The jury handed down its verdict in the Chauvin trial yesterday while I was reading Evening Prayer in the Church.  I had gotten a heads up from a friend that the results of the trial were imminent, and I correctly guessed that a quick deliberation probably meant he had been found guilty. As I was praying the Lord’s Prayer, the breaking news banner popped up and confirmed: guilty on all three counts.  

I understand there was cheering in some places, and I get that. It was the outcome I wanted, but I didn’t feel like cheering. The death of George Floyd was horrendous and magnified because of the videos that swept across the country, showing his terrible and slow death. We all know that Floyd’s death was like fresh tinder on the smoldering fire that is racial tension in this country. It never seems to go out; it only goes dormant for a while. Every so often, something happens that causes the inferno to rage again. Instead of cheering, I suppose I felt relief, and that troubles me.  

I haven’t followed the case breathlessly, but I’ve read updates here and there since it began.  Like everyone else, I knew this was a high-stakes trial, the outcome of which would bring a powerful response, regardless of which way it went. I knew that protests would again turn to riots if this officer wasn’t convicted. And yet, despite the video, despite the mounting evidence in the case, and despite my own determination of what I saw, I didn’t really have an expectation that a conviction would come. They are rare in such cases, regardless of the victim.  I realized I didn’t like the sense that I had to pray so hard for justice to win the day. It was troubling to recognize again just how often justice isn’t found on this side of heaven.

Justice is often elusive. And it often feels subjective. This is not new. This is why scripture is so full of God’s people crying out for justice; that God would finally take action and right the wrongs of this world. Sometimes competing prayers vie for justice that may not come for either party. In some respects, justice may be perpetually out of reach in this life. Human justice will often be incomplete. It’s so very complicated, it’s hard to know what justice is in every case. It will only be in the Kingdom of Heaven that we will fully see what justice looks like, and I pray it is a vision that comforts. Regardless, we know what justice feels like, and some of us know better than others what it feels like to seek a justice that doesn’t come for months, years, or even generations. 

More than justice, I have been praying for healing. I’ve been praying for healing around the smoldering fire of race I mentioned earlier. I don’t really have a complete concept of what healing looks like, but I’ve been engaged in a process with other local clergy in the months since Ahmaud Arbery was shot, to build relationships and find some model for healing within our own community. Whenever we add race to a conversation about anything, it immediately complicates it. Race carries with it generations of passion and emotions that range from anger to guilt to apathy. Building relationships and listening to other, diverse experiences helps make it less complicated. I continue to learn from the experience of others, particularly those who have experienced their race in ways that I have not. My race has generally been the default, and that has meant I have rarely been aware of it. I haven’t met anyone who doesn’t look like me who has had the same experience. I cannot say that someone else’s pain isn’t real just because I haven’t felt it.

There are many things that I don’t think will be resolved on earth, until we have brought God’s ways to bear here as they are in heaven. That process is a long one, as it turns out. Between now and then, we will no doubt continue to struggle to determine how we can live in harmony and, as our baptismal covenant calls us, respect the dignity of every human being. I know that it can be hard in a world full of ambiguity to know exactly what respecting dignity looks like, and yet we also know what the absence of dignity looks like, too. The Way of Love is a simple concept that takes a lifetime to figure out. Even when love, justice, and healing are elusive, our pursuit of them is an imperative, handed down from God as far back as we can remember. As the blessings says, we don’t have to complete the work, but neither can we ignore it.  

The best way to honor George Floyd and anyone else who we think deserves justice is to pursue it in every way we can. We don’t always get to decide what that justice looks like, yet we can be advocates and stewards. We can shine a light into dark corners, call out from rooftops, and show up when it counts. We can take our energy, our passion, and even our anger, and point them towards efforts that build up instead of destroy, repair what is broken, and cast a vision of God’s desires for this broken world of ours.

Today I pray for justice, for healing, and for God’s radical love to spread over our families, communities, and our nation. I pray that we will be humble enough to see where we have sinned and failed and fallen short; where we are guilty through inaction or action, inattention or apathy. We know the verdict will be read for us one day, when, as Matthew’s Gospel describes it, we are held to account for how we served our Lord when he was disguised as the least among us, including when he was disguised as a person in prison – a criminal. When that day comes, I actually hope God’s justice will be full of mercy. I know I’m going to need it.

Tom+

Grant, O God, that your holy and life-giving Spirit may so move every human heart [and especially the hearts of the people of this land], that barriers which divide us may crumble, suspicions disappear, and hatreds cease; that our divisions being healed, we may live in justice and peace; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.   BCP p. 823