When we
gather for a funeral, we do not shrug our shoulders and say, “You know, everybody dies. This day is no different
from any other.”
Of
course not. Rather, on this
day, this person’s death matters most. Not because they
were more precious than anyone else’s spouse, child, parent or friend. But
because in this room, on this day, this is the crisis
into which the Gospel must be proclaimed. This is the rupture in the
fabric of time and space for these people who have lost this
person.
I’ve
been to funerals where it is clear that the pastor did not know the deceased –
and didn’t bother getting to know them much posthumously. They fumble through a
generic sermon pulled from the archives and preach platitudes and pablum into a
room full of broken hearts. Hearts that have been specifically
broken by this particular death.
Those
are not good funerals. And on the occasions when I have been that
pastor, I have failed to do my job.
Particularity
matters. By speaking specifically
about this person who has died, we do not thereby dismiss or
diminish the lives of others. Yes: Tomorrow, someone else will die. And her
life matters. When we gather for her funeral, hers will be the
most heart-wrenching death to which the Gospel must be applied. By grieving this
man today, we do not in any way forestall the grief we will bear when we gather
for that
woman’s funeral tomorrow.
See how
that works? The Gospel is not generic. It is always particular. Universal, of course – but also immanently specific.
And so,
into this
particular
historical moment, when a 12-year-old Black child (Tamir Rice) can be shot with
impunity within seconds of the police pulling over to “investigate” him playing
in the park; when Dontre Hamilton can be shot with impunity for having the
audacity to sleep in a public square; when Trayvon Martin can be shot with
impunity for carrying Skittles and iced tea through a white suburban
neighborhood; when Eric Garner can be choked to death on camera, his
death declared a homicide by the medical examiner, and still no charges
are brought; when Freddie Gray can be tousled about in the back of a
paddy-wagon with no seat belt and his hands and feet shackled such that he
cannot protect himself, and no jury can be found to convict anyone responsible
for his murder by vehicular manslaughter and official neglect… and on and on and on
and on and on….
…then,
yes, in
this particular moment, we must listen to those who stake the claim
that Black Lives Matter. For this is the rupture in the
fabric of our lives that is breaking hearts wide open. To say “Black Lives
Matter” does not in any way diminish or demean or dismiss any other lives –
police lives, trans* lives, white lives, or any lives. To say “Black Lives
Matter” does not mean – by default – that “all lives” don’t.
It
simply claims that these precious lives are being lost and diminished – and
that ought to matter.
Until
death is no more, we will continue to gather for each particular death
and speak of the attention God pays to that person’s life and death.
Likewise,
until racism is no more and all lives truly do matter fully and
equally, we must speak out loud, with particularity, the
truth that God knows but we so often deny by word and deed, individually and
systemically: That these actual, specific lives matter. No more, and no
less, than any other life.
“All
lives matter” is generic pablum and platitude spoken in a world crying out for
specific justice and mercy. It’s not untrue – any more than a generic sermon at
a funeral is untrue; but neither is it helpful – not, at least, as helpful as
an unequivocally specific claim that this life, this
grief, and this moment truly matters most, today.
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