There is a story I have not wanted to write or talk about. When the story first broke, I spoke of it only with my husband. It rocked me in similar ways to discovering what happened to Sandra Bland, except even writing didnt seem like it was available to me to process. 

Recently, I have seen a few female friends posting the story and attempting to give language to it, so I thought I would give it a try too. The news story is of Daniel Holtzclaw who is accused of raping 13 women- most of them black. Google his name and you will find the details of Holtzclaw using his authority as an officer to pull women over and using his power to penalize them as cover to sexually assault them. 

And its terrifying. 

I will not recount the details here, but surely you can believe the horrific commingling of shame, fear, and helplessness his victims must have experienced. And I am afraid too. When I first heard of the number of under-handed ways he used his authority to victimize women, I went into strategic mode. What apps could I put on my phone? How could I call my husband the fastest? Should we have a code word? Can he use GPS or Find My Friends to get to me? Should I carry pepper spray? Would I use it? If I managed to get away, where would I go? Who would believe me? 

The more I talked about it, the more I started to shake. So I stopped talking about it that night. Stopped thinking about it. Until I would pass an officer on the highway, on the street, walking downtown. And then the fear would flood back. The first time I cried. I didnt cry out of fear. I cried because the fear was so specific, so clear, so imaginable. I cried because my list just got longer- I fear the multiple ways my body could be violated, brutalized.

Some days, I try to convince myself that this is unreasonable. Its one story. Except that the Associated Press recently reported that they have found "1,000 officers who lost their badges in a six year period" for sexual assault or sexual misconduct. The AP goes on to say that this number under-represents the abuse because there are so many agencies who dont report this information, who dont revoke badges, and who never receive reports of misconduct because victims are scared of retaliation. Though it could surely be helpful, Im not sure I want to know the true number of officers using their authority to violate the bodies of others. I dont want to know how many are guards, how many patrol streets, how many are in our schools. Its quite a terrifying thought. 

While I might be able to forget this story and ignore the statistics, what I cannot do is ignore the stories that pop up in my own life. I will not be giving details, but there are two people in my life who have been sexually assaulted by an officer- one male and one female. One included public shaming in the middle of the street after being pulled over and "searched". The other was raped in police custody. Both were devastating for the victims. Devastating. 

So when we talk about police brutality against black bodies, we cannot just talk about gun violence. We have to talk about the little girl who are thrown around at the pool party, the little girl who was tossed across her classroom, and the women who are being sexually violated. When we talk about violence, we cannot limit our discussions any longer... I cannot limit my discussions any longer. Because to limit the conversation is to not have the opportunity to name it, to fix it, to heal those who have already been hurt. 

And much healing is necessary. Can you imagine how much healing the little girl who was brutally tossed across her classroom will need? The shame of it being so public, the physical pain that was caused, the trauma of walking into that classroom again, the emotions of not being protected by her teacher, the fear and distrust she will carry for a long time regarding officers. And she is but one. 

So, Church, we must keep talking about police brutality and criminal {in}justice and race. But we cannot short-cut the conversation. We cant assume that by focusing on the use of guns/tasers that we are uplifting the extent of the problem. We are not. And just like the violence of guns can be traced historically, so can sexual violence. We know that sexual violence, particularly against black women, is centuries old. I recently remarked to a friend that the details of Holtzclaw's charges are another example of how close we are to history. 

I am here for discussing the plight of black men in America. I will continue to speak out against police killings. I will not be "calling out" folks also keep writing about the ways this particular violence must stop. But I also refuse to lose black women in the process.  The ways women experience oppression is no less important, and must be uplifted by the Church if we are sincere in our desire to chase after shalom. 

"Racism is a sin problem, not a skin problem." Have you heard this statement? I recently saw it on Mike Huckabee's extraordinarily problematic twitter timeline last week during the democratic debate, but would you believe I have heard people say it in real life since then. Yep, It seems to be an increasingly common proclamation that America doesn't have a skin problem, just a sin one. Well, I'd like to offer some breaking news for Christians: 

Racism is both a sin problem and a skin problem.

And I thought we should talk about that. So here are my thoughts on why this statement is both nonsensical and problematic. 

1. I do not understand how folks believe they can admit to racism, but deny what racism is built on. This is the nonsensical part. If we are going to agree that racism is a sin, what exactly do we think the sin is based on? Did we change the source of racism? Is racism no longer constructed around race? Did I miss the memo? Are we really now asserting that racism, though a sin, actually does not involve race? Friends, having a skin problem is the sin problem. And our skin problem is well documented in American history and our current realities of racial disparities. Pick a system: health, education, homeownership, wealth, criminal justice, environmental justice, voting access, jobs, wages... you will find America's sin problem manifesting itself along the lines of skin color. So lets stop pretending that "sin problems" and "skin problems" are somehow mutually exclusive when talking about racism.     

2. The second problematic messaging around this statement is that it is used to temper the conversation on race rather than amplify it. For Christians, since when do we make ourselves comfortable with having a sin problem? Last time I checked, we are supposed to be actively addressing our "sin problems". I mean are we applying this statement to everything? "I know this married couple is not being faithful, but dont worry, adultery is just a sin problem." Is that how this goes now? No? I didnt think so. This cannot be a comforting statement- we only have a sin problem, thats all. NOPE. Any admission that racism is a sin problem should immediately spur us into action. We could begin with lamentation, confession and repentance for starters. 

3. This statement has two purposes. The first is to cloak the violence of racism. By even suggesting that racism isn't a "skin problem" immediately makes racism abstract. It erases the violent effects racism has on a specific population- people of color. If there is no racial skin problem, then there also aren't people with skin whose lives are deeply effected by racism. We must reject the desire to make racism intangible, abstract, vague. Racism has drawn the lines of life and death, wealth and survival, rights and inequity, opportunity and oppression for the entire history of the United States of America. That cannot be erased. 

4. And its second purpose is to lead to the conclusion that the only remedy for our "sin problem" is self-prescribed spiritual action. So we should pray and come together and be unified and seek reconciliation. But because there is no skin problem- no victims, no violence, no effects from the evil of racism- we do not have to call for justice. The statement is used to so spiritualize racism that we are no longer required to work against it in any practical ways. Bye Felicia. We have so much work to do as Christians. Part of that work is spiritual for sure, but there are also ways of existing in the world that ought to reflect our commitment to stop sinning, to stop racism. 

So, the next time someone says this, you let them know... you do take the sin of racism seriously. So seriously that dismissing it, minimizing it, and neglecting to work against it, isn't an option for you. 

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.