eyes, stroke their dark hair and kiss their soft cheeks and do worry that their boy will become a victim of the injustice that wickedly lies in wait- even after so many generations of hard-working, self-sacrificing civil rights warriors. My chest literally aches that she needs to write that on Facebook- and she does need to write it on Facebook. Her son matters.

So, last night, I read my yellow-haired boy a book called God's Dream. Because, I don't have to fear him becoming a victim. But I do have to try to make sure he doesn't become a villain. So, into his little boy mind, I am painting pictures with all the beautiful colors God intended for humankind. And I will, with God's help, do everything in my power to erase this curse called racism.

Black lives matter. Brown lives matter. And the Gospel is for everyone.

Reading Rachel

In 2019, I read two books by two different Rachels. In the fall, I read Girl, Wash Your Face by Rachel Hollis with our women's group at church. I was the one who suggested the book. I hadn't read it but it was all over social media that fall and I was curious to see if the book lived up to its hype.

For me, that book hyped me up, but not in the way that was intended. As a person who seriously struggles with finding my identity in productivity, that book was not much other than a burden. The main message, in my opinion, is to tell women to "dream big dreams, and then keep hustling until you get them." Rachel Hollis offers many examples of her big dreams and big achievements, just in case you're too dull or afraid to have your own. She does share, openly, from some of her own difficult life experiences that have helped shape who she's become, and I respect her for that, but, in the end, I threw that book in the trash.

Weeks after realizing that washing my face wasn't going to address any of my deep and unidentified spiritual needs, I was standing in the church hallway with a friend, while we waited for our children to go out into the sanctuary for some sort of children's choir event. All of us mommas leaned against the walls of the hallway, shushing and pulling on skirts and smoothing hair. It was early May. I turned to my friend, who I didn't know very well at the time, and mentioned something I'd read in the news. "I saw that Rachel Held Evans died this week," I said, with as much compassion as I could gather. I hadn't read this Rachel. But I knew my friend had, and I knew she liked her books. I had been "meaning to" read this other Rachel, but, to be honest, I was scared.

Rachel Hollis had felt safe. People I knew in my Christian community had read her book and liked it. It didn't feel risky to suggest that book for our women's group, although, in hindsight, I wish I hadn't. There are so many better books out there that actually say something about the Gospel. Rachel Held Evans did not feel safe. I'd only read articles about her books. They're the kind of books that make very conservative Christian people uneasy. Even though I haven't ever really identified as a "very conservative Christian" person, I certainly like being liked by them. And I didn't want to risk disapproval. More than that, I didn't want to read something that would put a burden of doubt on a faith that was already practically thread-bare. What if the strands connecting me to my Christianity snapped if I read this Rachel? What if she asked the questions I was too scared to ask, and the answers disconnected me from all that I had left?

In the hallway, my friend's face changed. Her eyes filled with tears, and she began to cry. And, in that moment, I knew- it was time for me to read this Rachel. And if my faith unraveled? Well, then, she and I would have something in common.

I started by reading Inspired, which I liked and helped me get the gist of who Rachel was as a writer, but what really connected me to Rachel was Faith Unraveled. This book is her personal story about her own evolving faith in Jesus.

Rachel died unexpectedly on May 4, 2019. This May her husband, and many of her friends and followers have written beautiful tributes to Rachel. Last May I could understand the common compassion you ought to feel for a young family torn unexpectedly apart, but when my friend started to cry in the hallway, she cried alone.

Then I read Rachel. And I was introduced to a new kind of freedom. Freedom to question, and listen and join with others. So I joined my friend from the hallway- in her honesty, her doubt, her journey. My life and faith blossomed in a new way after reading Rachel, a way I can't describe in this post.

A lot of beautiful things have been written about Rachel Held Evans, true woman of valor. And a lot of not beautiful things have been written about her too. But, for me, reading Rachel changed my life.

I don't have much time for writing these days. And when I do have time, I don't quite know what to say. I've processed a lot over the past two years, and I'm changing. Maybe one day I'll get to the point where I can talk about that journey. But not yet.

I still love God, and I love Jesus. I love Rachel Held Evans, and my friend from the church hallway.  I love them all more now... better this May than last May. And because I read Rachel, now my friend isn't crying alone.