Brick Walls of Injustice
I often describe my move to Haiti in this way: "When I moved to Haiti, I hit a brick wall.” I want to elaborate on that.
The brick wall I hit was painted with injustice — a mural of power, abuse, blood, death, and tears. I wasn’t expecting it fully. It was more than just poverty — it was so much more. I tried to climb the wall — surely the injustice would end at some point in my climb. But, the more I tried to climb the wall, through speaking, prayer, fighting, questions, and more -- I found the wall kept getting taller. It wasn’t that the wall wasn’t tall to begin with — it was that I couldn’t see the wall it’s entirety. That is — until I stepped up to it.
The more I learned about this wall and its makeup, the more I grieved. It interrupted me. It stole my peace and waged war on it. I would come to learn the stickiness of injustice in that season. It doesn’t let you go. You wake up every morning to it and you go to bed every night with it calling out your name. It’s a dark web and unfortunately here on this earth, we will never be freed fully of it.
I also learned about the power of my voice. I regret that I remained silent far too often because I was afraid of what would happen to me if I spoke out. If I used my voice to speak against the darkness — if I sounded alarms about the injustice I was seeing — then I could suffer. I recognized that when I spoke up, there were things that would be done to shut me up. Attacks against my person and character were coming against me, and I would find that the more powerfully I spoke truth, the more powerfully hate would come against me.
I look back on those days and wish I would have shouted. I regret not speaking until I was heard. I wonder if we all did, if the days moving forward would have looked differently? If fewer people would have suffered? If justice would have come more swiftly?
It is often easier to ignore injustice when we see it. Because when we step into it, it becomes impossible to take down. Impossible to fix. Impossible to look away.
I speak this because I want to speak into the darkness we are witnessing in our country against the black community. I like what Matt Chandler had to say yesterday — injustice has been woven into the tapestry of our nation, at our brother’s and sister’s expense. It’s evil. It’s demonic. And it’s wrong.
When our brothers and sisters are in the fire, we are called to give them our hand — we must do everything we can to pull them out. Even if it takes us in with them. Just as we would want someone to do for us when we are going up in flames.
In praying about all of this, I have settled on these two things:
There will come a day when I will stand before God with what I have built in this life. My motives and actions will be measured as hay and stubble or precious and sacred (1 Corinthians 3:12-15). Worthy or worthless. Am I building His kingdom or my own in my silence or speaking? His kingdom ethic is one of justice. What will I say about my response to my black friends and family who were in the fire of injustice?
All nations. All tribes. — In Revelation 5:9-10, it says that Jesus is worthy because he shed his blood for people of every nation, and tribe, and tongue. He made us all to be priests. We all serve God. If Jesus shed his blood for all of us, I can shed my fear. I can shed my pride. I can shed my silence — so that all nations and all tribes might be treated with respect and love before we stand at the throne of grace.
Though injustice will never be wiped away completely here, it will be wiped away when Christ returns. We can look forward to that day with confidence, knowing we have a King who loves every person of every race. Injustice will not dwell with us forever. It will die — His peace will remain.
for my brother, Antoine Burton
