I never thought about being a lottery winner.
A close friend reminded me earlier this week that as a white, male, native-born U.S. citizen, I’ve cashed three winning tickets.
I also grew up in a relatively stable middle class family with access to decent k-12 education. That’s at least two more winners.
My friend’s right. Compared to the rest of the world I was handed a 5-star ticket.
I’ve never been viewed as a threat. Nobody’s ever assumed I didn’t belong or couldn’t do the job. I’ve always, in every circustance, had the opportunity to succeed or fail based on my creativity, perseverance, ability, and hard work.
That’s called privilege, and it’s difficult to recognize when it’s part of your permanently-embedded reality. But my friend doesn’t have it, and seeing through her eyes clarified things.
No one will ever wonder if I’m the nanny while I’m caring for my own family. I’ll never be asked if I’m the gardener when I’m playing in my own yard with my grandkids.
That’s the benefit of privilege gained simply by cashing my unearned winning lottery ticket.
As my friend and I talked, my first reaction was guilt. I don’t deserve these tickets. I should give them back.
But that’s wrong. God doesn’t want less justice for me.
He wants me to seek the same justice for everyone else.
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