Luke 2:8-14 (KJV)
I have long been captivated by the story of the Christmas Truce of 1914. Just five months into World War I, around 100,000 British and German troops had settled into trenches from the North Sea to the Swiss frontier, with no one making much progress. There were occasional unofficial truces, when soldiers ventured out into No Man’s Land to retrieve their fallen comrades, or even for the men in the trenches to shout greetings to each other and trade food supplies. But on that Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, there was something much more going on.
It seems to have begun on Christmas Eve, with the Germans putting candles on Christmas trees and singing carols. Soon their British counterparts began singing carols in response. Then on Christmas Day, soldiers came out of the trenches and approached one another, exchanging greetings and gifts, everything from cigarettes and alcohol to plum pudding, buttons, and hats. Some of the men even participated in a friendly soccer game.
Henry Williamson was a 19-year-old private in the London Rifle Brigade. He wrote home to his mother on December 26: In [my] pipe is German tobacco. Haha, you say, from a prisoner or found in a captured trench. Oh dear, no! From a German soldier. Yes a live German soldier from his own trench. Yesterday the British and Germans met and shook hands in the ground between the trenches, and exchanged souvenirs and shook hands. Yes, all day Christmas day, and as I write. Marvelous, isn’t it?
In this year of social unrest, riots, political demonstrations, and anti-maskers overrunning a state capital, I have wondered where is the peace? As we get closer and closer to Christmas Day, where is the peace? After all, the baby born that first Christmas was hailed as the Prince of Peace. And the angels who announced his birth to the Bethlehem shepherds promised peace on earth. So where is the peace?
In 2020, we have seen multiple demonstrations and protests, some of them about not wanting to wear masks, and others regarding politics and the election. But the demonstrations have been chiefly in regards to racial inequality and police killings of black men and women. These demonstrations became particularly numerous and well-attended since the death of George Floyd in Minneapolis in May. But the root cause of these demonstrations and protests can be traced back years, decades. Just hearing the names makes it clear that the problem of the killing of unarmed black men and women is nothing new: Trayvon Martin in Sanford, FL, Eric Garner in Staten Island, NY, Michael Brown in Ferguson, MO, Tamir Rice in Cleveland, Walter Scott in North Charleston, SC, Freddie Gray in Baltimore, Alton Sterling in Baton Rouge, LA, Philando Castile in Falcon Heights, MN, Stephon Clark in Sacramento, Breonna Taylor in Louisville, KY, Rayshand Brooks in Atlanta.
Is it any wonder that people’s anger and frustration have reached the boiling point? And yet, to their credit, 93% of the protests in the US this year have been peaceful. And their most common cry has been “No justice, no peace.” (This probably comes from a speech by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., in 1967, in which he said, “There can be no justice without peace and there can be no peace without justice.”)
How do we begin to understand the experience of black Americans? How can we come to a place where we understand their need to speak out, to march, to shout, to do whatever it takes to get the attention of white Americans? I recently read two books which have helped me to understand something of what it means to be black in America. The first was Austin Channing Brown’s book, I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness. Austin begins by telling the story of how she got her name. She was told that it was an old family name, which was true, but it was only part of the truth. The other part was that Austin’s parents deliberately gave her a name that could be assumed to be that of a white man; they wanted her to have a chance to at least get job interviews when she was an adult.
Austin learned as a child that being black meant playing by a different set of rules than white children. She had been following her dad through the toy section of a department store. She picked up a little trinket, but her dad told her to put it back. She did, and then stuffed her hands in her pockets. Her dad said, “Don’t do that,” rather sternly. “Don’t ever do that,” he said again. She was confused and didn’t know what she had done wrong. He told her, “Even if you put it back on the shelf, you can’t touch store products and then put your hands in your pockets. Someone might notice and assume you are trying to steal.”
Austin shared some of what it was like to be black in a mostly white workplace. She talked about people who made comments about her hair; and one woman even touched it without asking Austin’s permission first. People would praise her for being “surprisingly articulate” or “particularly entertaining.” On the way to her office one day, she was asked three times if she needed help finding the outreach center. Her white co-worker walking behind her was never asked that question. People assumed that if she was a black woman, she must be poor and in need of help. When she went to the coffee shop next door one day, a woman she had never met insisted that she had emailed her and wanted to chat more. They did work for the same organization, but Austin had never met this woman. Several times she said, “I think you have me confused with someone else.” She finally figured out who the woman was talking about. When she told the woman, the woman got all embarrassed. It was as if she had implied that all black women look alike.
Austin also talks about the impact of an act of violence done to others had on her. It took place on a June evening in 2015. A white supremacist named Dylan Roofe walked into Emmanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, SC and took as many lives as he could with his Glock 41 handgun. Austin wrote, The goal of terror attacks … is to inspire fearfulness beyond the target. It worked. Until June 17, 2015, I had never been afraid of walking into a Black church … My fear lasted through the night … I deeply resented that the next time I walked into my own church, I would be afraid to sit with my back to the door. That resentment turned into anger, and anger into defiance. I got up, got dressed, drove to a quiet church, and cried. I cried for the lost lives … I cried for the family members and friends who would miss them. I cried for the survivors who watched people they love die in front of them. I cried for the congregation members who would never be the same. But I also cried for me. I cried … because I still wanted to believe that America had become better than this … I had wanted to believe that some things were now off-limits. But I was wrong.
The second book I read was Wesley Lowery’s book, They Can’t Kill Us All: The Story of the Struggle For Black Lives. Lowery is a national reporter for the Washington Post who covers law enforcement and justice. He was the paper’s lead reporter in Ferguson, MO after the death of Michael Brown and has covered the Black Lives Matter movement. In the book, Lowery reflects on the events in Ferguson; in Cleveland, OH after the killing of Tamir Rice, a 12-year-old boy; in North Charleston, after Walter Scott was filmed being shot in the back by a police officer; in Baltimore, following the death of Freddie Gray while in the custody of the police; and in Charleston, after the shooting at Mother Emanuel Church.
Part of what struck me in his book were the words of people he interviewed after these killings and during demonstrations that followed. People were, for the most part, not in favor of violence or destruction or looting, but they could understand that others had been driven that far by the continued lack of response to the realities of racial inequality and injustice in our country, and particularly to the shooting of unarmed black men and women by the police. In Ferguson, Lowery spoke to Duane Finnie, who said, People are tired of being misused and mistreated, and this is an outlet for them to express their outrage and their anger; everyone is looking for an outlet to express their emotions. This is a reason all the looting and what’s going on, but people want to be heard, and they don’t know how to do it. So that’s why they lash out.
In Baltimore, peaceful demonstrations following the death of Freddie Gray became violent, with residents throwing rocks and setting fires. One 18-year-old woman who came out to help clean up the next day told Lowery, It shouldn’t take buildings burned for the people here to have a voice … Baltimore has been broken, it’s been broken all of my life. I’m not saying that all of our cops are bad, I’m not saying that everyone who was out here at night during the rioting is a criminal. I’m saying that this is a wake-up call.
In some regard, these protests have functioned well as a wake-up call. And Americans – white and black – have made changes. There has been increased support for the Black Lives Matter movement. There has been more acknowledgment of the existence of systemic racism. There have been successful campaigns to remove Confederate monuments and displays of the Confederate battle flag, as well as statues of American slaveholders. Whites have engaged in serious anti-racist self-education, with the purchasing of many books on racism written by blacks. There has been renewed support for black businesses. And even some brand names have been changed, including Aunt Jemima. Even an NFL team has agreed to change its name from the Washington Redskins to something as yet to be determined.
But still I ask, where is the peace? Where is the peace we need as a society? Where is the peace we long for in our own souls? Where is the peace?
Our peace is found in Jesus Christ, the Prince of Peace. As individuals, we find peace through our relationship with God through Christ. We find an inner, spiritual peace that is unrelated to our outward circumstances. It is a peace that helps us feel calm and safe even when everything around is chaos and confusion. It is a peace that transcends all understanding. It is a peace that keeps us grounded and focused on what really matters most. The way to find that peace is through cultivating a closer connection with God through prayer, meditation, spiritual reading, worship, or something like tai chi or yoga. It is through being intentional about our spiritual growth. It is through talking with each other, encouraging each other, and reminding each other that what we see around us is not all there is to life.
We also find peace by actively working for justice. There can be no peace in society without justice and equality and fairness for all. Whether or not we are aware of it, we are the beneficiaries of white privilege. We don’t have to have “the talk” with our sons: if you are pulled over by the police, keep your hands on the steering wheel, do not reach for your wallet until asked; be polite and respectful; and never, ever run away from a police officer. We don’t have our job applications rejected before the employer even gets past our name, because it sounds too black. We don’t have to endure racial slurs, or insensitive comments about the color of our skin. And we don’t see higher numbers of our children in prison or shot dead before they are 21 years old.
Just as Jesus was the Prince of Peace, he also was a social reformer. Jesus turned the world on its ear, with his equal treatment of rich and poor, male and female, Jew and Samaritan. Jesus confronted the establishment and demanded that they repent of their hypocrisy. He stood unafraid of the power of the Roman Empire, even as it prepared to crucify him on trumped-up charges. Jesus calls us to speak truth, to love mercy and do justly, to care for those who are different from us. We cannot accept the realities of racism in our country as somehow being okay; we have to try to do something about it, in our own small ways. And when we follow our hearts, as led by Jesus, we will find true peace in our souls.
This Christmas, I long for peace. I ache for peace. It may not come in America anytime soon. But it can come in my heart.
