A Thousand Ways to Show Mercy

I’ve been overwhelmed by the state of my Facebook feed. The presidential election has me in knots. Now, the racial crisis has come onto the scene in full color and I can’t stay silent.

I believe in the equality of all people. Absolutely. But, I’ve been surprised on Facebook and Instagram to read that #AllLivesMatter as if there were some honest to God need to make sure white people aren’t forgotten. Could someone please tell me in which century of humankind was it that white people believed they did not matter? We have been at the top of the societal and cultural ladder for hundreds of years. The great power of Western Civilization. We have always known we mattered.

God forbid that a group of people, a people who were shipped over to this country in chains and forced to pick cotton, made to serve in white people’s homes, a people purchased (Yes, let’s remember that word.) to work in fields day in and day out, bought and sold as nothing more than livestock, may have a certain slanted perspective over how they’ve been treated the last several hundred years.

It wasn’t too long ago, in my own mother’s life-time, in certain parts of my country that black people were not allowed to ride in the front of the bus, or go into the same bathroom with white people. They had different supermarkets, different drinking fountains. For decades laws prohibited blacks and whites from intermarrying. Actual laws. Not bullying prejudices, but laws.

It wasn’t until people began to march and picket and do sit-ins and be overwhelmingly dogged about rights and honor that they managed to wrangle out a few changes in the law to ensure there was a move toward equality.

Are white people going to be forever guilty? No. We have to move forward. But for some, forward is only possible as they are granted room to weave their own narrative into the whole narrative. Their voice and their story matter. 

Can we undo history? No, unfortunately we can’t. If we could change history, would we? Absolutely. Most of us would like to run that little Trans-Atlantic slave trade operation right off the map. It is horrifying. If we could go back and change how black people came to this country, or the way white people were so reluctant to relinquish power, would we? Yes. But we can’t. This is our history. This is our collective story.

No, it’s not all bad, but it’s not all that good, either. 

Another question worth asking is whether or not victims of institutional racism have the right to complain, to rear their heads, and stand up for more equality? Yes, they do. 

Are white people guilty just for being white? No. But white people have a history that invites and beckons, maybe even demands us to show some modicum of humility. Take a look at the last several hundred years, put yourself in another person’s genealogical shoes for ten minutes and then say … #AllLivesMatter, which to me, is a way of saying … “I don’t like your complaint. I’m going to hold to my narrative.”

I’m white. Blond hair. Freckled skin. I’m hardly ever the minority. Except … I’m a woman.

Years ago when women wanted the right to vote, a great majority of men didn’t agree.  They tried to force them to be quiet. They tried to silence the women who were shaking things up, asking for the right to be human. Finally, finally, finally women were granted the right to vote. Did all lives matter, then? Of course. But women were trying to get the legal right to matter.

On the whole, history shows us that power and control make us crazy. We like having power. We are reluctant to relinquish it.

There’s this one story Jesus told that might be helpful. Someone asked him what one must do to inherit eternal life. Jesus told him the greatest commandment is to love God with all your being, and the second is similar … love your neighbor as yourself. 

The cocky young man responded with a tilt of the head. “And just who is my neighbor?” 

Jesus smiled and told a story about a man who got horribly beat up and thrown to the side of the road. A worship leader walked by him, a pastor ignored him. Finally, a Samaritan came along, who tended to his wounds and brought him to an inn. (Samaritans and Jews had a lot interracial hostility toward each other.) Jesus asked his inquisitor, “Who was the neighbor?”

“The one who showed mercy toward him.” 

Mercy.

Neighbor.

Love.

Rumi says there are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground. He’s right. There are also a thousand ways to show mercy. 

We all need mercy. It’s the only way through.