I like hugs. They stir mushy feeling that help me make it
through bad days. I’m not hating on hugs or the desire to cry in the arms of a
woman convicted of killing your brother. It’s your thang, do what you wanna do.
I understand the urge to announce forgiveness. There’s a
release budged by ending the ache of endless midnights with a confession to set
the pain free. Be gone. I’m no longer chained by my desire to end your life.
I sort of get it. Naw. I don’t get it.
I can’t because I have never endured the death of a sibling
at the hands of a police officer too tired to recognize the furniture in the
room is not the same as the apartment they sleep in most nights. I have too
many questions regarding who trained her, what she was smoking, drinking or
what she was doing before she reached for her gun.
It’s not my brother who was killed leaving me free to speculate
on why a brother would proclaim “I forgive you. I don’t want you to spend any time
in jail.”
The wisdom of native Americans warns not to judge a person
until they’ve walked two moons in their moccasins. I haven’t cried long enough
to disparage 18-year-old Brandt Jean, Botham’s brother, to announce “I want the
best for you.” Young Botham’s spiritual journey is a unique experience that led
to his courtroom proclamation.
I understand spiritual journey. I understand confession, release
and a big bag of other spiritual practices meant to help in confronting my
relationship with the world. Doing this life thang ain’t easy for black folk
living in America. Can I get two witnesses?
My experience, and yours, isn’t the same as brother Brandt’s
spiritual journey. So, wagging this big middle finger at his confession seems
cruel. Nonetheless, I’m wagging that finger. I affirm his journey and find significance
in his desire to set Sister Guyger free after killing his brother. Thanks be to
black Jesus and all the disciples for the faith to hug the woman who killed his
brother. Again, do you. High fives. Go to the strong Christian line behind all
the other martyrs. Put on that bleached robe and golden slippers, but I’m not
there yet.
In fact, I’m not drinking the Kool Aid. I need new language
to reflect on my relationship with Jesus and the Church. Drum up some updated
language to convey the meaning of grace, mercy and forgiveness. Help me get to
the shout after all that forgiving. Why? Because I’m still pondering what it
all means after a series of black people dying at the hands of law enforcement
officers devoid of a credible apology.
Show me yours before I show you mine.
There’s something about black people offering forgiveness to
resolve white guilt. Is it valid to expect some forgiveness? I’m reminded of
the roll call of black folks forgiving white people. I have no evidence of
white folks doing the same. I have memories of black bodies left to bake in the
sun while white people made excuses for why they pulled the trigger.
Maybe grace is the absence of a double-standard, but why is
the forgiveness of white people always the standard. Maybe forgiveness is a
colorblind solution to offset the burden of sin, but why are prisons packed
with innocent black men and women sentenced for no reasons. When it comes to
the assumptions of white Evangelical Christian theological thought, the need to
extend forgiveness is what black people do.
Isn’t forgiveness what Christians do? Sounds reasonable to
assert that as a fundamental statement of faith. There’s one problem with the
thesis. Forgiveness is what black Christians do. From my vantage point, white
people are slack in extending forgiveness.
I can affirm young Brandt’s spiritual witness. Maybe forgiveness
is what he needs to live with all the pain. What about the rest of us? How do
we survive with the expectation of forgiveness? What is left spiritually when
there isn’t any forgiveness left to give?
Chest bump to those strong enough to give it. As for me,
pass a bottle of whup ass. My tank is empty.
How about you?
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