A Young Man Died

Trayvon Martin.

I imagine that name evokes some kind of emotional reaction. It should.

A young man died. Part of me wants to simply tune out all the hype, anger, and sensationalism. I don’t need more people yelling at me.

A young man died. I wasn’t there, so I can’t know what really happened. I wasn’t in the jury box, didn’t hear the evidence, don’t understand the law, can’t see into the jurors’ hearts, so I can’t judge the verdict as just or unjust.

A young man died. Young people die from needless violence every day, and apparently nobody cares. Maybe the story makes the local news, maybe not, and then we’re on to the next thing. What makes this incident worthy of all the attention? Nothing, except…

A young man died.

No question that the intense scrutiny was partly generated by family and special interests and accelerated by ratings-driven media. I’m sure similar incidents occur far too frequently outside the harsh spotlight of CNN.

That’s precisely why I can’t ignore Trayvon Martin’s death—not because it’s a special, isolated case but because it’s symptomatic. One tragic death, however it occurred, points to an underlying societal disease.

I’m not prepared to label anyone a racist. I haven’t perfected the art of looking into another’s heart, and name-calling isn’t productive. But one fact seems clear to me.

If Trayvon had been a white kid, we wouldn’t be having this discussion because the incident never would have happened. And until we have an honest understanding of what that means, we’ll be a house divided.

I try to assume best intentions. I believe most folks usually do the best they can. And if everyone did their best, with the best of intentions, to make the system work, I must conclude that the system’s broken, because…

A young man died.

So what if we stop the name-calling and blaming? What if we ask ourselves how we can do better?

I’m the poster child for white male privilege in America. “Race” isn’t part of my conscious identity because I don’t confront it on any sort of consistent basis. I’ve never experienced anything different, so I don’t even perceive it.

I’ve never been profiled or followed or stopped by police because I was in a neighborhood where I didn’t belong. Many of my closest friends aren’t black or Muslim. The worst name I’ve ever been called was “four-eyes” in third grade—I told my mom I wanted to drop out of school.

While composing this essay I actually wrote the sentence, “I’ve never been the minority.” Then I remembered the wheelchair thing and how I bristle whenever someone says the wheelchair shouldn’t matter. Easy to say when you don’t even notice the steps.

Pretending racial issues don’t exist assures they’ll persist. Refusing to see from another’s perspective guarantees continued selective blindness. Denying someone else’s pain prolongs the agony–for everyone.

This is one of those places where I’m forced to ask, “Do I really believe what I believe?”

I know only one path to reconciliation, and that’s to be Jesus in blue jeans.

Speak truth with courage and love, regardless of risk.

Love those who disagree. Never try to shame or coerce someone into agreement.

Confess my own failure and judgmental attitudes.

Forgive when others mess up.

If I don’t at least try to follow Him when a young man dies, it’s all just pointless Sunday morning window dressing.

Please leave a comment here.

Want to receive free updates?
Click below to get Bouncing Back
delivered directly to your inbox.