We heard that Henry Louis Gates Jr was arrested for climbing into his own home after accidentally locking himself out. Chris Rock started posting selfies when being pulled over by the police. And just a couple weeks ago we watched video of James Blake being tackled by a plain-clothed police officer in a case of mistaken identity. 

When a famous black person is mistreated, news outlets cover the story in great detail (which is good), and social media furiously pronounces vindication. "Look! This really does happen," we shout. I believe we are right to share and explain these stories. And yet, I suspect the reason the media loves them so much is because the victim is clearly innocent. When the victim is a "respectable" celebrity, the black and white of the situation is too sexy not to cover. While these moments are helpful to those who connect these moments to larger societal implications, I do grow concerned. I am concerned because I fear the media is only reinforcing the idea that outrage over the treatment of black bodies can only be justified if the victim is both celebrity and angelic. Its a slow jump from "obviously this upstanding celebrity didnt deserve this brutality" to "but maybe this poor black man did deserve it".

When black children are small, most of America loves them. Poor black children are plastered on our tv screens, computer monitors, and refrigerator magnets in our homes. Black children are considered quite adorable. I see people enjoying social media videos of black children dancing and singing and rapping and laughing and praying and preaching and being their beautiful selves. Until they turn 8 or 9 or 10. As our children begin to approach double digits, adoration turns to fear. As the baby fat disappears, there is a presumption that black bodies are inherently violent, dangerous, deceptive, thieving, criminals to be feared. 

And this presumption is killing us. And this presumption never requires accountability from the shooter. And this presumption cant wait to kill the character of the victim. And this presumption has all of us trying to convince others of the humanity of the victim.  

This weekend, we found this truth once again at play when two independent reviews determined the killing of Tamir Rice justified. And we are not surprised. Because despite the lack of information, reports of mental instability of the officer, the false judgements, and the rash decisions involved- none of that was considered. You see the question in these cases is never, "Should the officer have used deadly force?" The question is always "Could the officer be justified in using deadly force?" The answer to this latter question is always yes when it involves black bodies. Our broken bodies are always justifiable- the only clause is for rich, respectable celebrities. And we cant afford that.

We must fight for the dignity of every human being- every boy with a hoodie, every girl in a bikini, every dude on the block, and every black person in a "nice" neighborhood. Rich tennis star or uneducated teenager, dignity is to be preserved. Dignity is to be preserved. 

Sadly we Christians have a tendency to be the worst at this. We are not very good at defending the inherent dignity of others. Our judgement of the victim's moral character is given far more weight than their possession of the Imago Dei. And that is unacceptable on our part. We Christians share a religion that believes in a holy God who could strike us down for every wrong thing we've ever done or will do- but resists, instead offering grace, mercy, love and yes... life.

I am here for sharing the stories of mistreated celebrities. Their human dignity should be preserved, and when violated someone should be held accountable. But we cannot let the media or those in our circles fall into the trap of only vindicating celebrities because their lives are so public. We must also fight for those who lead invisible lives. Every black body deserves to be treated humanely. 

My continued condolences to the family of Tamir Rice.  

My friend made plans to come over. Before she arrived, she sent me a text warning me that the "well-meaning" white folks at her para-ministry job made her especially mad that day. She then added, "I hope my anger will wear off by the time I arrive." Without thinking about it I replied, "Your anger is welcome here". 

As I thought more about her concern of carrying the anger with her, I tried to think of places where our anger is truly welcome. It's generally not safe to be angry at work- even if there is good reason to be. It's certainly not safe to be angry at church- violating the unspoken rules of niceness, politeness, graciousness and forgiveness. To be angry at school is often invalidated or dismissed altogether. I remember often being asked, "If you are so angry here, why not just go to another school?" 

So where can we be angry?

Where can we be angry and still be heard? Where can we be angry without coddling the feelings of those around us? Where can we be angry and be taken seriously. Where can we be angry without being considered inhuman, unchristian, stereotypical or too sensitive? 

Where is the place that doesn't require immediate forgiveness before I've had an opportunity to express exactly what happened, what went wrong and why it was so bothersome? 

Particularly when we serve a God who was often angry and expressed that anger in ways we might consider a little over the top. Why is my anger so... unwelcome and unacceptable?

I can be angry and clear. 

I can be angry and right.

I can be angry and not hold a grudge.

I can be angry and require changes of your behavior.

I can be angry without ruining our chances at racial reconciliation. 

My anger needs to be safe. 

But not just mine. In any place that is seeking to be multicultural, seeking racial justice and reconciliation, there must be space for the anger of people of color. And not just anger about the state of the world, but anger about the state of the Church. To be able to hear, hold and honor the righteous anger of brothers and sisters is an important step on the journey to justice and reconciliation. I wonder if you might take a moment to reflect on the ways anger is displayed in the communities you are apart of:

Who is allowed to display their anger? 

In what ways is expressing anger acceptable? 

What areas are people allowed to express anger over? 

What do people of color currently do with their anger? 

To create space where anger can be heard and responded to could be more of a gift to your church (or community) than you can imagine. 

It was a recent trend for Christians to pray something similar to, "Lord, let my heart break for the things that break your heart." It was usually a prayer asking for increased empathy toward the poor, an increased desire to stop ignoring injustice in the world. It's a poetic prayer, really. I am sure I've prayed it in the past. But recently I have become more attuned to similar statements about God being heartbroken over injustice. It has occurred to me that this statement is not entirely true. God is not sad about the existence of injustice; God is angry about it. 

Yet we are far more comfortable with thinking of God as sad, weepy, mournful about injustice. We think of God as shedding tears, wringing hands, looking sullen. We think of God as going through the same shock and sadness we experience during the slow dawning of recognizing how injustice effects real people. But take a quick read through Isaiah or Amos or the Gospels when the subject is injustice. You will find that God is pretty fond of declaring the phrase "woe to you". This is not a statement of sadness but of anger wrapped in a pronouncement of judgement. Pay attention to the imagery used: fire, burning, laying cities bare, taking away wealth and homes and land. This is not a description of a sad God; this is the description of a God who is outraged. 

Though we are far more comfortable with thinking about God being sad, its important that we acknowledge God's anger. 

Its important to acknowledge God's expectation of us. The reason God gets upset over and over again regarding injustice, is because God expects better. Time and time again, God says through prophets that we have been instructed to stand against oppression, to care for the fatherless and widows, to give to the poor, to act righteously, to resist bribes, to be more than "religious". When these expectations are not met, we find the prophets proclaiming God's judgment. To acknowledge God's anger is to acknowledge the source of that anger- a reaction to our participation in oppression. Perhaps this acknowledgement could create a sense of urgency. I imagine we could live with the knowledge that we've broken God's heart. For some reason the idea that God is sad doesn't necessarily move us to action. I wonder if it would be harder to continue behavior we honestly believe provokes God's temper.

By this I do not mean to suggest that we should be fearful of God, cowering before the Almighty in an attempt to not make God angry lest we be struck by lightening. I believe in a forgiving, loving, grace-filled, merciful God who wrapped self in flesh and subjected that body to death for us. For all of us. And this is where it becomes important to understand the nature of God's anger. God didnt just die for the rich, the wealthy, the middle class, the educated and all the other categories we use to define who qualifies as "good and moral" people worthy of God's grace. These categories mean nothing to God. God is concerned about people too many of us would just as soon judge as unworthy. This thinking props up our comfort with participating in oppression. But if we truly understood that God died for all, including those we oppress, perhaps God's anger would soon become our own. Maybe we could move from being "heartbroken" over injustice to being just as angry as God is over it. 

Reading through the prophets has been helpful for me to recognize the validity of anger over injustice and oppression. I am an angry, black woman. What I am not is irrational, fickle or immoral because of my anger over oppression. I am an angry, black, Christian woman and proud of it. I am proud of all those who are angered over injustice and oppression. I am proud of all those who resist, protest, write, march, rap, organize, and advocate out of a deep belief that no one is worthy of oppression. 

May we be as angry as God at the powers and principalities that let injustice thrive. 

So, when Ferguson unfolded a year ago, I wrote an article not long after titled Has The Church Learned Anything From Ferguson? I thought about writing a part two... what the Church should learn, could learn, ought to learn (you get the point), but instead I thought I would tear a page out of #FergusonTaughtMe and talk about 5 ways Ferguson has impacted me. 

1. Darren Wilson is not a monster; he is normal and that is terrifying. I would rather Wilson be a tyrant, a monster, a dragon who must be slayed so that our little black village can feel safe again. But Darren Wilson is quite simply human. He is a human who exercised power given to him by the state to take a life when he deems necessary. He was free to see Mike Brown as monstrous. He was free to see Mike Brown not just as 'superhuman' but not human at all- demonic with powers beyond what we mere mortals understand. He was free to decide. Take a life or not. And he made a decision. In the year since Ferguson, we have clearly seen that Wilson is no anomaly. We have literally watched black bodies forced to bear state sanctioned dominance. All thats required is a good story. He reached for my weapon. She assaulted me. He tried to get the taser. She was resisting arrest. Harsh dominance, cool cover-ups, and a heart stops beating. We have all watched white supremacy and anti-blackness at work. We have learned that this most unholy couple knows no boundaries. south. north. east. west. city. suburbs. daylight. moonlight. No good thing comes from unrecognized action steeped in white supremacy and entrenched in anti-blackness. So I am developing a certain urgency around calling these out in all of us. I am almost defiant about it. If you dont want me to say the phrase "white supremacy" from your stage, dont invite to me an event. Because I must. I must call out this principality because white supremacy is the enemy within all of us who are "normal". We must choose to uproot it daily or we too will be capable of erasing and silencing lives. So I am saying it... often. 

2. I have never been more aware of the importance of self-care. I know I have been talking about self-care for a long time. But the truth is I always thought of self care as something I do during tense times, when the world is darkest. But there has been a remarkable shift in my personal need to be gentle with myself daily. It is no longer an option to wait until things fall apart. By then too much damage has been done- the well from which I would write, speak, pray, stay engaged is more like a puddle. I cannot do this work from an empty well. So here I am. Taking breaks from social media, not writing on every tragedy, and finding personal ways to be loving to myself. 

3. I have been deeply moved by the tenacity of #ferguson and #blacklivesmatter. Both have been  inspiring communities. The level of creativity that has been displayed through protests, teach-ins, workshops, Moral Mondays, writing and the use of social media... My goodness. The intellectualism combined with emotional truth-telling about the black experience in America has produced a number of tears (and a number of book purchases) in my life. #Ferguson also taught me to re-examine the ways economic oppression is still at work in black communities. The presence of military weaponry in #ferguson is still shocking to me. The police response to community members is still shocking to me. The DOJ report on #Ferguson is still shocking to me. But I needed to know. We needed to know. Now there is no turning back. I must continue to connect the dots from history to present. 

4. I am scared. I hate to write this one, but the level of fear I have carried with me over the last year is unlike anything Ive experienced before. I used to pass a police car, glance in my mirror and not think about it again. But not anymore. Now my heart beats fast. A knot forms in my stomach. My eyes must confirm multiple times that I am not being followed. I have to convince myself that I am okay. When my husband leaves the house I no longer say, "Goodbye" or "Have a nice day". Now the last thing I say to him is, "Be safe." or "Come back to me." Sometimes I even make him promise. I was on the phone with my father. He told me he was in a pretty rural part of the state and going into a store. I stretched out our conversation so that I would be on the phone until he was back in his car. I ask my husband (an attorney) about multiple police encounter scenarios; what can I do or should I do if I get pulled over? What is legal? When can I ask to call him? I am literally putting myself in the place of people who are now dead, wondering if there is any way I can protect myself, escape, live. I hope the fear wont last forever. But maybe I should be afraid. Maybe the fear keeps the urgency alive. 

5. Racial justice is far more urgent to me than it ever was before. I have been passionate about racial justice for a long time, but #ferguson taught me that I need to be urgent. Lives are at stake. And I feel the urgency beyond police encounters. There is so much work to be done, so much to dismantle, so much to unlearn. White supremacy is killing us. That matter has always been urgent, but #Trayvon and #MikeBrown have pushed a seed of urgency deep with in me. I would rather have them here, back in their mothers arms. I would rather not know the names Eric Garner or John Crawford or Sandra Bland. I would rather not have the phrase #Charleston9 at my disposal. Id rather there be life. But while I am still here, still breathing, I am determined to produce good fruit. It will never ever be perfect, but I hope it will be good.