But there is something new to me in this experience. It is the fear I feel not just for myself or for black Americans in general, but for the 80 young black children who are students at the middle school I have been asked to lead: Brooklyn Jesuit Prep.
I fear what this summer has in store for them and other black children of central Brooklyn. I fear that without summer jobs or camps, and faced with over-policing, more black youths will have encounters with police—encounters that often do not end well for people who look like them. In the face of those nine minutes, words telling these black and brown children how much I love them, how much they are valued seem to fall flat.
I must admit that there have been times that I have found it difficult to hold despair at bay. But it is not only that they fall flat; it is that these children are already loved; they already know they are loved as children of God. Yes, we all need reminding of this, but in the face of these nine minutes they do not only need to be told that they are loved. They are not void of love.
They are not victims. It is not they who need a message but our world, our country and our collaborators. Perhaps you do as well. As a black Jesuit and a priest, I mainly live in a white world. Which means it is my burden, responsibility and task to talk about events like this with my white brothers and sisters. These conversations happen after every sensationalized black death. Sometimes my friends and collaborators just want to talk.
Sometimes they call to listen. Usually, these conversations include a desire to better understand or to participate in some way. But I must admit that I often avoid these conversations—and not because these people are unimportant to me or because these issues do not need to be discussed.
I avoid them because they are exhausting. They are exhausting because, I have found, that while white people can engage these issues at their leisure, discuss them in person or on social media and then withdraw again to their daily concerns, I cannot do that.
The students whom I love and for whom I am responsible cannot do that. Black America cannot do that. I am exhausted because we cannot withdraw from this painful cycle. Psalm 13 is the cry of black Americans. We have been crying out this question for centuries. But we cannot cry it alone anymore. Of course, this means making changes to our unjust system: We have to change the structures that prevent black people from voting.
Substandard education must be improved. We need to change unjust laws that produce economic inequality. The criminal justice system must be reformed. All this remains true. But how does such change happen? Simply put, these structures will not change until white America—which means individual white Americans—gets close to black and brown people.
Until you can smell the stench of sin that we smell, until the smell of that strange fruit fills your nostrils and will not let you inhale the sweet fragrances of the world; until you can see in those nine minutes a black man as a brother and not withdraw from his suffering; until you can feel the pain of that knee on your own neck and suddenly find it hard to breath in front of your computer screen; until then nothing will change. These structures will not change until that body has a name and relationship to you.
When will they be heard? Patrick Saint-Jean. And let me be clear: This is Christianity. This sharing in the experience of others is what it is to be one body in Christ. I am not inventing this. It is the soft flesh of these black bodies that America must grow close to. It is Jesus in the soft flesh of the black and brown children at Brooklyn Jesuit Prep and schools all across this land that this country must come to know.
How long O Lord? How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and day after day have sorrow in my heart? How long will my enemy triumph over me? Until you grow close to our suffering, until it fills your eyes and ears, your minds and hearts, until you jump up on the cross with black Americans, there can be no Easter for America. Your source for jobs, books, retreats, and much more. Faith Faith in Focus July issue. Mario Powell, S. June 03, George Floyd. Ahmaud Arbery. But you do not listen!
I cry out unto thee of violence, and thou wilt not save. How long before you save us from all this violence? I cry out to you, "There's violence! I'm crying out to you, 'Violence! I cry out unto Thee of violence, And Thou wilt not save. I call out to you, "Violence! I cry out to you "Violence. World English Bible Yahweh, how long will I cry, and you will not hear? I cry out to you "Violence! I cry unto Thee -- 'Violence,' and Thou dost not save. Additional Translations Job Though I cry out, 'Violence!
Will You forget me forever? How long will You hide Your face from me? Psalm How long must I wrestle in my soul, with sorrow in my heart each day?
0コメント