I’ve been trying to figure out what to say during this time. The truth is that it’s all so unimaginably horrible and yet so completely predictable. Those of us who care deeply are carrying a heavy weight of grief and responsibility right now.
There are things that need to be done—speaking out, protesting, and more. But I don’t think we need one more person yelling on the internet about who’s doing it wrong.
Loud has never been my medium. I’m naturally analytical and quiet. My inner life is rich and complex, and I don’t often feel compelled—or comfortable—to share it.
To be clear: what is happening in Minnesota and across the United States right now is abhorrent.
So here’s where I’m coming from. Maybe you can relate. Maybe you have better words, or maybe my words will help you find your own.
I have generally believed that most people are well-intentioned, if sometimes misguided.
I think often of the biblical story of the impoverished woman who gave her last 2 coins at the temple.
It’s a story about how the wealthy battled for reputations of generosity through loud donations to the temple. The impoverished woman felt embarrassed because she had little to give—certainly nothing to compare with the wealthy patrons—yet God deemed the woman to have given the most because those coins were all she had.
To me, it’s a reminder of two things, equally important.
First, it’s about generosity—what it means to be truly generous. Alex Pretti was truly generous, giving of himself, even to the point of everything, to help another person.
Second, it’s about the importance of action over the performance of action. We see this playing out in Minneapolis, in Renee Nicole Good’s non-violent action and in the activation of informal networks of everyday people all across the city.
In church, they might have alternatively emphasized the importance of being faithful over the performance of faith. But isn’t that relevant here, too? In a time and place where so many (too many) Christians are using their faith to loudly justify treating people inhumanely?
I have generally believed that it is our individual responsibility to stand up and point out what is wrong, even to those in power, and to back up others who do so, too.
Plot twist: my great-grandfather was a Professor of Theology. Hard, undiplomatic, rarely affectionate with family, but deeply generous and humanitarian.
He taught his students that you cannot believe what you cannot question. He was a staunch proponent of civil rights, regularly hosted visiting African American scholars in his home, and spoke loudly about the responsibility of those who had enough to share with those who did not—so much so that he was blacklisted as a Socialist.
He was not loud, but steady and steadfast. He taught his children—and through them, me and mine—what is expected of us and what it may cost.
I have generally believed that, short of revolution, the most effective change comes from within organizations.
I no longer think so.
Incremental change still matters but true big “C” Change must come from the outside. Pressure from the inside is excised long before it can have real impact. A regime will not change until failure to change threatens its existence.
In school, we were taught that Martin Luther King, Jr., fought racism “the right way,” and that his peaceful demonstration directly resulted in civil rights legislation. We were taught that the violent Black Panthers did things “the wrong way” and could never have been successful.
I offer this not to provoke, but to acknowledge a more complicated version of the story we were taught.
Both groups applied pressure from the outside. Perhaps it was the threat of violent protest that made King’s peaceful strategy effective.
I am not advocating violence. Nor am I suggesting that peaceful protest isn’t worthwhile.
I am suggesting that true, transformative change often comes from pressure applied outside the institution, alongside the steady work done inside.
I have generally believed that the best solutions come from open and honest conversations among diverse groups.
So, no, I don’t have the answer.
I’m watching and listening and preparing to do my part. I still believe that wisdom shared across different backgrounds and lived experiences can become the collective wisdom this moment requires.
Will my part be loud? Probably not. But it will be steady and steadfast.
I am, after all, a shepherd.
