A man walks up to my door. He knocks. I open. His bright eyes lock onto mine. No one speaks, and no one rushes. Actually, I think I recognize him.
My eyes slide up to his woolen hair, and down to his brown chiseled jawline. He reaches out his hand. Likewise, I reach for his palm, but he turns his hand over. Healed holes in his wrists catch my gaze. My face twists into a grimace.
“Don’t look away.” He whispers.
Then he looks down and turns to leave. I’m confused. But after he turns, he stops, peels his collar open and lowers his shirt off his shoulder. Shiny striped scars, remnants of old lashings ripple across his back. My throat burns with bile.
“Don’t look away.”
“Why are you here?”
“Because I want you to see me. I want you to remember; my own people did this to me.
They lynched me on a tree.”
“Jesus?”
“It is Me. But you still don’t see Me.
You talk about the cross. And you sing about freedom. And I hear you, I free you and I love you. But still, you don’t see Me here.
I’ve lived here in America since she was born. Do you see Me?”
He circles around to face me and raises His eyes to meet mine. The depth of His love and agony swim toward me. I struggle to resist the tide.
“I ask you and My countrymen, did you see Me when you beat me? And spit on Me. And shot Me. Did you see me when you violated My feminine body?
You don’t remember?
No, instead, you bleached My skin and straightened My hair. You smeared Wite-Out onto My side of the story. You misused My name. And you built white-washed-tombs in which to sing your hallelujahs.
Yes, you preach the truth of My mangled body in Golgotha’s tree and you inherit My salvation. It’s true. I free you there.
But you forget America’s trees full of the Strange Fruit you hung there. Don’t forget. And don’t forget the stripes that you ripped across My back leaking my lifeblood into the very soil you stand on.
Remember my body today. Remember what happened.
Tell the truth about these lashings and these trees, and I will complete salvation here too. “
How will we respond?
Two days ago was Juneteenth, Jubilee Day! We celebrate our Black sisters, brothers and their heroic ancestors. Because the truth is, despite the grave injustices they endure, our Black brothers and sisters will always rise up like their ancestors did, and as Jesus did on Resurrection Day. But White Christian America we need to humble ourselves and acknowledge what we’ve done.
We have a choice. We can be Judas, too concerned about losing our financial support, or Peter too concerned about losing our reputation, or simply one of the many disciples who couldn’t handle the truth and walked away.
What will we do with the truth we know today?
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Inspired by: Dr. James H.Cone’s book, The Cross and the Lynching Tree, an interview with Dr. Otis Moss III and a comment from Dr. Matthew Hall on Jude 3 Project podcast, “Confronting Racist Evangelical History”, and the song Strange Fruit as recorded by several artists, including Billie Holiday, written by Abel Meeropol.
>Photo credit: Justin Essah, Unsplash
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