I’m not proud of
the person I’ve become since Donald J. Trump dubbed himself America’s Fűhrer.
That statement alone is enough to make my case. I have lost patience for anyone
pleading a point undermining my ability to refrain from slapping a fool.
Restraint is out
the door. The ability to concede alternatives truths is out the door. My will
to be guided and influenced by the utopic notion of a beloved community has
faded with the termination of government with checks and balances.
It’s not all Trump’s
fault. Some of the culpability belongs to white dudes waving symbols of the Confederacy.
It feels like a statement regarding my staying in what they perceive as my proper
place. It’s taken copious inhales followed by exhales, followed by clinched
fist and internalized reminders not to go Django on their ass.
It’s complicated.
I partially blame
the assumptions of theological claims. What it means for me to assert being a
Christian is masked by the ongoing pursuit to define what that means. My Jesus is
not the same as that Jesus. He prays and spends time away from the masses to relight
passion after the critics come to steal joy. My Jesus goes to big mama to mediate
and engage in some critical cussing after folks show up on a mission to block
blessings.
My Jesus is a big
black dude with the attitude of many clouds of witnesses who have travelled
through the valley of discrimination and death. My Jesus doesn’t bow to the
whims of white supremacy and all the cousins of disparity. My Jesus is an
empowering messiah with a heart for the least of these.
My theology hasn’t
changed much over the years. I’ve always viewed the work of salvation being
about more than leading Black folks to the streets paved with gold. It didn’t
take long for me to discover the irrelevance of pimping truth about life on the
other side of death devoid of some blessing during this life.
My theology has
always been fueled by a rage in disparity between the gifts of white folk after
creating hell for Black folks on earth juxtaposed by the burden of Black folks in
forgiving all the trouble they’ve seen. There
has to be more than hope for better days in the sweet by and by.
The privilege of
whiteness is in embracing life on earth without regard for death. My theology challenges
notions of blessings versus the curse of blackness. It’s what stirs the fever
of my preaching. The words declared with each sermon I preach defies the
assumptions of theological claims. Don’t just pray about it. Take what belongs
to you with the zeal of a radical Jesus guiding your footsteps.
All of that is
true, but this is different. There’s a sickness in the air which feels like
brewing fever. It’s hot in here. It’s too hot to calm the weariness alone. This
is worse than ever before due to the absence of allies willing to concede their
participation in the problem.
The advocates and
allies of Black liberation have morphed into the wardens of continued
incarceration. That’s how it feels. The massive whitesplaining. Delineating
what Black people need. Forcing Black silence in exchange for their continued
right to rule. Containing spaces to expand dominance for the sake of additional
profit. Renaming gentrification to justify white privilege. Enforcing rules to
manage diversity, inclusion and equity when it rationalizes their interest.
What I feel
extends beyond the blatant racism of alt-right movements. My rage transcends
the overt intentions of conservative party manipulation and games played to
control Black voters. It’s what progressive, so-called good white people, are
often incapable of seeing.
It’s not the fault
of Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. The privilege wedged in the belly of progressive
thinking people has always been there. It’s not new. Their presence may have
been to resolve guilt. Or, it may be out of a desire to repair the forces
hindering Black people.
Don’t Black people
need a savior?
It could be about
that.
These are the
obvious ramifications of life in Trump’s American nightmare. Most of that may
be true. Some of it may be a perception. All of it feels real.
It’s the
perception part that leaves me hating what has happened to me – the lack of
patience, the hardening of a heart, the lack of sensitivity for those outside the
Black experience.
There are good
white people in this world. I know that’s true, but it’s hard to believe it’s
true given this current American dilemma.
I’m becoming a grumpy
old man.
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