When Your #Church Is Silent

On Saturday, George Zimmerman was found not guilty in the trial for the murder of teenager Trayvon Martin. I was and have remained in shock. No—not shocked—devastated and dumbfounded, at a loss for words. Thinking immediately of my two little nephews who are growing up black and unarmed in America. Thinking for the first time that maybe, possibly, there is a silver lining to the fact that I don’t have children? Could the ache for motherhood be replaced with the relief of not having to raise my own little black boys to believe themselves valued, loved and irreplaceable despite what the world tells them? No little black boys to teach the endless rules of how to try and survive when walking down the street, even in “safe” neighborhoods. No little black boys to become icons of injustice even before they are grown.

On Saturday I heard the verdict. On Sunday I went to church.

I won’t lie; it’s been a month of Sundays since I went to church. For me, church so often feels like a game I just can’t seem to get right. But I went to church yesterday because I needed to hear someone say something coherent and wise about how, as a Christian, I should remain hopeful about the world. How I should remain active in the pursuit of justice, even when attaining it this side of heaven seems so very far-fetched. And to be honest, I went to church because I needed to hear some blessed person remind me that no matter what goes on in the justice system or in congress rooms or in police offices, there are still places in this country apart from my family and friends where people who look like me count.

Really, I suppose I went to the church because there’s something in me that still prays the church can meet me in places where the world can’t.

So, it’s hard to express my disappointment when the pastor—a trained theologian and ordained minister at one of my city’s most renowned congregations—did not say one word about Trayvon Martin or George Zimmerman or the trial even. Not one word.

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