Jesus, Have Mercy

"Jesus, have mercy."

These are the words that I initially wrote on Facebook, as I linked and reflected on the Charleston shooting, first thing this morning.

But, as I have reflected, and lamented, today, I am utterly and completely convinced that it is a good thing to ask Jesus to have mercy.  He does, and he longs to.  It is an even better thing to actually pray, lament, and affirm, with and for our brothers and sisters. 

It's not a bad thing to post articles or to learn more through reading or posting or dialoguing.  I am not trying to disparage that.

We have to start somewhere - and it is good thing to start with the truth: this was wrong.  A hate-filled, racially-motivated, mass-murder - with victims, whose only crime was being black, leaving behind real families, in real grief.  Jesus, have mercy.  I know this grieves your heart as well.

But, brothers and sisters, especially my white brothers and sisters, let us not be disingenuous in our prayers for mercy.  If we are willing to acknowledge "it's not okay" and "something is not right" - if we are going to ask Jesus for mercy, we cannot then sit idly back, contented that we have done our part, and wonder why He did not show the mercy we requested.

Please hear me, I am not preaching this as one who does it (well) (or at all), but as one who is seeking to repent.  To grow.  To change.  I do not know the words to say - and I fear, even as I write this, that I will speak something that is merely noise, or worse.  But I have seen these stories too many times, and am convicted by my lack of action.  Lack of mercy.  Lack of willingness to risk the backlash from (white) friends and family, in order to stand fully with my black friends, brothers, and sisters, saying, "how long oh Lord." (Ps. 13)

If we are His people, we are also his agents of mercy.  In thought, word, and deed.  And our inaction speak every bit as loudly as our actions.  Our absence and our presence - what we say, and what we don't say - matters.  

It has happened too many times for us to ignore or feign ignorance.

And that requires that we acknowledge that we are not merely bystanders but intrinsically interwoven into the larger narrative.  And if we long to see this age-old pattern of racism, "other-ing" and violence broken, we must start with the roots.

We begin with ourselves.  

Jesus, have mercy.  Give clemency, leniency, quarter, to me.  I am guilty of racism.  In thought, word, and deed.  Action, and inaction.  I am not part of the solution, I am part of the problem.  I do not intend harm, but I often benefit from the maintenance of its systems. I am "those people."  There is no other.  Examine my heart, and cleanse me.  Forgive me, Lord, for my apathy, indifference, judgement, distancing, and 140 character-long attention-span to things that grieve your heart.

Jesus, have mercy.

Today is my anniversary - four years short to my handsome and wonderful husband.  Our vows were short in length, but deep in meaning.  They were promises that we made to be faithful.  To honor.  To put the interests of another above our own.  For better or for worse.  They're simple words, but they have profound depth.

Today, brothers and sisters, after we begin (because it's not one time thing) addressing ourselves, I believe we need to make a similarly simple, but profound vow of active mercy to one another.  These are not entirely my words, but adapted from a sister whose words echoed in my heart when I read them, yes, this is true.  Read her words.  Take them to heart.  And then let us (if we are able) vow today together:

I am sorry.  I will not excuse, justify, or complicate this with more words.  You are grieving, you are angry, you are a bearing heavy burden, and whether I understand fully or not, I will grieve with you.  I will carry it with you and today, not make it about me or my burdens.  And if I cannot, I will keep my mouth shut, and not add to your load.  I am sorry.  I will stand with you.

I am listening.  I will stop explaining, justifying, or acting like the expert.  I acknowledge that I have a role in reconciliation, but that I do not always know what is needed.  It is not an passive, apathetic listening, but one that is deeply rooted in a desire to understand, to know, and to act.  I will do my best to hear you.  To hear your grief, your story, your process, without interjecting my own noise.  I will check my defensiveness at the door.  I am listening to you.  

I commit to you.  I am in it for the long-haul.  I understand that racism is centuries old, and ingrained in the fabric of our nation.  I am not jumping on a bandwagon, hoping that it will be newsworthy, headline grabbing, and exciting.  I know it will be hard, and not in a sexy way.  I will care about you, brothers and sisters, in tangible ways, whether or not you are in the news.  I will shoulder with you, this cry of "How long Oh Lord" and longing for justice, healing and reconciliation.  I will listen to you, and your leaders of wisdom, how I can do that best.  And when the times are right, I will act on your behalf, as I would act on my own.

May it be so.