JUSTICE

+ Read Shakira's Response

When I heard about the murder of George Floyd, my initial reaction was the same as it has always been. I felt a deep frustration at yet another horrific death and then fear for my brothers as they navigate a world that treats them the same way as George Floyd. But then two weeks later I started to weep. And for a week I couldn’t control the tears, this was personal grief.

Before May 2020, the world I navigated dismissed my experiences and preferred not to have uncomfortable conversations. Naturally, I became numb. My experiences were recorded and intellectualized but never emotionally processed: “low level” racial incidents were batted away, “medium” discussed with friends, “high level” were locked up inside, as I was too ashamed to mention them outside of my family home.

Now with the world forced to acknowledge the situation, my three decades worth of grief poured out. I grieved the time I was rejected from a job even before the interview because I wasn’t “the right fit” even though my CV was exactly the same as every other member on the team. I grieved the day that my teacher told me I wasn’t really British, aged six. I grieved that time on a class trip abroad, when I had to ask a white classmate to hail a taxi for us as no one would stop for two black women.

From early childhood, I developed mechanisms to survive this world. For example, deciding to be quiet and softly spoken to avoid the “angry black woman” trope. I’m really quite noisy at home as my siblings can testify! Conformism seeped into all parts of my life; my A Levels were Ancient Greek, Latin, Physics, Chemistry, Maths - not necessarily because those were the subjects I loved but because these were “hard subjects” and every decision was taken to ensure that there could be no excuse for “overlooking” me during my university applications. Conformism is partly to blame for me being a “recovering perfectionist”. I am finally breaking free from years of thinking that I couldn’t put a foot wrong because I was being judged by a different standard. What is most painful though, is recognising that life could have been different. The real me should have been enough.

The next phase was repentance. I repented of not speaking out, of conforming to the world and not being authentic, of not believing that the world could be better. I also forgave the people who had wronged me. And with that complete, breakthrough came.

Now I feel free. I feel hopeful and ready to support God’s vision for justice and love. I have a deep conviction that the structures that support racism will be torn down and its architects held to account; something that I never thought I would see in my lifetime.

And so I am having conversations; there is power in personal storytelling especially when people are now listening. As a sidebar, to those of you who persisted with these conversations whilst things appeared hopeless, I salute you. You have fought the good fight, truly modelling faith in the unseen. It is ok to be tired, there are others who can help whilst you recover.

So what are my hopes? I pray that the Church will drive long-lasting change. We have a lot to do, starting with the renewal of our minds but I believe that HTC will play an important part given its legacy and commitment to one another.

What do I fear? Sometimes I’m afraid of the mess. History has taught us that justice and love come at a cost and so I pray for courage. Sometimes I fear that Christians will forget this issue as it falls out of favour with the news cycle, the disease of comfort kicks in or a scarcity mindset arises as other challenges emerge.

But most of all I am hopeful. I am hopeful because I believe that my ability to rise is not determined by the structures that seek to oppress me, but by a God whose power surpasses those structures. I am hopeful because now I see that God has a heart for justice and irrespective of what you or I do, His justice will prevail.

+ Read Andy's Response

I was disappointed with my initial reaction to the death of George Floyd. Like many, I couldn’t watch the recorded footage or the news without feeling heartbreak. As the Black Lives Matter protests started I felt despondent about the cause. “We’ve been here before” I thought. Countless black people have died at the hands of police brutality. Millions experienced systemic biases. Millions shunned by society. Millions slaughtered by white oppressors. Why God, was this any different?

As I saw anger swell in the news and when I prayed with a heartbroken Connect group I began to feel hope through the tears. Perhaps this was different. Maybe this time the world was actually listening. Maybe God was doing a new thing?

With the world calling itself to educate on racial injustice, I felt a responsibility to do the same. Not for my social channels, but for myself, to seek out the black truths that are hidden from sight and reflect on my own experiences that I’ve buried into my unconscious.

My mum is black Carribean and my dad is white English. Thankfully this has meant I’ve mostly felt at home in both camps. I don’t see myself as a victim, but I’ve often wondered about the personal effect of white majority environments around me. “Why am I the only black face here?” being the most common of questions. In my education, in my workplace, in church, neighbourhoods and friendship groups. It’s a repeat cycle I’ve sadly grown accustomed to.

Deep down perhaps I have ignored my colour, because I want to believe I live in a meritocracy where society looks past race. I want to believe society values me for who I am. Sadly the reality is black people have had to work harder against a system that is weighted against them.

In recent weeks this reality has lead me to question a number of things: When have I been oppressed? What opportunities have I been overlooked for because of my skin colour? And how has society suffocated my progress? Don’t get me wrong I’m grateful for what I have. I’m immensely proud to fulfill the tasks God has blessed me with, but the doubts remain on society as a whole. And unfortunately the church can be a part of that.

I write this wanting the church community to be more open. Aware of the silence that stands between a white-dominated society and an oppressed black community. I want to confront topics about race that I admit I’ve hesitated to raise. Together as brothers and sisters in Christ we can knowledge share about race and embrace the conversation (in all its awkwardness).

A month on from George Floyd’s fatal killing, I’m more motivated than ever for racial justice discussions to live on beyond the news cycle, especially at church. Together we should be crying out to God to break our hearts with a radical love for the oppressed. Let's transform silence into the same radical action displayed by Jesus.