Rev. Renita Green, Columnist
After listening to Eddie S. Glaude’s book, Begin Again and James Baldwin’s, The Fire Next Time, I am certain that the soul pain of racism is so deep, so private that no amount of education nor depth of relationship can help a white person truly know the power of its pangs. We do not know the pain of our humanness being questioned, challenged, or devalued.
Liturgically speaking, we are in the season of Epiphany—the manifestation of the Messiah to the Jews and Gentiles. At the time Magi came to pay homage, Herod ordered the murder of all baby boys up to two years old. The whitewashing of history in both this story and in art depicting it leads us to believe that two white men and one Black man visited white baby Jesus in the manger on a peaceful night and then went back home. I wonder how different the narrative would be had Mary been depicted like most women after childbirth—messy hair, sweaty, swollen, and exhausted.
I imagine there was much chaos that night. Midwives coming to Mary’s aid bringing along water for cleaning and drinking, and the swaddling clothes. I imagine someone also brought Mary a change of clothing, blankets, and something for pain. And, someone cleaned up and did something with the afterbirth. The Messiah may have been miraculously conceived, but Jesus got here the same as us all—in a mess.
Missing this part of the story is to miss the humanness of the Messiah—which is to miss the entire point—Jesus was fully God and fully human. The stories and pictures we are accustomed to emphasizing the Messianic nature while dismissing his humanness. The story we learn does not tell of the trauma of parents whose male babies were ripped from their arms. They were powerless against the mob of terrorists empowered by the government. We do not often hear about the wailing of mothers like none heard. There is no mention of fathers who ripped their clothing and bellowed out in agony. Fathers are often left out of the story—like Michael Brown, Sr. who grieved loudly, deeply, and publicly when Herod’s agents murdered his son on a street of Ferguson.
The omission of these parts of the story minimizes the trauma of those who suffered and sanitizes the story of those who were traumatized. This is the rub against the teaching of Critical Race Theory—white people will not talk about the messy past and therefore will not acknowledge that the past is present.
James Baldwin explains “To accept one’s past—one’s history—is not the same thing as drowning in it; it is learning how to use it.” We can only become better if we are honest with and about ourselves. Unfortunately, given what I have witnessed, I suspect there is greater hope for the redemption of the avowed white supremacist than there is for the devout “not-a-racist.”
Epiphany in 2020 was also the day of the insurrection at the Capitol. On this day, a mob of Americans attempted to “take the country back.” In the aftermath of the mob’s open display of white supremacy instead of repentance, we puffed out our chests and pulled out the “Not-a-Racist” badges we have given each other for our good deeds, loving hearts, and liberal pontifications and we distanced ourselves from the mob—we are not them. Yet still, here we are on the eve of celebrating the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr, and Congress is yet fighting to pass legislation protecting the right to vote. Thirty-four states have passed voter suppression laws. Suppressing voices is to say that a voice has less important—that the voice of that human has less value than others.
The mob is not the problem, not really. The problem is those who, like the Jews, heard that liberation was coming and “feared along with Herod”—“but everyone should have an ID to vote, everyone should have an ID anyway,” I have heard said so many times by one of us,
What is it about liberation that frightens us? In listening to and reading words of white people, and by examining my own heart, I suspect we deeply fear exposure. When I moved to Ohio, I planned to tap out for a year—my soul is exhausted from fighting against racists in systems that are determined to stay the same. Yet, at a recent school board meeting, the newly elected members came out of the gate with policies straight out of Trump’s rhetoric. In my tapping out, my heart exposed me—I have taken advantage of white privilege—resting is a privilege.
Black and Brown people in this country do not have the option of tapping out because they are exhausted from fighting racist systems—as my friend said, “every day I leave my house I have to confront racism.” While we are resting, Herod is busy wreaking terror on those whose humanness is attacked in this mess of society.
“Arise and shine, the Light has come” (Isaiah 60:1)—it’s time to tap back in. Doing what we feel like doing is a privilege that we must deny ourselves. The Rev. Dr. King, Jr. said, “In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”
During this season of Epiphany, may our hearts be emboldened that, like the Magi and the Midwives, we might embody the manifestation of the human Messiah in word and deed.
