You ask me why I mourn.
Perhaps it’s uncomfortable, or perhaps you presume that I mean to say that my blame lands on you.
Maybe you are not quite sure what do to with our grief, with our prophetic cries that something is not right.
Well, unity, sounds easy, now, let’s be civil…
Let’s just wait and see, it will be okay!
But this sounds like privilege to me.
Because, you see,
I do not mourn for me.
Though I do mourn for Us, for the overwhelming majority of us
Who are either not listening to the cries of the marginalized, demonized, victimized, “other”-ized
Or who hear and do not care.
I cannot quite decide which is worse.
And it’s easy to call for unity,
But can we be unified when we robustly endorsed a man of violence and greed who spewed hate against,
Who promised to harm our neighbors?
I don’t recognize us right now.
And I will be okay, with my skin as my armor
But, my neighbor, she is hurting.
My neighbor, he is weeping for what will come.
My neighbors, they are grieving the loss of decades of progress,
So how can I not grieve as well?
When you cry unity, I hear stay silent;
When you say wait and see, I hear he won’t hurt me;
When you say it’s not that bad, I hear we can afford a few years of this;
But my neighbors … I wonder what they hear when you say those things.
I am having trouble sleeping, because I fear the Bride of Christ has shown she loves power more than mercy, privilege more than humility, safety more than justice.
I am afraid there can be no Unity until we are a shield and a beacon of hope for my black, brown, broken-hearted, survivor, immigrant, Muslim neighbors,
Until our Gospel is good tidings of great joy for all,
Until then, we have some work to do