Five Candles or Seven

How many candles do we light?

That’s the question the leadership team asked, as we circled around the table before worship started in Cornerstone on Saturday night.

If you were there this weekend, you remember we lit five tall candles and many more tea lights at the base. We chose to light five in honor of the Dallas Police Officers who were tragically killed in our city.

I wonder though, should we have lit seven?

The question I’m hearing the most, on my newsfeed, in our pulpits, and from our community is this: “What do we do?” And the answer to that question varies widely based on where our story of last week’s violence starts.

If our story starts on Thursday night, at the El Centro Parking Garage, the right thing to do is to back the blue. Pray for our police. Bring cookies to your local police station. (I myself purchased cookie dough for this very reason, though I regret to inform you that I have consumed half the roll.) These things are good, and the right response.

If our story starts just one day before, on Wednesday, with reports of lethal and unwarranted force used by police in different cities, leaving two black men lifeless, then what do we do?

Where does the story start for you? On Thursday? Wednesday? Or way before that?

I am white. I grew up in Dallas around mostly white people. I went to college with mostly white people. It was only when I moved to Chicago and taught school on the South Side that I became friends with people who are black and Latino. Now I’m back in Dallas, and I work in a church full of people who are generous, kind, affluent, and – mostly white.

I tell you that because it affects where I start my story of last week. My story didn’t have to start until Thursday night, when violence came to downtown Dallas. That’s a privilege afforded to me because I am white.

For people of color, the story of last week starts way before Thursday night. It starts before Alton Sterling, Michael Brown, and Trayvon Martin. It starts before Jim Crow and Dr. King.

A few years ago, I ran into CVS with a black colleague of mine. I only needed two things, so I didn’t grab a bag and didn’t take my receipt.

“You aren’t taking a bag?!” she asked, incredulous.

“No, I don’t need one,” I explained.

“Girl, that’s one of the first things my mom taught me. Take a bag and a receipt so you can prove you didn’t shoplift.” That’s what you learn being black in Georgia, that you’re a threat and you need to be watched.

I had never considered this before. That’s a privilege afforded to me because I am white.

This is a small example, but it made me realize that my black friends live in a pretty different reality than I do. I don’t get followed by security guards at the mall, and when I’m pulled over for running a stop sign, I usually get sent on my way with a warning. I wonder if that is a privilege afforded to me because I am white.

I know little about race, but I do know that discrimination against black people did not end with the Emancipation Proclamation. I know that poverty disproportionately affects people of color; that black men are 3.73 times more likely to be arrested for marijuana than white men despite roughly equal usage¹, and that job applicants with white-sounding names are 50 percent more likely to be called for initial interviews than those with African American-sounding ones².

Jesus tells us to, “love your neighbor as yourself” and to “love your enemies, and pray for those who persecute you.” Even if we did those things, could not racism still persist? Black people are certainly not my enemies, but they are also not my neighbors. At least not literally.

So what then do we do?

Two things:

1. Recognize the story didn’t start on Thursday night in Dallas.

The Dallas Police Officers weren’t killed in an isolated incident. They got caught in the centuries-old crossfire of racism and violence. As did Alton Sterling and Philando Castile. We should light at least seven candles.

2. Add a voice to your story.

If you’re like me, and people of color are not your literal neighbors, it’s easy to dismiss Black Lives Matter and the outcry against racism as a liberal illusion. Some say, “People are just too sensitive,” or “Isn’t this a little extreme?” when they watch protesters in Baltimore or Ferguson.

Instead of shutting down the conversation, engage it. Listen.

Find ways to understand why communities of color are hurting. Ask your parents where they were during the march to Selma. How did their parents respond to the assassination of Dr. King?

If you do not have non-white friends, start exploring the issue through TED talks like this one and this one (two of my personal favorites) and books like The Warmth of Other Suns, Between the World and Me, and Why are all the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria?

Add a voice to your story. And slowly, your story will become more complete.

At the prayer vigil last Friday, Mayor Rawlings quoted F. Scott Fitzgerald saying, “The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposing ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function.”

I wonder, can we hold in one hand, our outrage over five brave men killed in action, and in the other, curiosity and compassion toward our black brothers and sisters who are still struggling under the yoke of discrimination? Is there room at our table for seven candles?