The Sunday after George Floyd’s death, I preached Christ’s death and resurrection.
When I was a 12-year-old boy, I had a sobering conversation with my father and my uncle. Generally, it is referred to as the talk. In African American families, it is common for parents to introduce their adolescent children, especially their sons, to the dangers awaiting them in a world that now perceives them as young adults. I still remember the alarm sounded by my uncle. He said, “Neph, you are male, black, and large. Many will perceive you as a threat, and it may get you killed.”
My uncle and my father equipped me for a life in which such dangers are very real. As I entered young adulthood, the concerns of the talk were proven true by my own experiences. But, while I was prepared to survive, I did not feel equipped to thrive. I did not know how to confront the problem of perpetual ethnic conflict. I knew how to get home safely, but I didn’t recognize how being treated justly was an essential demand of my humanity. Instead, I learned to brace myself for injustice. This gave rise to crippling hopelessness.
Right now, the United States faces the emotional aftermath of a series of unfathomable deaths that occurred during encounters with either active or retired law enforcement. Many people of color are coming to grips with the same crippling hopelessness that burdened me in my young adulthood. I, too, am deeply aggrieved by these circumstances. For if we genuinely value the imperative to love your neighbor as yourself, then the deaths of Elijah McClain, Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and numerous others cannot be dismissed or forgotten. Their deaths only add to a long-festering frustration—a frustration that has propelled thousands of protesters who have taken to the streets, crying out …