Trayvon Martin and my fear

A month ago a young man died. Today, it seems everybody knows about it. Beyond that, the reverberations have begun, like a gong sounding far off the distance.

I have to admit: I'm afraid.

I'm afraid because I don't know what happened... and neither do you.

I'm afraid because I hear the opinions, I read the statements; I listen to people of many backgrounds, and political and religious affiliations making of this single moment in history a symbol.

I fear that we are not listening to one another in our rush to make sense of things. I fear that simplifying the issue means we are drawing lines in the sand, not connecting the thoughts and feelings of others with our own. I fear because I don't know what happened. But most of all I am afraid because two different--though related--things are being conflated. Suddenly, what happened to Trayvon Martin has become synonymous with racism in America. If it happened one way we have a race problem, if it didn't we do not. That scares me.

None of us knows what happened. So we fill in the blanks to support our view. This is why I'm afraid.

You see, I know we have a race problem in America, but I have no idea if this case supports it. I know we have a man in George Zimmerman who is the product of myriad racial biases... and I know I am, too. Is his racism worse than mine? More overt, it seems, but worse? I don't know. There's so much I don't know.

But I do know one thing: we have a race problem. It's a problem that can be demonstrated easily enough by taking the Project Implicit Race Assessment where so quickly our inner convictions are laid bare for what they are. I suppose this is nothing new, but that is also no excuse for it. So easily we dehumanize other people, something it seems to me that Jesus warns against, something I feel called to preach against. But it's become about something else; it's become about proving a single case. I can't preach that; I don't know how.

I mourn for my black brothers and sisters who live in legitimate fear of the power of the majority. To you I offer my service to help lend credence to your pains and frustrations. I mourn for the loss of humanity you endure in so many ways that we in the majority do not understand. I am sorry for my implicit guilt; for the fact that I can rarely pass the Race IAT, and against my better judgment I show preference against you. I ask for your forgiveness.

And I mourn for my white brothers and sisters who are paralyzed by hate, and more often than that by stereotypes that live--mostly unconsciously--in that place in their minds where all ours fears reside. I mourn for the tendency to seek out those who are like ourselves. I mourn for everything that we are that is beyond our own control, and I hope for that which can be bettered.

I wish I weren't afraid. I wish this were simple, but it's not. Our problem it seems is that we still see. As Jesus once told the Pharisees who had a similar problem, 'If you were blind, you would not have sin. But now that you say, “We see", your sin remains' (John 9:41).

Unfortunately, our sight is alive and well. Maybe acknowledging that sight is a first step, confession and forgiveness a second, and from there who knows. I wait for it fearfully, and in the meantime I pray.