Now that Zimmerman has been acquitted of
second-degree murder and manslaughter, those images and comments are
resurfacing as a stark reminder of the impact race has on our perceptions,
actions, and laws. Despite claims to be a society that rewards merit and hard
work regardless of skin color—as well as one that metes out justice in a fair
and impartial way and values all of its citizens—the difficult truth is that
race still matters very much in America. People with dark skin—especially young
black men—are too often viewed for no good reason with distrust, suspicion, and
disdain. For Trayvon Martin, walking home after dark got him killed.
A friend warned me that writing such words would
close white ears. “White people don’t like to feel guilty about race,” he said.
“Nobody wants to be called a bigot.” I suspect he’s right. But nobody wants to
get stopped, frisked, or shot while going about his or her business either.
We have got to get over our racial sensitivities and
denials, as well as our resistance to addressing the biases and assumptions
that fuel and sustain racial injustice in America today. An essay in Ebony last
year, “Dear White Folks: Black People are Sensitive to Race,” spelled out about
a dozen ways in which black people are routinely inconvenienced, harassed,
threatened, insulted, intimidated, ignored, or harmed simply because they are
black. Such matters of safety and fear are known in a visceral way by most
black Americans, no matter how much money they make. They are a part of daily
life and shape the way that parents raise their children, as they seek to
protect them from the serious harm that could come to them simply because of
their skin color.
In terms of the Trayvon Martin case, one can point
to the weakness of the prosecution, the broad nature of the “Stand Your Ground”
law, or any number of additional factors that contributed to Zimmerman’s
acquittal. But race was certainly a part of it. If Zimmerman had been black and
Martin had been white, the entire narrative of the case—as well as the
verdict—would have been different.
On Sunday, the day after the verdict, many churches
were filled with sermons, tears, prayers, and calls to action. Rev. Mike
McBride, pastor of The Way Christian Center in West Berkeley, California, and
director of the Lifelines to Healing Campaign of the PICO National Network,
preached about the mutilation, hurt, and pain of black bodies but also of the
good news and healing power that can make us whole. “The role of faith is to
open the possibility of redemption in the lives of those that are broken,”
McBride said in an interview with The Huffington Post, “and I want to challenge
our congregations to step into that role.” In addition to preaching, McBride is
organizing and training his congregation in direct action to help prevent gun
and urban violence.
America is a nation where more than 9 out of 10
people believe in God. And God does not play favorites. We are all equally
precious in God’s sight, whether we have won a Nobel Prize or receive
unemployment benefits. God weeps as much for a child killed by gunfire in a
park in Chicago as for President John F. Kennedy gunned down in a motorcade in
Dallas.
What we need most today is “moral imagination”—an
intuitive empathy that transcends personal experience. It comes first—before
changed policies, politics, or laws. In fact, it makes those changes possible.
The writer Marilynne Robinson calls this capacity “imaginative love,” saying
that it spurs us to love “people we do not know or whom we know very slightly.”
When we get outside of our own skin and transcend our narrow boundaries, we
discover lives different from our own, as well as deep connections with
so-called strangers.
Such efforts are not merely the feel-good actions of
faith communities. In an increasingly diverse society, they are the essential
work of all of us. We all need to overcome our hardened assumptions about those
who appear different. We need to widen our circle of human concern and
community. Stretching our moral imagination means seeking to grasp what it is
like to be a black man in America today—the vulnerability and fear that may
come from simply being alive. Opening our minds to that knowledge and our
hearts to those insights is the necessary and right thing to do.
About the author: Sally Steenland is Director of the
Faith and Progressive Policy Initiative at the Center for American Progress.
Steenland, a best-selling author, former newspaper columnist, and teacher,
explores the role of religion and values in the public sphere.
This article was published by the Center for
American Progress.
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