Do Black Lives Matter?

When someone says “Black Lives Matter,” does that mean that all lives don’t matter? Does it mean that black lives matter more than all other lives? Must we choose between black lives and all lives?

I find a whole lot of unnecessary confusion in the white Christian community about the phrase “Black Lives Matter.” And I especially have a hard time with the response that I hear so often: all lives matter. It almost sounds like a cover for saying that black lives don’t really matter at all.

So in response to what I hear and read on the internet from my white friends and especially in response to the individual who stole all of our BLM signs from the UUMC lawn last Saturday, here are some reflections that I hope you’ll read and ponder.   

In the Judeo-Christian tradition, all lives matter. That is ground zero of our faith. Every life is to be treated with the utmost dignity and respect. Every life is a life loved by God.

However, in both the Hebrew Bible and the Christian Bible, God shows a special preference for those on the margins. In the Hebrew Bible, God has partiality for the poor, widows and orphans. Does that mean that God loves the poor, the widow and the orphan more than God loves me? No. It does mean, however, that God has a special concern for them because they are especially vulnerable. And since we are attempting to follow God, we must have a special concern as well.

Imagine the God of the Hebrew Bible with a sign on her back that reads: Widows Matter! Would you want to remind God that all lives matter? Probably not. You already know the answer to that question.

For Jesus, it was a special concern for lepers, children and women, all of whom were held in varying degrees of contempt and low esteem in his day. Jesus helps us turn our attention away from the lives of the rich and famous, away from ourselves and our preoccupations with our families toward those who are left out, last and lost in our day.

In the 1970s in Latin America, liberation theologians coined the phrase  “God’s preferential option for the poor” to understand God’s special concern for the poor and the oppressed. John Wesley, founder of the Methodist movement, actually took this preferential option to heart long before it was formulated. His diaries and letters are full of his ministry with and for the poor in 18^th century England. Wesley was quite clear that the church would rise or fall by how it ministered to the poor.

Picture Father John with a sign that reads: Poor Lives Matter! In other words, pay attention to the poor. They need you and you need them. And you will find God there.

All of which leads me to reckon that “Black Lives Matter” fits squarely within the Judeo-Christian tradition and ought to be embraced by those who seek to follow Christ and his concern for the most vulnerable among us.  

To recap: in our tradition, we have a deep concern for all of God’s children. In practice, that deep concern moves us toward the ones who are hurting. A theology of “Black Lives Matter” means that in following God, we have an enduring concern in our own time for black young men and women whose lives are under assault, who are systemically and unjustly devalued and discriminated against. We see the most visible examples of these inequities in police shootings of young, unarmed African-American men and in the mass incarceration of young men of color.

So picture Jesus with a sign that reads: Black Lives Matter.

Picture all of us white Christians digging more deeply into understanding our power, our privilege and our unconscious racism and becoming allies in the great movement toward the beloved community. 

The Streets of San Antonio

Living on the streets might look like a piece of cake. No bills to pay. No one to report to.  No dirty dishes to clean up. You carry everything on your back. You’re free!

After just a day on the street experiencing a “homelessness immersion” with Rev. Lorenza Andrade Smith, I’m convinced it’s about the hardest work I’ve ever done.

My day began early Friday morning with a walk to Milam Park where Lorenza’s journey started two and a half years ago. She gave everything away to live in solidarity with the poor who live “under the stars.” She laughed that she had to phone someone that evening to drive her to the park because she had forgotten that she had given away her car.

Thankfully, it was an absolutely gorgeous day. As she laid out her mat near a park bench, Lorenza gave me three tasks for the day. “We need money for bus tickets so I can get to the conference office. We need lunch. And we need a safe place to sleep.”

“Oh, and no cheating. You can’t use the ATM.” She put her head down and closed her eyes, which I took to be a sign of great confidence in my hustling abilities.

Lorenza’s friend, Richard, showed up and smiled and said, “Just walk around and ask folks for change for the bus.” Like it was no big deal.

So off I headed, winding through the downtown, lugging  a ratty old back-pack borrowed from a staff member. After wandering for an hour and a half, and asking countless people for change, I had empty pockets to show for my labors. And I couldn't help but notice that the goofy grin with which I had begun the day had melted away. 

I did stumble upon Goodwill (and a public bathroom!) and they said the Salvation Army might have bus passes. I tried to call but no one answered, so I began a long hike over there. I learned later that being sent somewhere else is a common tactic to deal with the homeless. No wonder some folks who wander in the doors of UUMC looking for assistance are not always in the best frame of mind!

On the way, my back-pack came apart and hit the street. I sat down under a tree, literally undone. No one had even reached in their pocket for change. Very few folks made eye contact with me. Some just walked on by without acknowledging my existence, giving me a wide birth.

As I fixed the backpack, I looked around and spotted a Plasma Center across the street. Light-bulbs went off. I hustled through the door, practically ran up to the receptionist and said, “How much money for a plasma donation?”

“Forty dollars,” came the reply. I did a little inward fist bump, signed in and called Lorenza.

“Jackpot,” I told her. “Get over to the Plasma Bank.”

When they called me up to the desk again, they asked for my ID. In particular, they needed my social security card.

“You’re kidding,” I said. “I never carry my social security card.”

“Sorry. That’s the rule. Everyone knows that.”

I sat outside the plasma bank, downcast. I had been “homeless” for about two hours now and was failing miserably.

I met up with my friends, and they suggested we head to Travis Park UMC. They might have some bus passes. On the way, I tried my luck one more time on bus money, and came up with a transfer. And someone actually reached in their pocket to see if they had change. I was making progress!

I walked back to the church with Richard, who proceeded to step off the curb right in the path of a car. I grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back. Lorenza said this happens to folks on the street all the time. You walk around so much, you just walk into the street without looking, and boom!

We made it through the door of Travis Park just in time for the lunch Bible study. I beamed at Lorenza: “Well, I didn’t get bus money, but I did get us lunch!”

“No,” she smiled. “I got us lunch.”

We joined about 30 street folks around long tables for what was, I’m sure a great Bible study, led by my puzzled colleague, Rev. Taylor Boone. The problem was, I was so concerned about getting bus passes and wondering where we would sleep that night, that I couldn’t concentrate on the study.

We learned that Travis Park no longer gives out bus passes. But I did receive one neatly folded dollar bill from a Travis Park staff member, Communications Director Betty Curry. (This will figure prominently later on in the story.)

And I found a safe place to stay for the night. Taylor suggested the Haven for Hope, San Antonio’s center for services for the homeless and those in transition off the street.

Soon we were on our way across town to the Haven. In order to get into the courtyard, I had to become a Prospect and go through intake. Two exceedingly kind staff took us through the intake process. I sat with two men, who immediately struck up a conversation.

The younger of the two wanted to know if I needed a jacket. “It’s gonna get cold next week,” he said. I told him I had a jacket in my pack, but the man next to him asked him what size it was. Turned out it was a perfect fit. The younger man stripped off his jacket and gave it to his new friend.

The older man was a Haven veteran and he proceeded to school us rookies in the rules. Where to put stuff. What to listen and watch out for. I marveled at unexpected hospitality.

With my Prospect card in hand, we lined up for the bag check and the metal detector. We had the kindest policeman ever go through our stuff. And we were in. Even though it was mid-afternoon, folks were already claiming prime spots on the courtyard for the night, men on one side and women on the other, trying to get some rest. Did I say that unbelievably loud freight trains pass right by the Haven about every 15 minutes?

We made a quick tour of the facilities and walked back to Travis Park. Lorenza had a wedding rehearsal that afternoon, so I waited outside on the steps, glad for the chance to rest my feet. My handy SWTX Conference pedometer had already recorded over 20,000 steps for the day, about ten miles.

I tried reading on the steps, but I was so tired and sun-burned that concentration was almost impossible. How do you do anything on the street when all of your energy and all of your time is spent waiting for food and walking to public bathrooms and finding a shower somewhere and a safe place to sleep for the night?

I looked up from my book at one point, and a guy about my age walked over to me.  “Do you have any spare change for a bus ticket?” he asked.

I laughed out loud. “I’ve been trying all day to get bus money and all I’ve got is one lousy dollar. How are you doing?”

“I’ve been looking for about an hour,” he said. “I’ve got nothin’.” Now he was standing right in front of me.

I reached in my pocket. “Here. Take this.” I handed him the dollar bill.

“No way, man. I can’t take that. How are you going to get home?”

“I’ve got a badge to sleep at the Haven tonight. I’ll be fine. Just take the dollar.” I put it back in his hand.

He stared at the bill for a long time, like I’d given him solid gold. He shook my hand and we exchanged names and we fist-bumped.  He walked away, and then turned back and held up his hands as if to ask, “Really? Your last dollar? For me?” I smiled and waved and walked away.

Sometimes grace sneaks up on you. You’re thinking that the day is all about you and your skills and what you can do. And the amazing generosity of perfect strangers breaks in. Breaks you wide open.  

I had failed miserably at homelessness that day. But I had discovered the many and diverse faces of Christ on the streets of San Antonio. Praise be!