Charleston

It is folly to comment on unfolding events for the obvious reason that the events in question — and the events leading up to the events — are not fully understood. Investigations regularly uncover salient details that provide insight into what actually happened, why it happened, who was responsible and how many were involved. Too often, people react to an event they think they understand, or understand well enough, only to discover that the narrative they accepted doesn’t closely align with reality. So anything you read in this post is subject to revision as the story clarifies. Plus, I’m often wrong even when all the facts are in and undisputed.

Nevertheless, a friend of mine who is black (his term, not mine) texted me over the weekend to ask what I thought about Charleston. His specific question was, “What’s your hopeful view of the Charleston Massacre?”

At the time, I wasn’t feeling very hopeful. I felt, and still feel, sick. And angry. And embarrassed. And ashamed. Sick, because brothers and sisters in Christ were gunned down during Wednesday night church. They welcomed their murderer into their assembly, studied the Bible together for an hour, and showed him — by his own admission — such kindness that he almost decided to let them live. Almost.

If you’re a regular church goer, your leaders tell you all the time how important it is to be friendly to visitors. “This may be the last time they come to a church, the last opportunity they’ll have to be welcomed with love and taught the Gospel!” Dear God, that’s what those folks at Emanuel A.M.E. Church did when that white boy came in. They welcomed him. He clearly did not fit their congregational demographic, which is probably why they tried so hard to make him feel accepted. Somebody sat beside him. Shared their Bible with him. Asked him his name and where he was from. They probably said something like, “We’re so glad you’ve joined us tonight, and we hope you’ll come back.” How could they have known it would be the last time they came to church?

I’m sick because they died at the hand of someone they welcomed in Christian love and I’m angry, embarrassed and ashamed because the gunman was white, southern, and male. And no, I wouldn’t feel less sick if the killer had been a black woman from Detroit. But that’s not the profile of the person who pulled the trigger. A white guy did it. A southern white guy who probably listens to Skynyrd, eats grits and always orders sweet tea. It angers me because no matter how many southern white guys there are who work at it, no matter how hard we try to overcome a legacy that shames us, there’s always one who recharges the stereotype with fresh violence.

But with all that, I am more hopeful today than I was when my friend texted me. I am hopeful because the family members of the murdered extended grace and offered mercy to the suspect. The judge at his arraignment permitted family members to speak. And when they opened their mouths, Jesus spoke.

I am hopeful because people of all colors, creeds and cultures are condemning the murderer’s actions even as we renew our pledge to practice peace and pray for unity.

I am hopeful because God excels at taking an evil thing and turning it into something righteous. He turned a cross into an instrument of peace. He emptied a tomb and made it a symbol of life. He is already steering this livid act into a story of love and forgiveness.

And I am hopeful because what happened in Charleston is not the end of the story. What happens after Charleston is not even the end. Here’s what the end looks like:

After this I looked, and there before me was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and before the Lamb. They were wearing white robes and were holding palm branches in their hands.  And they cried out in a loud voice: “Salvation belongs to our God, who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb.” (Revelation 7:9 – 10)