By David Dunderdale
Can you imagine the pain of Ahmaud Arbery’s mother? Your 25 year-old son, full of life and vigor, decides to go for a jog in your neighborhood on a Sunday morning and he ends up dead. Why? Because he was a black young man. Because some of your neighbors thought that he was such a threat to them that they had to confront him with guns because he was a black young man and when he tried to defend himself, they killed him.
Imagine you are his mother or his father. What are your emotions? Anger? Undoubtedly. Certainly an unending sorrow for this gaping hole in your heart and in your life. A mixture of anger and sorrow that your neighbors would assume that your son was such a threat to them? A deep sadness that all of the things that you had hoped for Ahmaud would never be allowed to happen now? A deep longing for justice? That Ahmaud’s life mattered. That taking his life was a terrible wrong! That his death would not be forgotten! That justice demands that a price be paid for this terrible crime!
Would you feel disbelief? I can’t believe this could happen to my son! If you were his Mom or Dad, would you think that this could not have happened? Or, as a parent of a black young man in our nation would it be much too easy to believe?
Are any of these emotions contrary to the heart of God? When God looks at our nation there is so much that must deeply grieve his heart! But, we cannot imagine the deepness of his sorrow that the sin of racism so persistently destroys and takes lives in America. God grieves much more deeply than we ever can because he loves so much more than we ever can. We cannot imagine the depths of his sadness.
What do we do? How do we respond? As God’s children, we strive to have his heart. We strive to feel what he feels, to think what he thinks.
And so, we lament. We weep. We read the stories of who this young man was. We watch the video. We enter into the sadness of what happened on that street. We imagine how young and full of life he was, deciding to go for a jog, not imagining that his life would be taken. We enter into the horror of what happened. With our Father, we lament, we weep. We cry out, “How long, O Lord? How long?”
And with our Father, we get angry! Angry that in our nation if you have black skin you are still perceived to be suspicious, dangerous, a threat. We get angry that in fear we still turn to guns to give us security and power. We get angry that a young man can die and for over two months nothing is done about it. We get angry that still, in 2020, lynchings happen.
With our Father, we cry out for justice. Our prophet Amos reveals to us our Father’s heart:
“I can’t stand your religious meetings.
I’m fed up with your conferences and conventions.
I want nothing to do with your religion projects,
your pretentious slogans and goals.
I’m sick of your fund-raising schemes,
your public relations and image making.
I’ve had all I can take of your noisy ego-music.
When was the last time you sang to me?
Do you know what I want?
I want justice—oceans of it.
I want fairness—rivers of it.
That’s what I want. That’s all I want.
Amos 5:21-24, The Message
And before our Father, we repent. The bright light of the Holy Spirit reveals to us our own hearts that fall so far short of our Father’s heart. The bright light of the Holy Spirit reveals to us that the sin of racism is not confined to the two men who murdered Ahmaud. It is not confined to a small town in Georgia.
Hidden in our own hearts are thoughts and attitudes that assume that white people are superior, better, normal. Hidden in our hearts is the belief that a system that privileges white people should not be changed. Hidden in our own hearts are attitudes that justify our silence, our refusal to speak up when it is assumed that white lives carry more weight than do the lives of others.
With our Father, we love. We love our neighbors. We pursue relationships across racial boundaries. We get to know our neighbors. We risk greater suffering and hurt by loving. We speak up. With our Father and our Brother, we choose to suffer because we are loved.
And we pray. We pray for the mother of Ahmaud Arbery. We pray for our brothers and sisters who feel vulnerable once again. We pray for the men who killed him that they might repent. We pray for our own city and for our nation. We pray for our own hearts. We pray that the Church might lead the call to make things right. And with our Father, we weep again.
Suggested Reading | Ahmaud Arbery and the Trauma of Being a Black Runner, by Danté Stewart