In the Arms of Jesus: A Reflection on Justice and Mercy
It took me this long to wake up.
I have never been openly racist. My mom has a deep heart for social justice and often declared the evils of prejudice to me as I was growing up. I watched movies and read books and internalized the fact that it was my people who committed and perpetuated horrible crimes against people of color. But that was all I did.
Along with the realization that my heritage was one of racism came a paralyzing sense of guilt and fear. “Don’t be like them,” was the warning that played over and over again in my head. I observed broken systems and horrific crimes, and the whole time my internal monologue was one of “Don’t.”
Don’t hurt anyone.
Don’t enact any micro aggressions.
Don’t be a racist.
When you hear enough “don’t’s,” though, they start to take on a strange stagnancy. Mine turned into these:
Don’t mention race.
Don’t ask questions.
Don’t betray your ignorance.
Legalism can worm itself into the strangest places in the heart. I became a legalist about race. I built fences up around my heart and my attitude so that I wouldn’t cross any lines, wouldn’t ever be wrong.
And in doing so, I lost my voice.
I ignored race. I conceded to colorblindness. I fell prey to ignorance. And I became afraid, so afraid that I could barely sit through a class lecture on the topic of race because I was so anxious about not being or behaving correctly.
And then Ahmaud Arbery was shot while jogging and I was shocked—probably more evidence of my ignorance—that such a thing could happen. But I didn’t run. I didn’t post anything. I don’t even think I read more than one article. I just sat there, wondering what to do, wondering how not to be wrong.
It’s a scary thing for someone who has tried so hard not to be wrong to realize that all my defenses were what made me part of the problem.
So when George Floyd was pinned to the ground, so obviously murdered in front of a crowd of people, and the Facebook posts began to scream at me that I was wrong, I wanted to hide under the covers and never come out. My heart sank every time I saw another of my white friends post something in solidarity, because I had nothing to say. Every book and movie recommendation was another blow against my pride, another item on the list of things I hadn’t done to protect myself from the sin of racism.
In my attempt to be innocent, I did nothing. And now, that very lack of action condemned me.
Since I first heard the news about George Floyd, I have thought of him every day. And I have wracked my brain for something helpful to say that won’t add to the problem, that will shed light on the situation and encourage people’s hearts.
Something that will alleviate the guilt I feel over my ignorance.
Finally, though, there is a settling of my heart in this: I can say nothing. I can do nothing. I cannot atone for my sins. I cannot be enough or say enough to fix the problem, not for myself or my white brothers and sisters.
After days of wrestling and anxiety and embarrassment, I have returned at last to this:
Jesus can forgive me.
Jesus can atone for me.
Jesus can redeem the whole of the human race.
And He does.
When I picture Jesus in the midst of this situation, I see two things: He is weeping over the deaths of Ahmaud and George and all the others whose names I did not know or care enough to learn, with vindication for them fully within His grasp. And His arms are also open to me.
Those are two truths that seems almost diametrically opposed in these polarizing days, and yet they stand, juxtaposed in the arms of Jesus. There is both justice for Ahmaud Arbery and George Floyd and mercy for me in the arms of Jesus.
That is where I place my hope. Not in the right words. Not in the right books or movies or revelation. Jesus alone has redemption for me and the rest of humanity.
AND—He is a gentle teacher. He wants me to care well for His people—black, white, and other—in such a way that extends both justice and mercy. He wants to teach me His heart for my brothers and sisters who are oppressed. He wants me to learn. He wants me to love. He wants me to repent.
So this is the first step in my repentance: the vulnerable admission that I am wrong, have been wrong, and cannot make myself right.
And I am reading the books (currently on one called Under Our Skin by Benjamin Watson—would recommend), enrolling in the classes (Race, Poverty, and Biblical Justice with Dr. Craig Hendrickson), and learning to ask the questions (with the help of some very gracious friends) that will move me closer to His will for me.
There is justice for George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, and all others in the strong arms of Jesus. And there is mercy for me and all others who have been ignorant and part of the problem without knowing it. Make no mistake. Both are true, and both are coming in their fullness when Christ returns.
Lord, haste the day.
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